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“It is, Mr. Blankley,” she agreed, tugging off her riding gloves. She made her way up the stairs, Annette following behind her. When she looked up, she saw that her father was standing there. He reminded her of the ghost inHamlet—forbidding, morose.
“Do tell me,” he said, placing a letter in his inside jacket pocket. “What is wrong with the Duke of Longmire?”
“Why do you ask?” she replied, knowing full well that her father had received a missive from the Duke.
“I just cannot make out why you would turn down a marriage proposal from a respectable gentleman, not to mention, a Duke.”
“Why must we go over this now?” she asked.
“Because he’s returning in a few days, and I want you to give him a definite answer,” he said.
“You want me to give him a positive answer,” she pointed out. “I’ve certainly given him a definite answer already.”
As Arabella stood, facing her father, Annette scurried down the hall to Arabella’s rooms. Arabella couldn’t blame her lady’s maid. She herself had never seen her father this angry before. Not since the day that Mr. Conolly arrived to ask his permission to marry her. She steeled herself. She was going to give her father a good dose of the truth. There was no way that he was going to take it well.
“Why?” he demanded. “I just don’t understand.”
She raised her chin, drawing herself up to her full height. If he was going to persist, then she would give him a strong dose of the truth. “I cannot marry the Duke of Longmire because I am in love with Charles Conolly.” She watched his eyes widen, and his mouth turn downward. “If I can’t have him, then I’ll have no one. I’m to become a spinster, living on the considerable sum which you have bequeathed to me.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” he replied.
“Well, you’d best start planning for it,” she replied. “I will never show up to a wedding, unless Charles is at the altar.” She watched as he flinched at her use of Charles’s Christian name. She’d done it expressly for that purpose.
They both stared each other down. There was a vein, popping out on his forehead. It was a bit worrisome, but Arabella didn’t even blink. She was dressed in a pair of breeches, and she was going to have her way, in this, too.
“If I end up, murdered in cold blood, you will have nothing—I will make sure of it. No one to care for you, not even your mother. You will be alone in the world, with no money and no husband.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said, watching the anger flicker dangerously in his eyes.
“If you do not accept the Duke when he returns, then I will cut you off, entirely.”
“Very well,” she replied, refusing to give in to his threats.
“I will make sure that you can never marry Mr. Conolly,” he hissed, jabbing a finger in her direction. “You can be sure of it.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Think of his life as forfeit,” her father stated.
He stormed off, down the stairs. Arabella stood there, alone, wondering if, perhaps, she had pushed too far. Her father had just threatened Charles’s life. She decided to go and write him a letter. Just in case.
