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“I don’t doubt it. Is he in a terrible temper?”
Ramsay’s lips thinned. The mirror confirmed that her walking dress betrayed no signs of misadventure, though her eyes seemed unnaturally bright. And she really must fix her hair, but she took a sudden perverse delight in it. That her coiffure was coming undone seemed fitting right now.
This time, when Arabella entered her father’s study, Queenie was silent and Papa was already on his feet.
“A fortnight,” Papa said. “You managed to keep a man for two whole weeks.”
Arabella stared at the horizon like a soldier. She ignored Queenie, ignored the stuffed birds, ignored Oliver’s smirk.
Mama slipped through the door. Papa did not pause in his tirade.
“Sculthorpe was staying in the very house his son would inherit, yet a letter comes from someone he’s not seen in years and he cannot get away fast enough.”
Arabella fixed her eyes on the wall. Sculthorpe had obeyed her. He feared her, then, a little.
“Look at you, this disgraceful mess.” Papa sneered at her loose hair, which, to be fair, was irritating Arabella now too. “That I was robbed of my son and cursed to have only one living child, and that child is you!”
“Peter! Enough!” Mama said sharply.
Papa wiped a hand over his face. Arabella’s eyes went helplessly to Oliver, who crowed,You know he wishes it were you up here and me down there!
Oh, go break your head against a rainbow, you irksome brat.
Silence blanketed them. Arabella could think of a thousand things to say, but she would only make matters worse.
“We have a houseful of guests and a betrothal ball in three nights,” Mama said, ever practical. “We must cancel it.”
“No, make her attend the ball. Let everyone see her shame. A betrothal ball and no betrothal.”
Finally, Arabella spoke. “You could put me in stocks in the middle of the ballroom and provide the guests with rotten fruit to throw.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Of course she had to face the world. Why not at her own betrothal ball? She would glide through that ball in her elegant new evening gown, long gloves hiding the marks already blooming on her arms, flawlessly coiffured head held high. No one would know how her engagement ended; no one would guess how weak and helpless she had been.
“The morning after the ball, you will leave,” Papa continued. “I don’t want you in this house unless you bring a legitimate son by an acceptable husband. Until then, I am changing my will.”
“Peter, please consider whether that is necessary,” Mama said. “This isn’t Arabella’s fault. If Lord Sculthorpe loves someone else—”
“I’m tired of you defending this hoyden, Belinda. Itisher fault. If Sculthorpelovessomeone else, it’s because our daughter is a woman whom no man can love.”
“Do not say that,” Mama said quietly. “Never say that.”
His mouth twisted sourly. “Consider that Treadgold girl. Three minutes with a man and he’s wrapped around her finger. Yet Hardbury has known Arabella most of his life and he can hardly bear to be in the same room as her. Sculthorpe should have procured a special license in London and married her on the spot.” He collapsed into his chair. “Now get out of my sight.”
* * *
It wasno surprise that Mama followed Arabella to her room and sat.
“Tell me what happened,” she said. “Surely you did not let Sculthorpe go without a fight?”
Arabella said nothing. Mama had always been on her side, even when it didn’t feel like it, pushing her harder, trying to mold Arabella into the best version of herself. Yet still she had turned into a woman whom no one could love.
She released the four buttons on her left sleeve, fumbling a little, and slid the fabric up her arm. It was tight, and resisted, but she yanked and did not care when a seam tore.
Red welts bloomed over her pale forearm. One did not need much imagination to picture the fingers that had left them.
The loose lock of hair fell past her face as she bent her head and ran her fingers over them. The tender flesh was slightly swollen and hot with indignation.
