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Sunlight seemed to lurk behind the curtains, so she opened them to see if the world had reappeared.
It had.
The autumn sun shone down on the familiar, beloved view: the hill with the abbey ruins, the patchwork of woodlands and fields. Below her window, the lush green lawn offered a pleasant scene. Several gentlemen were engaged in a game of bowls, supervised by Miss Treadgold. Arabella’s eyes went straight to Guy, who was dancing with Ursula, or trying to anyway: Ursula was doing a dance all of her own, ignoring Guy’s efforts to show her where to put her feet.
Arabella touched the cold glass. Last night’s encounter with Guy had felt like a dream from the moment she slipped out of bed, driven by a fierce urge to feel his embrace. How glorious those seconds in his arms—before he accused her again.
Fair enough. It did look bad, loitering outside his door late at night in her nightgown. Although every country house needed a young lady wandering around in her nightgown seeking trouble.
Below her on the lawn, a dispute seemed to have broken out among the bowls players, but then Miss Treadgold must have made some sound, for the three gentlemen turned.
Just as something fluttered to the grass at Miss Treadgold’s feet.
A canary-yellow ribbon.
One of the gentlemen stooped, hand outstretched toward the ribbon. A heartbeat later, a second one lunged for it, knocking aside the first man, and while they gesticulated at each other, the third made his move. In disbelief, Arabella watched as three grown men scrambled to seize Miss Treadgold’s fallen ribbon.
Only Guy did not move, his expression bemused.
Well, Arabella thought. Clearly, she had been approaching life completely wrong, given those men’s response to a dropped ribbon!
When Arabella dropped a ribbon—
But Arabella never did drop a ribbon. She never dropped anything at all. In fact, Arabella was immensely talented at not dropping things. Which was just as well, because if Arabella were to drop a ribbon and a gentleman noticed, he would say, “Miss Larke, your ribbon has fallen,” then dash off to Miss Treadgold in case she did something adorable, like sneeze.
Oh, for powers like that! If Miss Treadgold ever needed anything, she wouldn’t have to scheme and lie and bribe and steal and blackmail, nor tolerate insults and injury. She’d simply drop a ribbon and men would knock themselves out in their scramble to obey.
All except Guy. Yet when Miss Treadgold turned to him, he smiled warmly.
With a sigh, Arabella turned away from the window. In the duller novels, this was the part of the story where the woman realized what a sinner she was, reformed her ways, and lived tediously ever after. But it seemed premature to reform. After all, Arabella wasn’t much of a villainess. She hadn’t even murdered anyone. Yet.
But neither was she ready to face them, so she climbed back into bed.
Today, Mama delegated to Cassandra and Juno. They crept in with the hushed eagerness of any sickroom visit, eyes wide as they tiptoed toward her. Cassandra held a bunch of flowers so big Arabella could see nothing but the top of her chocolate-brown hair and her hazel eyes peering through the stems. Juno carried a portfolio, her round cheeks pink and blonde curls bouncing as she laughed at Arabella’s expression.
Cassandra set the vase on the bedside table and arranged the blooms, their fragrance floating over Arabella in a soothing cloud.
“Everyone has been asking after you,” Cassandra said. “Including Lord Hardbury. He has made polite inquiries several times.”
“Today?” Arabella asked.
“Yesterday.”
Before that misjudged encounter last night.
“He wished to know if you needed anything,” Juno chimed in from across the room, where she was opening her portfolio of drawings on a table.
Tell him I need him to hold me. Tell him I need help, even if I don’t know how to ask. Tell him to pretend to be engaged to me, so I can buy time and not be cast out.
“What could I possibly need from Guy?” she asked.
She climbed out of bed and checked her appearance in the mirror. Even now, she was tidy. Her plait was neat, her blue bed-jacket smooth. How decadent she was, to entertain guests in her nightwear.
“It seems I have mastered the art of lying in bed,” she said.
She caught Cassandra and Juno exchanging a glance and regretted her admission. She was meant to be ill, not languishing in sorrow.
Cassandra, predictably, was kind. “You are being very brave. I was devastated after I was jilted. But I found someone else to marry.”
