The Heir - Catherine Coulter [106]
“My dear countess,” he said with all the charm in his repertoire, which was considerable, “I feel you have not paid me the attention I deserve. I am bereft.”
Both Elsbeth and the earl were staring at the both of them. Arabella wanted to send her fist into the comte’s face. What was Justin thinking? She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She finally managed to say, “I am newly married, comte. Surely that gives me a good reason for not giving everyone all the attention they feel they deserve. If you are bereft, I am, of course, sorry for it.”
“Perhaps,” the comte said, “it is I who have not paid you enough attention. As you know, I must take my leave in but two days. If your husband could spare you, I should delight in having you show me more of your beautiful English countryside. Please do not deny me this.”
“I can spare her, but I do not do it willingly,” the earl said, and Arabella thought her jaw would drop to the floor in surprise. He continued, all good humor, “What man would? I ask only that you take good care of her. She is all that is precious to me.”
What was going on here? Why was he smiling at her, calling her precious to him, giving her permission to go with the comte, the man he was certain she had betrayed him with? It made no sense, unless . . . She drew a deep breath. He must believe her innocent now. Had he guessed that it must have been Elsbeth? She wanted him just to believe her, and perhaps it was true.
She didn’t want to go to the front doors with the damned comte. She wanted to shoot him. She wanted to kick him to the floor. It was denied to her, dammit. She forced herself to smile, saying, “I shall be delighted to explore with you. Where do you wish to go?”
He paused before replying, as if uncertain. “A difficult decision, Arabella, but I think I should like to visit your old abbey ruins once again. The few minutes I have spent there were not enough. Such a romantic place, full of ghosts of your English ancestors. I wish to be drawn back into the past, to forget the cares of the present.”
Arabella thought this overdone, but she merely nodded. They agreed to meet in thirty minutes.
When she came down to the entrance hall not long thereafter, dressed in an old blue muslin gown and stout walking shoes, she asked Crupper, “Have you seen his lordship?”
He gave her a tolerant smile. “Your husband had an errand to do. He said I was to tell you that he would miss you”—old Crupper’s eyes softened and Arabella stared—“and that he hoped you would spare him some time this evening.”
“Oh yes,” she said, nearly dancing, “I will spare him any amount of time he wishes. Thank you, dear Crupper.”
“A pity you must spend time with that Frenchman,” Crupper said.
“I agree with you. It is a great pity.”
“He will be gone soon.”
“Yes, isn’t that wonderful?”
She grinned at him and went out to stand on the front steps. Gervaise appeared not many minutes later, dressed beautifully, as was his habit, a smile of anticipation on his handsome face.
He didn’t hesitate to flatter this girl whom he would never see again in two days. It cost him nothing, and hopefully, it would make her more cooperative. “How very lovely you are, Arabella. An afternoon in your company will fill my memories for many a lonely day to come.”
His flowery compliments nauseated her, but she forced a smile. Soon he would be gone. She couldn’t wait. She fell into step beside the comte, thinking about her husband, wondering what he was thinking now. Surely he wouldn’t insult her again, would he?
“A lovely day, Arabella. Finely suited for our explorations.”
“Hmm,” she said. “How