The Heir - Catherine Coulter [5]
He found himself reacting to her just as he would have to her father. He moved quickly. He spoke in his most conciliatory voice. “Yes, yes, of course. My dear Lady Ann, if there is anything I can do, anything to relieve you of the burdens that now afflict you, do not hesitate to call upon me. I will be here instantly to assist you.” And he was thinking, just as long as this bitch of a daughter isn’t with you. He preferred his women gentle, soft-spoken, and obedient. Like Lady Ann. But then, he wondered, why had the earl kept a mistress in London, a mistress in Brussels, and frequented brothels in Portugal, from all Sir Ralph had heard. Ah, but a fragile creature like Lady Ann surely wouldn’t be expected to service such a demanding man, as the late earl surely was. As for the daughter, he would admit that she was beautiful, ah, but so cold, so forthright, so unconciliatory.
The countess had averted her face and did not rise. Only a slight nodding of her fair head acknowledged his words. By all that was holy, she was exquisite. He really didn’t want to leave her, but he had no choice, not with that dragon of a daughter looking at him as if she’d like to chop him into small pieces with a knife she doubtless carried at her waist.
“Good-bye, Sir Ralph,” Arabella said, her voice as wintry as her father’s eyes.
Again, he thought regretfully that he would have liked to clasp the small trembling hands of the countess in his own, to assure her that he would protect her, comfort her, share her grief, not that the late Earl of Strafford had afforded him all that attention, the earl having paid very little attention to anyone he did not deem worthy of killing the French. He was not, however, in a position to carry out his wishes. He looked unwillingly away from the beautiful countess into the set, unsmiling face of the late earl’s daughter.
As the parlor door closed with a snap behind him, he was again struck with the thought that the earl’s daughter was molded in his very image. Their physical likeness was striking—the same ink-black hair and dark arched brows set above haughty, arrogant gray eyes. But it was not simply their physical similarities. How very alike in temperament they were. Proud, autocratic, and most damnably capable. Even though Sir Ralph was displeased at being dismissed by an eighteen-year-old girl, he felt it rather a pity that the girl could not have been born a boy. From what he had just witnessed, she could have most ably filled her father’s position.
The Countess of Strafford raised wide blue eyes to her daughter’s fine-featured face. “Really, my dearest, were you not a bit harsh with poor Sir Ralph? You must know he meant well. He was trying to spare both of us unnecessary pain.”
“My father need not be dead now,” Arabella said in a cold flat voice. “Such a stupid waste. Stupid, stupid war to appease the ridiculous greed of stupid men. Dear God, could there be anything more unjust?” She flung away her mother’s open arms and pounded her fists against the paneled wall.
My poor foolish child. You will not let me comfort you, for you are too much like him. You grieve for a man whose very existence made mine an endless misery. Is there no part of me in you? Poor Arabella, to shed tears is not to be despicable and weak.
“Arabella, where are you going?” The countess rose quickly and hurried after her daughter.
“To see Brammersley, father’s solicitor. Surely you know who he is, Mother. He has tried to flirt with you every time Father has been out of England, the inept buffoon. Damnation, I detest dealing with him, but Father trusted him, more’s the pity. Speaking of buffoons, I do not believe the Ministry sent Sir Ralph. Goodness, I thought he would try to seduce you right here.”
“Seduce me? Sir Ralph? That paunchy old man?”
“Yes, Mama,” Arabella