The Heir - Catherine Coulter [64]
“Whatever is wrong with Arabella?” Elsbeth whispered to Lady Ann as they trailed after her into the Velvet Room. “And his lordship? He spoke to her so very coldly. Indeed, I thought he looked angry, but surely that cannot be right. They are newly married. It can’t be right.”
“Sometimes, my dear,” Lady Ann said finally, “married people, when they are first wed, do not always agree. It is a lovers’ quarrel, nothing more. Don’t worry about it. These things pass quickly.” If only she could believe that. Dear Elsbeth, she thought, how very innocent she was. It seemed that Elsbeth had accepted her simple explanation, her attention already elsewhere, perhaps to her future Season in London. Yet, Lady Ann was puzzled, for it had been days since Elsbeth had made any reference either to her ten thousand pounds or to their trip. Nothing was quite right.
Lady Ann eyed Arabella, who was restlessly pacing in front of the long French windows. She turned to her stepdaughter. “Do play for us, Elsbeth. Perhaps some of your French ballads, the happier ones, not the ones that make me cry.”
Elsbeth complied willingly, sat gracefully at the pianoforte, and soon heartbreaking chords filled the room. These were the crying ballads.
Lady Ann walked to her daughter and laid her hand on her sleeve. “Why did you tell such a lie about poor old Hamsworth? You know perfectly well that your father never allowed you within a mile of his cottage. I even remember that he threatened to keep you off a horse for an entire week if you disobeyed him. You never did.”
Arabella felt incredibly weary. She wanted to cry. She also wanted to shriek. She tried for some spirit but couldn’t find any. She could only shrug and say, “It was only a jest, Mother, nothing more.”
“A jest that made Justin very very angry. You did it on purpose. You wanted to anger him. Why did you do such a thing, my dear?”
“It was what the earl expected, no, it was what he wished to hear. I but fulfilled his expectation.”
“Arabella, whatever are you talking about? How can you say that such a story as you concocted is what he wished to hear? Surely you can’t be right. He is your husband, not some jealous lover for you to taunt.”
Arabella raised fine gray eyes to her mother’s face. Her dinner began to churn uncomfortably in her stomach. She had very nearly given herself away. If only she were gazing into her father’s world-wise eyes rather than her mother’s so very innocent blue ones. She took a tight hold on her disillusionment, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Please, Mother, don’t take what I say seriously. I’m sure you have guessed that the earl and I have had a slight misunderstanding.”
Before Lady Ann could even open her mouth, there was a swirl of black satin and Arabella called over her shoulder, “I shall set up the table for lottery tickets.”
To Arabella’s relief, the earl and Dr. Branyon did not join in the game of lottery tickets. She found, though, that the excitement of winning and losing her fish did nothing to enliven her spirits. Because the earl believed the comte to be her lover, her most innocently spoken phrases took on a guilty meaning to her. She tried vainly to ignore the comte and found to her horror that a dull flush crept over her cheeks when his beautiful dark eyes rested upon her. If she were not certain herself of her own innocence, she would have pronounced herself to be guilty. She would have announced that she was a slut.
The friendly word and glance of yesterday seemed today fraught with betraying dual meaning. She fell as quiet as the burning logs in the great fireplace.
When Crupper entered with the tea tray, she was near to the breaking point. She dispensed the tea without her mother having to tell her to and luckily she didn’t spill any. As soon as she had filled the last cup, she rose