The Heir - Catherine Coulter [78]
“I know. It’s as if she puts all her passion into her music. If she would speak as she plays, I think she would be an excellent orator.”
After a third Bach prelude, Suzanne began to fidget. She put her blond head next to Arabella’s ear and whispered behind her lavender-gloved hand, “How very lucky you are, Bella. The earl is so very handsome and, well, handsome as the devil actually. If I were not a properly brought-up young lady, I should long to be wicked and ask you all about your wedding night. So, how was it?”
The stark memory of pain and bitter humiliation sent bile into Arabella’s throat. She finally said, “I will forget what you asked. Just know that wedding nights aren’t—no, forget that. Be quiet. Listen to Elsbeth.”
“Such a spoilsport you are.”
After Elsbeth’s performance had received its usual loud applause, and Suzanne had complained convincingly to her mama of a sore finger that would render her in horrible pain if she had to strike a single pianoforte key with it, Arabella found herself paired with the comte against the earl and Suzanne in a game of whist.
She soon discovered that the comte’s skill was nearly on a par with hers. She began to play with the daring and skill that her father had taught her. Without intending it to be so, she found herself engaging in silent battle against her husband, the comte and Suzanne fading out of her thoughts, out of her sight. When Lady Ann halted their game for tea, Arabella and the comte had soundly thrashed their opponents. Suzanne, who was in reality as competitive as Arabella, merely laughed gaily and fanned the deck of cards in colorful profusion about the tabletop.
“You were just like Jeanne d’Arc, strewing her enemy in her path,” the comte said, admiration and something else in his voice. He clasped Arabella’s hand and kissed her wrist.
The earl’s eyes were narrow. He looked ready to kill. She grabbed her hand back and said, “That is nonsense, and you know it. I dislike flattery. We had excellent cards, nothing more. Suzanne is the killer.”
“No, I’m only a killer occasionally. The comte is quite right, Bella,” Suzanne said. “You’re a veritable dragon. Don’t you remember when we were children and you were always trying to drum the strategy of the game into my head?”
“You have far too lovely a head for nonsensical games, Miss Talgarth,” the earl said as he helped her to rise and drew her arm through his.
“I had believed you a man of truth, my lord,” Suzanne said. “Come, admit it, you could most willingly have wrung my neck when I trumped your winning spade in the third game.”
“Very well, I will admit it. Truth is sometimes the very devil, isn’t it, Miss Talgarth?”
“His lordship finds the lovely Miss Talgarth most amusing, is it not so, cousin?”
Arabella raised gray eyes to the comte’s too-handsome face and said, “I daresay, monsieur, but then again, I myself find Suzanne most amusing. She enlivens any conversation, brightens any party.”
When, amid wraps and bonnets, Lady Talgarth and Miss Talgarth took their leave, Arabella quickly excused herself, not meeting the earl’s eyes, and hurried up the stairs. She locked the door to the earl’s bedchamber, and heaved a sigh of relief, only to gasp with surprise as the door to the adjoining dressing room slowly opened. She stood frozen in the middle of the room, as the earl strode toward her.
He saw her eyes fly to the small nightstand, guessed her pistol lay in the drawer, and drew to a halt. He watched her closely as her hands balled into fists and her face paled in the dim candlelight.