Page 1 of A Fake Courtship with the Marquess
Chapter One
Lady Arabella Barnet sat in the drawing room, feeling as though she had done something wrong. A young woman of twenty, with her childhood behind her, she half expected her old, strict governess to walk in with a cane and strike her palms for some transgression she was not guilty of. For, back then, when she had done something naughty, she knew of it. Now, staring at the solemn faces of her parents, she had no idea what she had done.
Did news reach them of my riding adventure yesterday? I only sat astride Bess for a moment, to stretch my legs!
Those legs were now pressed tight together beneath the skirts of her duck-egg blue gown, to stop them jiggling with nervous anticipation. Not the good kind. The smoky air, hazy with the gray gasps of a choked chimney flue, was thick with tension. She had been called upon without being allowed so much as a bite of breakfast, and that did not bode well.
“Mama, Papa, might you tell me why you have—” She was not permitted to finish her anxious sentence.
Her father, the Duke of Bowles, cleared his throat. “You are to be married, Arabella.”
It was a statement, not a question, or a suggestion, or a dipped toe in the waters of possibility, to see how she would react to such news. Nor did his stern tone leave any room for protest.
“Pardon?” He had spoken clearly, but Arabella was not sure if she had misheard. Rather, she hoped she had.
“The Marquess of Haskett, Darling,” her mother chimed in, as if Arabella had asked another question entirely.
Arabella wrung the soft fabric of her skirts. “The Marquess of…” She trailed off, trying to put a face to the name. Her eyes widened and her stomach dropped as her mind put the pieces together. “You mean, Scarecrow Henry?!”
The disheveled boy had spent countless summers and occasional winters at the Bowles Estate—a sprawling pile situated in the verdant green hills of Surrey. Averse to combing his hair, and running from any servant who tried to slick it into submission, he had perpetually looked as though he had been dragged through a hedge backward. His rough play with Arabella’s brother, Seth, had only added to his slovenly appearance, forever coming in to dine with new holes in his trousers and dirt wiped carelessly across his waistcoat.
“He is a refined gentleman now,” her mother chided, though a flicker of uncertainty across her noble features did not go unnoticed by her stricken daughter.
Arabella’s father nodded. “Quite so. If one were to be judged on their childhood appearance, I would still be Stick-Legs Bowles. I looked like a foal learning to walk!” He chuckled, evidently trying to disarm his daughter with humor. “Nor would anyone’s judgment upon you, as a young girl, be entirely kind, Arabella.” The sternness returned, flitting jarringly away from the brief laughter.
Arabella blinked in astonishment. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Her mother tutted. “You were quite the troublemaker, always getting into mischief and causing trouble for us. I despaired for so many years, worrying about the lady you would become.”
“Me?” Arabella repeated, in a higher pitch.
She also noticed that her mother did not continue on to say that those despairing years had been dispelled, or that the lady Arabella had become was worthy of commendation.
One kind word… Surely, you can muster that?
“I imagine you do not remember, but I do,” her mother replied with a sigh. “Why… I once caught you trying to read Voltaire, and then there was the barefoot incident that haunts me still.” It sounded as though she was actually struggling to find fault, but find it she would.
Arabella dropped her chin to her chest. “The governess instructed me to read Voltaire, and the barefoot incident occurred as a means to spare my new shoes from a summer downpour that came upon us unexpectedly.”
She knew it was futile to argue her corner, but this seemed grossly unfair. Firstly, to be informed that she was to marry the eldest son of a friend of the family. Secondly, to have her childhood brought under scrutiny, when she had done nothing but try her best to please her mother and father. In all her twenty years, in fact, she had never set more than a toenail out of line.
But Seth could never do any wrong, could he?She clenched the fabric of her skirts into her clenched fists, to keep the words on her tongue. Disparaging remarks about their golden child would only result in her being scolded.
“So you say, but you were always such a fibber back then,” her mother retorted, though that was blatantly untrue.
One lie! I told one lie about who had torn the drapes, and that was only because Seth promised to take me riding if I did.
“Must it be Henry?” Arabella brought the conversation back to the grim topic at hand.
Her father snorted. “Why should it not be? He is known to us, he is my oldest friend’s eldest son, he is well acquainted with your dear brother, and he stands to inherit a great fortune. I trust you would not wish to be wed to a stranger? You ought to count yourself fortunate you have me for a father. There are many in this country who would not hesitate to send you away to an unknown corner of England for their own benefit.”
Arabella could not see the difference. As of yet, her father had not mentioned one benefit toher, only what the family and the men of said family stood to gain.
She pictured the turn the conversation would take, if only she were bolder.
“Yes, as it happens, Iwouldlike to wed a stranger. One of my choosing. A gentleman, or not a gentleman, whom I love with my whole heart! They could be a mill worker or a farmer for all I care, as long as I am loved by them in equal measure!” she would have declared, standing abruptly to her feet with her chin raised proudly.
Her father might have balked. “What outrageous, romantic nonsense is this?!” His head would have turned to his wife. “I told you we should have torn the Voltaire from her hand! She has become a French…philosopherevolutionary, with wild notions that have poisoned her mind!”
