Page 6 of A Fake Courtship with the Marquess
“Oh no,” she murmured, watching with everyone else as Seth pulled Henry to his feet.
Her mother stood frozen, while her father had one foot forward, as if deciding whether to intervene on his future son-in-law’s behalf.
“Is that not your illustrious groom?” Lady Catherine whispered sardonically from the next table over, as she clung to the arm of her new husband, the Baron of Belmore.
At least my future groom is not a gentleman of no fortune and woeful visage…
Arabella fought to hold her tongue, knowing it would only make the situation worse if she were to retaliate. Ignoring the wretch completely, she could not draw her eyes away from the awful scene ahead.
Taking a proffered handkerchief from Seth, Henry pressed it to his bleeding nose. The Earl of Chisholm’s footmen weaved through the crowd to try and aid Henry, but he batted them away, his attention solely concentrated on the man before him.
Every young lady knew Oliver Lock, the Baron of Powell. What he lacked in station, he more than made up for in exquisite good looks. Of average height and broad stature, he possessed glossy chestnut hair, a noble nose and chin, and cheekbones that could slice butter. More than that, he had an undeniable charisma and presence that demanded the admiring gaze of every lady in the room, and the respect of every gentleman. Indeed, he had been known to make a woman swoon at fifty paces. Meanwhile, his eyes, a striking shade of emerald green, enchanted those who needed a closer look.
“What the devil is wrong with you, man?” Henry sniped, his voice distorted by his pinched nose. “You could blatantly see where I was standing, or must you be close enough to a fellow that you can smell his perfume?”
A stunned ripple made its way through the ballroom. It was improper for a gentleman, especially a Marquess and son of a Duke, to speak so coarsely.
Lord Powell took his own handkerchief and offered it to Henry. “I apologize, My Lord. You turned so abruptly that I could not step aside in time.”
“You would blamemefor this?” Henry raged as he smacked the proffered hand out of the way, seemingly oblivious to the appalled stares coming from every direction. The dancers had stopped, the orchestra lay silent, making every word audible.
Lord Powell dipped his head graciously. “You are upset, My Lord, as any gentleman would be. I am not seeking to lay blame, I am only trying to explain myself.”
“I know you, Lord Powell. You have done this deliberately!” Henry’s cheeks had turned red with anger. “When have younotsought to antagonize me, at any given opportunity? Though I rather thought you better than this, resorting to juvenile antics.”
Arabella wondered ifsheought to intervene, if only to spare her brother from being judged by association. Then again, where would that place her? She knew she could not avoid the news of her engagement from spreading, but she had hoped it might be met with congratulations rather than commiserations. For that might have made this entire matter marginally easier to bear.
“I should tend to Seth,” she whispered to her mother, but her mother grabbed her hand and pulled her back.
“You will do no such thing. It will simmer down soon enough.” She sounded confident, but her expression belied her doubt. Still beautiful at six-and-forty, with the same light brown hair as Arabella, though slightly flecked with gray, and the same rare, honey-colored eyes, the Duchess of Bowles could not hide anything from the open book of her face.
Arabella’s father nodded approvingly. “Let men be men. They will come to a resolution, and we must hope this is swiftly forgotten.”
It irked Arabella that her father always gave such leniency to men, even when they were acting like utter fools. In his mind, being the son of a Duke served as a means of erasing most mistakes from a man’s life. Indeed, Arabella had to wonder what being the son of a Duke, and then inheriting the title, had erased from her father’s history of mishaps.
Lord Powell neatly arranged his handkerchief and placed it back in his top pocket. “There are ladies present, My Lord. Perhaps we ought to resolve this outside, where we will not assault their sensitive ears? I assure you, I had no intention of knocking you to the floor. I was merely entering the ballroom as you were exiting and did not see you turn to leave. It was an accident, nothing more.”
The ladies in the room fanned themselves furiously, no doubt thrilled by Lord Powell’s chivalry, even if they secretly longed to hear everything the two men had to say to one another.
“Damn your eyes, man!” Henry cursed, to the fresh disgust of the ballroom. “I will not be told where to air my grievances, and I certainly will not be told by the likes of you. If that was an accident, I am the King of England!”
A collective inhale soughed around the room. Arabella was no exception. Not only had Henry blasphemed, but he had spoken in a manner that was tantamount to treason. In one’s own home, such things could slip out, but this was a public arena… and Arabella doubted anyone would forget this incident in a hurry.
Lord Powell frowned. “You need not be hysterical, My Lord. I simply want to end this unpleasantness swiftly. If you will not accept my apology, I do not know what more there is to say.”
“Hysterical?” Henry looked like he might explode. To use such a feminine insult clearly could not be borne.
Lord Powell nodded calmly. “You are frightening the ladies, My Lord, and that is without mentioning that you have quite ruined poor Lady Rachel’s gown. I suggest you compose yourself before you do irreparable harm and entirely spoil the Earl’s lovely ball.”
Arabella, who rarely left the confines of the Bowles Estate, though she had been out in Society for two years, did not know who Lady Rachel was, but it was not hard to guess. Evidently, it was the sobbing woman in the far corner, lamenting the great, wet patches upon the satin of her skirts. Her friends crowded around her; a sight that Arabella envied, for she had but two friends in this world—Cassie and Lady Olivia, who was not present, or had yet to arrive.
“Need I remind you that you are a Marquess, and the son of a Duke,” Lord Powell went on, as Arabella dug her fingernails into her palms, feeling the anxiety rise within her. This could not end well. “You ought to behave in a manner that merits your titles, instead of acting like a disgruntled, inebriated brawler outside a gentlemen’s club.”
Arabella could almost see the steam puffing out of Henry’s ears, and she could definitely hear the rasps of his harsh breaths. His free hand was curled into a fist, and she did not want to see what he might do with it.
“I know what I am,” Henry hissed. “I would remindyouto remember your station. A Baron should not speak to a Marquess so carelessly.” He spat the word Baron as though it were sour in his mouth.
The faintest flicker of annoyance crossed Lord Powell’s handsome features. “I might be a Baron, and beneath you in many ways, My Lord, but I paid attention to my education. I learned how to behave in polite Society. Perhaps you were absent on that day?”
