Page 7 of A Fake Courtship with the Marquess
Now, the true antagonizing had begun, and Arabella could not blame Lord Powell for wanting to defend himself. He had acted cordially and respectfully, while Henry was, indeed, behaving like a mannerless brute.
Is this what I am expected to wed? He might be older, but he is no wiser than he was as a boy, ripping my ribbons from my hair.
“Excuse me?” Henry’s eyes narrowed.
“I believe you heard the first time,” Lord Powell retorted.
Henry lurched forward, as if he fully intended to strike the Baron. At that moment, Seth finally intervened, stepping between the two men. Facing Henry, Seth put up his hands in a gesture of peace.
“Enough now. You are both causing a distraction to the night’s revels,” he said, his eyes finding Arabella and flashing a look of apology. “Shake hands and let us all progress happily with our evening, before this gets out of hand. Tempers are running high, drinks have been consumed, and that is no good for anyone.”
Henry pushed his tongue against the inside of his lower lip and rolled it from side to side in irritation. “My friend is right, of course,” he muttered, after a few tense moments. “Tonight is a celebration, and I would not want to leave a bitter taste in anyone’s mouth when the evening should be sweet.”
“I am pleased to hear it, My Lord.” Lord Powell raised a dubious eyebrow.
Henry stuck out his hand. “I accept your apology.”
“And what of mine?” Lord Powell ignored the hand.
“Pardon?” Henry glowered.
“You have cursed at me and petrified these poor ladies. Are further apologies not required, or do you believe yourself exempt?”
No, no, no… Let it be, Lord Powell!
Arabella could not bear for this to continue any longer. It was bad enough that she had been forced into a vile, brocaded gown of obscenely bright purple, with a pattern so crowded that it made her nauseated if she looked at it for too long, plus a ribboned choker with an amethyst the size of a chicken egg that was truly threatening to choke her. Now, she had to suffer this embarrassment, too?
She wanted to scream, if only to drag everyone’s attention back to her awful gown.
Henry clenched his jaw. “My sincere apologies to all of the ladies I have offended with my coarse language. I allowed my temper to get the better of me. Truly, if oil is required to ease the discomfort of your ears, I will pay for it myself.” He flashed a tight smile around the room. “As for you, Lord Powell, I should have chosen a softer insult to show you my displeasure. My apologies for using a vernacular that is beneath me.”
It was nowhere near a true apology, but Arabella prayed that Lord Powell would accept it, so they could all be done with this humiliating display. It appeared the rest of the ladies in the room were equally hopeful, for they were clasping their hands together in mutual prayer.
Lord Powell smiled. “Let us part ways in civility.” He took Henry’s still-outstretched hand. For a moment, it looked like they were trying to crush one another’s fingers, their faces strained. Arabella had never witnessed such an aggressive handshake, and her father was known for his particularly vigorous ones.
Then, just like that, it was over. Henry released Lord Powell’s hand, and the latter shook out his fingers as though testing they were still in working order. Lord Powell bowed and turning on his heel, left the ballroom.
Henry swiveled to face the watchful spectators, the handkerchief still pressed to his nostrils. “My apologies for you all having to witness that unpleasantness. It is not in my nature to act in such a way, so I would beg your forgiveness for this uncharacteristic transgression. Please, continue on with your revels, and do not let this spoil a joyful occasion.”
Seemingly satisfied, the orchestra began to play once more, and the dancing partners resumed the quadrille that had been suspended during the outburst. The observers, lacking anything to observe, returned to their conversations and refreshments. Indeed, the only one who could not carry on as though all was well, was Arabella.
“He has not changed a jot,” she grumbled to her mother, who offered a comforting pat of the shoulder.
If I were to behave like that, I would never be allowed to see daylight again!
The discrepancy between how men and women were treated bristled her insides, for her mother had already taken away her second glass of champagne in case she became too “wobbly.” Yet, her brother and her betrothed could show up to a ball, hideously drunk, argue in front of everyone, and it was all swept under the figurative rug within seconds.
“I am… mortified,” she added, flashing a pointed look at her parents.
Her father gave a nonchalant shrug. “It is in a man’s nature to want to defend himself if he feels he has been slighted.”
“The Marquess isdrunk, Papa, and so is Seth!” Arabella protested, keeping her voice low.
Another shrug followed. “They are young gentlemen. I expect they imbibed more than they realized or thought they could handle. They will learn their lesson when they awaken tomorrow with throbbing heads.” He chuckled, adding fuel to Arabella’s livid fire. “And the gossip of tonight will be replaced by another tale of gentlemen quarreling soon enough. You have no cause to be mortified. No one was hurt, peace was struck, and everyone gained some entertainment.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “You find nothing shameful in the Marquess’ temper?”
“Anger is bound to flare where drink is involved,” her father replied casually. “If I thought there was shame in it, I would be horrified by my own youth.”
