Page 9 of A Fake Courtship with the Marquess
Henry rested his back against one of the pillars and continued to observe Arabella and her mother, wondering just how much the young lady hated him, at present, and what good a few paltry ribbons could do to make amends.
* * *
Steeling his resolve to at least claw back some of his dignity before the ball was over, Henry ignored the chatter that followed him through the ballroom. Stares burned into the back of his head, but he fixed his gaze upon that vision in violent purple and strode on with his chin up.
“Lady Arabella.” Henry bowed as deep as lingering dizziness would allow. Discreetly, he checked the floor to make sure his nose had not started bleeding again, before straightening up. “I wondered if you might grant me the honor of being my partner for the next set? I am sure your card must be full, but perhaps there is a chance of you finding a place for me.”
Of course, he knew her card would not be full. She was a betrothed woman, prohibited from dancing with other potential suitors. Still, he hoped flattery might soothe whatever embarrassment or irritation or anger she harbored toward him.
“Certainly, she would be delighted!” the Duchess of Bowles answered for her daughter, while Arabella’s expression remained remarkably blank. He could read nothing whatsoever in her pretty face, aside from the faintest flare of fire in her honey-toned eyes. It made them appear almost molten.
She is in a quiet fury. The most dangerous kind.
Henry mustered a smile, conscious that his nose must have swollen to twice its size by now. “I do not mean to be rude, Your Grace, but I should like Lady Arabella to reply. I have yet to hear her voice after… how many years has it been, My Lady?”
“I was ten, you were six-and-ten,” Arabella replied stiffly.
He heard the subtext, clear as day,“So you should have known better than to behave as you did.”
“A decade,” she simplified.
Undeterred, he continued to smile until he was sure he looked quite mad. “The years have been very kind to you, My Lady. Truly, you have blossomed in the nourishing air of the Surrey Hills.”
What am I saying?He had never spoken such tosh in all his life, preferring to let his wits and intellect do his charming for him.
“Ah yes, for I was a rather ungainly and withered sapling, was I not? The kind the other saplings might tease and pluck at, not understanding that it is hard to grow well in the shadow of grander specimens who were lavished with all they desired.” Arabella’s skillful retort startled him momentarily.
True, she had been nothing but a girl back then, and a bit of a sullen pest at that, always traipsing after her brother, but Henry could not recall her ever standing up for herself. Indeed, shameful as it was, that was part of what had made her such an easy target for his youthful taunts and tricks. Yet, now, he heard the intellect in her words, and how deftly they were barbed, chastising both Henry, Seth, and the Duke and Duchess of Bowles in one fell swoop.
“She speaks very poetically, does she not?” the Duchess of Bowles, apparently oblivious to the thinly veiled jab, cooed. “She learned it from her brother, who was forever poring over his poetry books. I am sure you remember, Lord Haskett?”
A curious smirk lifted one corner of Henry’s lips. “If memory serves, my dear friend abhorred poetry. Still does.”
Arabella’s eyes narrowed, as if to say,“What are you doing? I do not need you to defend me.”Moreover, he fully believed she did not, but he still needed to win back some of her respect, considering they were to be married.
“Oh…” The Duchess clasped at her necklace. “You must be mistaken. I am certain my dear boy adored his poets.”
Henry gave a slight nod. “Perhaps I am, Madam. We do not often partake in literature together, these days.”
He heard Arabella snort and cast her a pointed look. Did she know what pastimes he and Seth enjoyed when they were in London together? Had she heard about the gentlemen’s clubs, the gambling halls, the public houses? It seemed so but her returned, even gaze seemed to suggest she did not care.
How intriguing…
“Seth told me you attended a poetry recital not a month ago,” the Duchess protested, clearly determined to uncover some literary leanings in her darling boy.
Henry feigned remembrance. “That we did. My apologies, Madam, I had entirely forgotten. Indeed, Seth appeared quite transfixed with a particularly beautiful piece.”
“I am sure he did,” Arabella retorted, with a knowing look he had not expected from someone who, by all accounts, was akin to a hermit. They had been Seth’s words, not his assumptions.
Henry extended a hand. “We have rather gotten away from the beaten path, have we not? I have yet to hear your reply.”
“I will dance with you.” She put her hand in his and seemed to freeze as he lifted it to his lips and kissed the silk of her glove. It was soft and slippery against his lips, a fine fiber catching on a rougher patch.
“How splendid.” Henry let go of her hand and watched as it remained suspended for a moment. “That reminds me—I have a gift for you, My Lady.”
She dropped her hand sharply. “Pardon?”
“A gift. I trust you know what such a thing is?” It was a light tease, and he could see she did not take kindly to it. Nevertheless, he reached into his inside pocket and removed the two carefully folded lengths of ribbon—one a shining turquoise, the other an adventurous shade of coral. Neither of which would suit her gown.
