Page 49 of A Fake Courtship with the Marquess
Maybe, he has decided I should not know what was in that letter. If so, it is all my fault. He must think my heart is set on Lord Powell.
Cassie put a gentle arm around Arabella’s shoulders. “They have both responded. They will be here tonight.” She rested her cheek against Arabella’s; the two women looking at each other through the mirror’s reflection. “Once he sees you, he won’t be daft enough to keep his feelings to himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he blurts out a confession the moment you’re reunited.”
“I fear I have ruined everything, Cassie,” Arabella said solemnly.
Her friend gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Nonsense, Milady. It seems the two of you have displeased the postal service, that’s all. Your letters to him have gone missing before. I’m sure there’s an equally innocent explanation for this stretch of silence, too.”
“Do you really think so?” Arabella had hoped it might be something of that ilk, every time the silver tray was devoid of Henry’s handwriting.
Cassie nodded. “I know so.” She took hold of Arabella’s hand. “Now, let’s get you downstairs. The guests have already started arriving in droves, and I want you to make a dramatic entrance.”
“Very well.” Arabella smiled nervously. “And let us all be grateful thatIgot to choose the gown, this time.”
Cassie cackled. “Mercy, yes.”
* * *
Several hours later, Arabella was the talk of the ball. For once, it was for all the right reasons. Even the young ladies who usually stared at her with scorn were whispering in admiration of the magical gown that seemed to change color in the blink of an eye. Meanwhile, the present gentlemen could not take their eyes off her, to the point where she could feel their eyes burning into her.
“She looks like a fairy queen,” one young lady whispered enviously. “I must remember the style of her hair, so I can ask my maid to emulate it.”
Her friend nodded effusively. “And we must discreetly discover which seamstress made that divine gown! I must have one of my own, though I shall change it enough so it does not lookexactlythe same.”
“She is a Duke’s daughter, set to wed a Duke’s only son,” another friend chimed in. “Neither of you have fortune enough to look as Lady Arabella does. All you could hope for is a cheap imitation.”
Unaccustomed to such glowing praise, and certainly unused to being the source of great envy, Arabella felt as if she were floating on air. With that confidence, she breezed around the ballroom, the dining room, the gardens, and the hallways, welcoming the guests and taking time to speak with as many as possible.
“She is a delight, is she not? How did I not know of this before? If I had, I would have asked you to speak with her father so our Arthur might have married her. Such manners. Such beauty. You are a fool not to have acted more quickly!” she heard an older lady say to her husband, as she left them to move on to the next cluster of guests.
In truth, there was another reason behind Arabella’s diligent mingling. Many gentlemen had asked if they might dance with her, despite knowing she was betrothed. She had refused them all, explaining that she needed to perform her duties as the hostess first, though the truth was much simpler—she did not want to dance with anyone but Henry.
Where is he? He should have been here hours ago!
Just then, she felt a light tap on her shoulder.
Whirling around, hoping it might be the very man she was thinking of, her heart lurched suddenly. In her excitement and the fortnight of fretting she had endured, she had quite forgotten that she was supposed to be giving an answer to someone else this night.
“Lady Arabella.” Lord Powell’s eyes shone as he took in her elegant demeanor. “You look… otherworldly.”
Flustered, she simply stared as he took her gloved hand and kissed it gently.
“I must say, I did not know if I would be graced with an encouraging smile or a disheartening frown,” Lord Powell continued, still holding her hand. “I am pleased, indeed, to see that it is the former. Does this mean—”
“Do not say what you are about to, Lord Powell,” Arabella interrupted hurriedly, aware of all the people around her. “It is not the time. We will discuss it in due course, but not in such watchful company.”
Lord Powell lightly smacked his forehead. “Of course, how foolhardy of me. I am sorry, Lady Arabella, I became too enthusiastic upon seeing you again. Truly, these weeks without hearing any word from you have been a torment. I have longed to write, but I did not think it prudent when you asked for time to think.”
“I am grateful, Lord Powell.” Gazing into his eyes, she could not deny that he was the sort of gentleman a woman would be mad to refuse. He was impossibly handsome, devilishly charming, well-spoken, and surprisingly sweet in his current earnestness. Yet, this time, her butterflies did not even respond to his presence.
Lord Powell cleared his throat. “Might I request the next set with you, if your card is not already full?”
“Of course, Lord Powell. I would be delighted.” She did not know what had made her agree without hesitation. Perhaps, it was the boyish look upon his face, or the pressure of feeling so many eyes upon them, or the panic of keeping him quiet about the answer he was awaiting. In truth, it felt more like a good will gesture to the man who had once saved her from embarrassment. A last dance, in homage to the first. A fine way to say farewell.
Lord Powell grinned. “I shall await you in the ballroom, Lady Arabella.”
Bowing low, he turned and weaved his way through the throng of whispering guests, who were no doubt curious about what such an unlikely pair had to say to one another.
What have I done?Arabella took a moment to gather herself, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray. She gulped it down in one, almost choking on the bubbles, but she would need the courage it gave for the set to come, the disappointment she was surely going to cause… and for the confession she intended to make tonight, just as soon as the recipient showed his dear face.
