Page 10 of Snowed-in with Scandal
“Gone?” Her face reflected genuine shock. “But that’s impossible. Antoinette was planning another outing today, and just yesterday Lady Lushington seemed... that is, after you both returned from the pavilion, she appeared quite...”
“Quite what?” Nicholas’s voice was sharp.
“Happy,” Lady Fenton finished quietly. “She appeared quite happy.”
The word twisted in Nicholas’s chest like a knife. Happy. Yes, she had probably been delighted with how easily she had managed him. How thoroughly she had ensured his cooperation.
“Did she give no indication of where she was going?” he pressed.
“None whatsoever. In fact...” Lady Fenton hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “In fact, I had the distinct impression that she was rather looking forward to today. She seemed... hopeful about something.”
Hopeful. Yes, she would be hopeful about reuniting with her lover, who would provide her with whatever money or documentation to whitewash her lies and perfidy or other wickedness of which she was guilty.
A terrible cold seeped through Nicholas as the last vestige of his love for Arabella—bolstered by their exquisite tryst yesterday—crumbled to ash.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, his voice stilted with the effort of remaining polite as he backed towards the door, “I am suddenly not particularly hungry this morning.”
He left Lady Fenton staring after him in bewilderment and made his way to the gardens, where he hoped the winter air might clear his head and help him think rationally about what to do next.
But rationality seemed beyond him. All he could think about was the way Arabella had felt in his arms yesterday, the way she had whispered his name as if he were the most beloved man inthe world, the way she had looked at him with such perfect, lying tenderness.
But today she was gone.
Gone… forever?
No, the whispered conversation he had overheard suggested she intended to return.
No doubt, after buttering him up yesterday, she’d be confident that she could sweet-talk her way back into his good graces with more pretty lies and passionate kisses.
She was wrong.
By the time Lady Lushington returned from her sordid assignation, Nicholas Morley would be long gone. This time, he would not wait around to have his heart shattered again. This time, he would save himself the trouble.
Some lessons, apparently, had to be learned twice before they truly took hold.
And the lesson of Arabella Beecham—or Lushington, or whatever name she chose to call herself—was one he should have had the good sense to remember:Get close at your peril.
CHAPTER 8
The moment John Coachman had told Arabella the carriage axle had been fixed, Arabella had slipped away.
Now, after travelling four hours over bad roads she was finally at Lushington Hall.
Stepping tentatively across the threshold, her flickering candle illuminating the drawing room with furniture covered in dust sheets like ghostly sentinels, Arabella could barely suppress her horror. The air was thick and stale, heavy with the scent of abandonment and decay. Cobwebs draped the corners like mourning veils, and her footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone floor, each sound seeming to mock the grandeur that had once impressed—and intimidated—so many visitors. The portraits on the walls, including the forbidding likeness of her late husband, seemed to watch her with malevolent eyes through the gloom.
Arabella had only ever known unhappiness here. After Lushington’s death, she’d vowed never to return.
But needs must.
She’d left Sarah at Quamby House to fulfil what business she could to explain Arabella’s departure and to return Lord Pemberton’s hateful gifts with a letter that told him in nouncertain terms that his inducements had fallen on barren ground.
Now, Arabella was back in her own home and trembling so much she had to sit down on what had once been an elegant settee, which caused a cloud of dust to engulf her, making her cough and her eyes water.
Footsteps sounded down the corridor and the door was thrust open, a little housemaid brandishing a letter opener, her expression fierce and fearful before she dropped the knife, collapsing against the wall in clear relief as she said, “Lady Lushington! It is you? I thought never to see you again.”
“Dorcas. You are very brave to be taking on the care of this household... seemingly with little help. I know I have been absent these last eight months since my husband’s death, and I had meant to visit much earlier?—”
“Oh no, I am glad you didn’t do that,” said the little maid, still looking frightened. “The new master—that is, Lord Lushington’s heir, what was his cousin but him who is now coming to take possession in two days—Mr. Algernon—said he would have…anyone…arrested for trespassing if he they was caught inside Lushington Hall.”
