Page 64 of Wickedly Yours
As he entered the drawing room, Rowan’s hopes were dashed.
Surprise showed on his mother’s face as she caught sight of Arabella. They weren’t expecting his wife to accompany him tonight, that much was obvious.
Lord Marsh discreetly murmured something to a waiting footman. Probably requesting an additional place be set.
“Darling.” His mother greeted him with warmth, before turning. “Arabella.” Her mouth tightened into a pucker. “How lovely to see you.”
When the invitation to dinner had arrived, addressed only to him, Rowan assumed his mother was merely being peevish. She had a tendency to be a bit spiteful if she hadn’t gotten her way. He looked down at her plump form, artfully encased in violet. Most people would find such a statement difficult to believe, but Rowan had been on the receiving end of his mother’s manipulation for most of his life.
He squeezed Arabella’s hand. His wife was far too intelligent to not comprehend his mother’s surprise and he didn’t wish her hurt by it.
Arabella dipped gracefully in greeting. “Thank you for the invitation.” She emphasized the word as she gave his mother a look that would curdle cream.
Mother’s cheeks pinked. “Of course.”
Rowan gave his mother a pointed look. Arabella didn’t need his protection but if necessary, she would have it.
His father came forward, clapping Rowan on the shoulder in greeting. He smiled politely at Arabella. “We are so happy to see you both.” He gestured to the large, brocade sofa. “Sit.”
“I expected Petra to join us,” Rowan said as he settled himself on the couch and pulled Arabella down next to him.
Her hand gripped his tightly, though outwardly not a bit of discomfort showed. Her features remained serene.
“She’ll be down in a moment. A ride in the park earlier wore her out, poor thing. She’s so many suitors I fear she’ll become exhausted before the Season ends.” Mother fluttered her hands.
“Has she a favorite?” If Petra didn’t, he was certain Mother did.
“Lord Percival Dunning,” she snapped back without preamble. A sound at the door stopped her from saying more. “Ah, there she is.”
Rowan doubted seriously his sister’s choice of husband was Lord Dunning. Petra would never choose a man who was half a head shorter and a good twenty years older than herself.
Petra, dressed in some diaphanous gown covered in ribbons, fairly skipped into the drawing room. She was humming but stopped immediately upon seeing Arabella on the couch. Not known for her discretion, she gave both their parents an odd look before pasting a small, polite smile on her lips.
Rowan was beginning to wish both he and Arabella had begged off with a headache.
* * *
None of Rowan’sfamily would make decent card players. Their dislike of Arabella was on full view and difficult to overlook.
Arabella took a deep breath and tried to maintain the calm, serene manner she was striving to project. Under no circumstances would she allow Lady Marsh or the insipid Petra to intimidate her. She’d assumed, wrongly it appeared, the dinner invitation was Lady Marsh’s version of extending an olive branch to her. Arabella reminded herself Rowan’s family hadeveryreason to dislike her and very few to embrace her. She didn’t give a fig for any of them, but shedidcare for Rowan. He loved his family, but she didn’t need to. Arabella need only tolerate their presence in her life.
Resolved to tolerance, Arabella decided to engage Petra in conversation over dinner. Arabella knew the girl was enjoying the Season, likely her last if the hints Lady Marsh dropped were any indication.
At the announcement that dinner awaited them in the dining room, Lady Marsh stood and immediately attached herself to Rowan in a blatant display of motherly possession.
Arabella stood and walked slowly towards the drawing room, certain Lord Marsh would walk with Petra and leave her alone. Surprisingly, he did not. Instead he offered an arm to each of them.
“I hope you like duck, Arabella.” His tone was polite, almost cordial. She was not fooled for an instant.
“Yes, my lord. It is one of my favorites.” A small lie. Honestly, she had no opinion on the duck nor anything Lord Marsh’s cook might have prepared. Her discomfort of the evening had ruined her appetite.
He nodded, as if approving her choice and brought her to her seat, but before she could sit her husband appeared at her side. He settled her in the chair allowing his fingers to linger over her shoulder before brushing her collarbone. The simple action spoke volumes.
Lady Marsh’s nostrils flared in irritation reminding Arabella of a bull about to charge. Were her mother-in-law to have a pistol Arabella doubted she’d survive the first course.
The conversation flowed around Arabella as a line of liveried footmen brought an array of silver platters to the table. What little food she ate was delicious. The dinner had been specially prepared for Rowan. Roasted duck served with potatoes in a wine cream sauce was one of his favorite dishes. He made a show of thanking his mother for remembering and Lady Marsh beamed from her end of the table.
She tried and failed to engage her mother-in-law in conversation but received only curt one-word answers, snorts of disbelief or careless waves of the lady’s beringed hands. Her mother-in-law’s behavior towards her was noticed by everyone at the table. Lord Marsh shot his wife several warning looks, which she did not heed.
