Page 137 of Harpy of the Ton
“Is it to do with what you said yesterday—about needing to tell me something?”
He nodded, and his gut twisted at the flicker of pain in her eyes.
“Then we’ll discuss whatever it is once we’ve returned the horses to the inn and are settled at home. We can open that bottle of port Mr. Trelawney gave us, if you like. He wouldn’t stop telling me how special it is. He must think a lot of you.”
They passed the fork in the road leading to the inn, but Lawrence steered his horse toward Ivy Cottage.
“Shouldn’t we return the horses first?” Bella asked.
“I’ll do that once I’ve got you settled at home,” Lawrence replied. “There’s no need for you to overtire yourself. You’re still suffering from your headache. And don’t go denying it, woman—I can see how pale you are.”
She smiled. “You take such good care of me. What would I do without you in my life?”
They rounded a corner, and Ivy Cottage came into view.
“My home,” Bella said. “I’m ashamed to say I didn’t like it at first—but now I love it. And do you know why?”
“No,” he said quietly.
“Because you’re there. You and the children. You’re all I need to be happy.”
Dear God, I hope so…
He lifted his gaze to the heavens as he uttered the silent prayer.
“Oh, look!” she cried. “An enormous carriage.”
Lawrence lowered his gaze. A coach-and-four stood beside the front gate, with a driver and two footmen dressed in red and gold livery.
Very familiar red and gold livery.
His heart plummeted as a chasm opened up in the pit of his stomach.
“Bella, stop,” he said. “I’ll see who it is.”
Ignoring him, she approached the coach and dismounted.
“Are you lost, sir?” she asked. “The inn’s back the way you came.”
“We’re not lost, your ladyship.”
She frowned. “Whatdid you call me?”
As Lawrence dismounted, the carriage door opened. A footman jumped down from the back and set a block on the ground. Then a man climbed out, heaving his body through the door. He stepped on the block and stumbled against the footman. “Out of my way, damn you!”
Bella froze as the man righted himself and brushed down his jacket—a bright-blue silk, embroidered at the edges in gold thread. Then her eyes widened in recognition.
“Dunton!” she cried. “Your Grace—what are you doing here?”
Lawrence took a step forward. “Bella…”
A second footman climbed down from the coach and blocked Lawrence’s path. “That’s far enough,” he said.
“Lady Arabella.” Dunton issued a bow and offered his hand. Bella took it, then her face broke into a smile.
“I remember!” she cried, her voice filled with joy. “Sweet Lord—I can remember! Arabella… I’ve heard that name in my dreams at night. And now I remember. Arabella, Mariah…” She shook her head. “No! It’sLadyArabella—Arabella Mariah Ponsford. I’m right, am I not?”
“Yes, my dear,” Dunton said, his fleshy face swelling into a leer. “And you’re the future Duchess of Dunton.”
