Page 141 of Harpy of the Ton
A thick hand pulled her back. “Hush, woman! Don’t make a scene.”
“But—”
“They’re nothing to you, my dear,” Dunton said. “Some peasant and his spawn.”
Bella stared at his fleshy fingers covered in bejeweled rings. Then she lifted her gaze, following the line of his elegantly fashioned sleeve toward the collar of his jacket, his silk necktie—and his cold, lust-filled eyes.
My fiancé…
Nausea overcame her, and she jerked backward, catching her breath.
“What’s the matter now?” he asked.
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Bloody hell, that’sallI need…” he muttered. “Can you at least wait until we reach our destination?”
“Wh-where are we going?”
“We’re goinghome,” he said, his voice thick with exasperation.
Home…
Wherewasher home? Not the elegant, soulless London townhouse she’d lived in until her betrothal, nor the dark, neglected shades of Ilverton Manor. Perhaps the house she’d lived in with her parents had been a home—the elegant Jacobean mansion she’d forgotten until it had forced its way into her dreams.
She closed her eyes, and another image floated into her mind—a tiny, whitewashed building, the front door surrounded by a trailing rose; a parlor that carried the aroma of lavender, smoke, and wood; a kitchen with a range that had come to accept her rule; an array of children’s toys adorning every surface; a garden filled with life, following the contours of nature, and…
And four souls she’d grown to love.
Thatwas her home. Not a building in which she merely existed, but a place where she was needed, valued, cherished…and loved.
But it had been a lie—an act of vengeance played out by a man who despised her enough to deceive her into servitude. A man who had taken her freedom, her maidenhead—and her heart.
But she was not Bella Baxter, the pathetic creature ruled by her heart. She was Lady Arabella Ponsford, daughter of a duke.
And Lady Arabella wasnotweak. Lady Arabella was sensible enough to know that succumbing to the needs of her heart only led to misery and ruination.
She had already suffered ruination—she wouldnotbe conquered by misery.
She smoothed her features into the mask of the Society debutante, then wrinkled her nose and glared at the offending hand.
“Unhand me, Your Grace,” she said. “Unseemly behavior is not to be tolerated.”
“Unseemly behavior?” Dunton laughed. “You give a fine argument, madam, and I’d listen, had you not been wandering about the countryside like any slut. You looked quite content riding alongside that hobbledehoy.”
“A temporary aberration,” she said. “I was afflicted by memory loss, and was deceived by a…” She hesitated, her body tightening with need at the memory of a pair of slate-gray eyes filled with desire, and his gentle touch that soothed her body before igniting the fires of pleasure. “I was deceived by abrute,” she said, channeling her bitter hatred into that final word.
Hewasa brute—and she would never forgive him. Not for behaving in the uncouth manner of a commoner, nor for attempting to wreak vengeance on her. No—she could not forgive him for deceiving her into believing, for a bright, glorious moment, that a little corner of goodness resided in the world.
And she could not forgive him for making her fall in love.
Dunton pulled her close, parting his lips for a kiss.
She turned her head away, fighting the ripple of nausea at the stench on his breath. Sweet Lord—had he been drinking liquor already?
“You forget yourself,” she said coldly.
“Come now, Arabella,” he said. “I’ve waited a long time for our reunion. And a woman must obey the man she pledged herself to.”
