Page 7 of Harpy of the Ton
The eggs were off.
And…was that a green hue on the edge of the bacon?
She pushed her plate aside.
“Aren’t you going to eat it, child, after I took such pains to have it brought over?”
“I’m not hungry, Aunt,” Arabella said. “And if the modiste is visiting, I wish to ensure that she has no need to make any alterations.”
“Quite right,” came the reply. “Though I fear we must travel to London for your fitting. Madame Delacroix is making a most awkward business over your bridal gown. She’s refusing to travel here until her account is settled.”
“Shouldn’t we settle it, then?”
“We will, on your marriage—as I’ve assured her numerous times. But not only has she refused to accommodate us, she’s encouraged every other modiste in town to do likewise. It’s monstrous!”
“What, that we’ve not settled her account?”
“No!” Aunt Kathleen cried. “It’s monstrous that I—a blood relative of the future Duchess of Dunton—am being treated thus!”
Arabella said nothing and reached for the teapot. Doubtless the rumors about Dunton’s debts had reached the ears of London’s tradesmen and women. But there was little point in discussing the matter with her aunt. The last time she asked about her fiancé’s creditors, she had earned her a sharp slap with Aunt’s fan. She still sported the bruise on her upper arm, just beneath the sleeve—administered in such a position as to be invisible to others.
“What are you doing?” Aunt Kathleen asked.
“I want tea.”
“You’re not some commoner who serves at the table! Charles—pour my niece’s tea.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Arabella suppressed a sigh. Was there no part of her life over which she had any control?
The footman poured a measure of tea into a cup, then handed it to her. At least he hadn’t added any milk, which, judging from the odor coming from the jug on the table, had suffered the same fate as the eggs. His gaze met hers, sympathy in his eyes.
How dare he! Did he—a mere servant—deign to express such an emotion? Was she so pathetic a creature as to command the pity of a nobody?
“Where’s my sugar?” she demanded. “I take two spoonsful. Don’t youknowthat by now?”
His expression morphed into the cold politeness of the impeccable servant.
“Forgive me, Lady Arabella,” he said, in a tone that conveyed anything but contrition. He tipped two measures of sugar in her tea and stirred it. She acknowledged the action with a nod, then sipped the tea.
Too sweet.
She loathed sugar in tea. But a dark little corner of her soul rejoiced in having someone obey her command. She might be a prisoner of her situation, but there was a twisted comfort in knowing that others were bound by stronger chains—at least in the breakfast room.
Breakfast concluded, and there was still no sign of Dunton. But his absence had become something she craved—respite from the anticipation of his attentions. If he were cavorting with whores before their marriage, how would he behave once he’d secured her hand and her dowry?
Arabella allowed herself a wry smile as she exited the breakfast room. At least Dunton’s creditors would stop plaguing them once her dowry was released. Did he think her so much of a simpleton that she didn’t know who all those men were—hammering on the door at his London lodgings at all hours, demanding payment? Their flight from London to hole up in this godforsaken manor, with its overgrown garden and empty larder, was merely delaying the inevitable. It wouldn’t be long before his creditors followed them to Ilverton.
Which raised the question…
She stopped and glanced out of the window overlooking the garden. She hadn’t meant to stop there—it had just been a coincidence. But there he was, in his bronzed, semi-naked glory, working the land, driving his shovel into the earth, his body exuding a raw, primal power.
How had Dunton secured that gardener’s employment if he lacked the funds?
She let out a sigh. “What am I doing?”
Was being a duchess worth losing control over her destiny? Would she ever be able to make a decision for herself again, other than how many sugars she took in her tea?
