“How?” Anthony pondered the bleak revelation and snorted. While he wanted to heal, he knew not how to go about it, and no one offered help. “By shackling me to some poor, unfortunate creature I haven’t seen in more than fifteen years and can scarcely recall? How old is she, now?”
“Lady Arabella is eight and ten, old enough to stand as your wife. She is of excellent stock and will bear you many healthy sons to carry on the dukedom.” Father rested his cheek to Anthony’s crown, and he savored the comforting support. “You are my only surviving child, and I will not allow you to continue on this sullen path to ruin, because your torment devastates your mother.”
His torment devastated her?
“And you honestly believe that Lady Arabella is the answer, when she was promised to my brother?” The mere thought gave Anthony a wicked case of collywobbles, because he had no desire to wed in his condition, which inspired a fresh series of dry heaves. “How do you know the lady is willing, given she was promised to John? What if her affections are engaged?”
“Lady Arabella is bound to the marquessate of Rockingham, regardless of who holds the title. Her preference never entered the equation, and she will do as she is told,” his father stated with characteristic arrogance. He offered his handkerchief, which Anthony used to daub his mouth as he shrugged free. Balancing on a knee, he steadied himself and then stood. “And love is of no consequence in contracted unions, but you know that.”
“Is that how you feel about Mama?” he asked with more than a little sarcasm, because nothing about his parents’ union struck Anthony as felicitous. Mulling the prospect, he supposed it would have been better to suffer an honorable death on the battlefield than endure the hollow prison of matrimony, with its protracted demise over the course of untold years, which his sire proposed. “Or would you have me believe you covet a genuine attachment for my mother, when I suspect otherwise?”
“Your impudence tests the limits of my patience, and our beginning was as nondescript as any other, I suppose.” Stretching to full height, Father doffed his spoiled coat, as Anthony rolled his shoulders and inhaled a deep breath. “But over the years we have developed an understanding and an authentic friendship. I would never do anything to cause her shame or angst, yet neither of us brought any illusions of sentimental love to the altar. If you are wise, you will approach your nuptials with similar expectations and common sense.”
Neither Lady Arabella nor marriage manifested the source of Anthony’s concern. Indeed, he remained numb to the pedestrian pleasures of everyday life. Billiards, cards, chess, and evenings at White’s, once favored pastimes, inspired naught but apathy. The simple truth was he found no joy in anything. If only he could escape what now resided in the annals of history, he just might find a way to cope with all the tomorrows. “Father, as much as it grieves me to defy you, I cannot marry Lady Arabella, because I am in no condition to care for a wife.”
Silence weighed heavy in the room, and palpable tension hung in the air. Even the bright sunlight from the windows could not dispel the chill of doom.
“It is regrettable that you are so quick to throw away what could be a chance at regaining a measure of happiness.” Given Father’s statement, Anthony breathed a sigh of relief. “Be that as it may, you were born into a position of power and privilege, and you will fulfill your obligations to this family, as the next in line,” his father stated with grim finality. After adjusting the folds of Anthony’s cravat, Father strode to the door. With his hand on the knob, he peered over his shoulder, and his nostrils flared. “In the morning, you will present yourself, groomed and garbed as a gentleman, whereupon you will accompany me to Upper Brook Street and gift a betrothal ring to your bride-to-be, so you had best reconcile yourself to it.”
In that moment, Anthony ran to the basin, bent, and retched.
*
Dress, primp, preen, and pose; such was the life of a proper English lady. After a series of seemingly endless days spent in study of scintillating topics that focused on the finer points of menu planning, ledger tallying, etiquette, posture, and embroidery, a debutante embarked on the second chapter of her existence as a wife and a mother, where the sum of her worth rested on her ability to be seen and not heard, her voice forever silenced, perforce yielding to her husband’s commands.
For Lady Arabella Hortence Gibbs, only child of the earl of Ainsworth, that would never suffice.
Garbed in a modest morning dress of pale yellow sprigged muslin with long sleeves and a lace collar, she lounged on the chaise and awaited her doom—and it was her doom. Although she appeared calm and reserved on the outside, inside she wrestled with her prepared speech, because she would take no mate without issuing her terms. If the new Lord Rockingham did not agree with her conditions, she would not accept him. Yet, even as she made her silent declaration of independence, she had no real choice in the matter.
That was the harshest blow of all.
Defined by society as an object, as property, as a plaything for men, women measured their future in the lack of opportunity, given they could control nothing of their own fate. If Arabella acquiesced, she would exist as a reflection of her future husband’s predilections. Like it or not, her name, her freedom, and her fortune belonged to her prospective husband, yet she reached for something more, if only to remind herself that she was a person with a mind and a will of her own.
“Arabella, are you ready?” Ever the consummate matriarch, Mama presented an elegant image of everything Arabella disdained: the obedient servant. “Lord Rockingham is just arrived
