“Of course, Mama.” While Arabella dearly loved her mother, she never understood how anyone could willingly settle for the trifling world, comprised of naught more challenging than the daily selection of perfume and petticoats and a marriage brokered for financial gain and to strengthen political connections. With one last check of her appearance in the long mirror, she smoothed her skirts and squared her shoulders. “Let us commence the negotiations.”
Riding a crest of high dudgeon, she skimmed her palm along the polished balustrade as she descended the staircase. In the foyer, her father lingered with another gentleman, tall and distinguished.
“Ah, here she is, my pride and joy.” Papa drew her to his side. “Your Grace, may I present my daughter, Lady Arabella.” Then he gazed on her with unveiled delight, and she basked in his approval, because she loved her father. “Arabella, this is His Grace, Walter Bartlett, the Duke of Swanborough.”
“Your Grace.” As she had practiced countless times, she executed a perfect curtsey, but she would have preferred to fall on her face.
“It is a pleasure, Lady Arabella.” The duke smiled as he assessed her from top to toe. She swallowed the urge to bare her teeth, like a mare at Tattersalls, for his inspection. “My, but she is a pretty little thing, Arthur. Perhaps she will inspire my son to rejoin the world.”
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt.” Papa hugged his belly and laughed. “And to be that young again.”
Arabella quickly lowered her eyes, clenching her fists in the folds of her skirt. How she hated being spoken about as if she were invisible, or worse yet, mindless. Of course, most men treated women as such, and she aimed to change that, starting with her prospective groom.
“Arabella.” Mama snapped her fingers. “Stop dawdling, because Lord Rockingham awaits.”
With determination as a shield, Arabella inhaled a calming breath. Summoning patience, she marched into the fray. In the drawing room, a lone figure manifested an ominous specter of an unwelcome fate, and he turned on a heel when she paused at center. Before Papa could make the introductions, the tall, brown-haired stranger bowed.
“Lady Arabella, it is an honor.” She liked the sound of that. “I am Anthony, the Marquess of Rockingham.”
Impressive in stature, garbed in black breeches, a burgundy waistcoat trimmed in old gold, and a stunning coat of grey Bath superfine, with a crisp cravat and polished Hessians completing the ensemble, Anthony possessed a handsome profile which bore patrician features similar to his father’s. Any woman, except Arabella, would have been thrilled to call him hers.
But it was what he lacked that snared her attention, and she blurted, “Why, you are missing an arm.”
“Arabella.” With a sharp expression of disapproval, Papa clapped once, and she flinched. “Apologize.”
“I am so sorry, Lord Rockingham.” In her unintended blunder, had she undermined her position of authority prior to declaring her stance? “I meant no offense, but you startled me.”
“No apologies necessary, because you are very observant.” He smiled, revealing the hint of a dimple to the left of his mouth. Then he glanced at Papa and the duke. “Given our fast approaching nuptials, might I beg a moment in private with my fiancée, because I have not seen her since she was a girl of five?”
“Not without a chaperone, Lord Rockingham.” Mama wagged a finger, as if the marquess were a naughty child. “After all, we must preserve Arabella’s reputation until the vows are secured.”
“But I can occupy the chair, and Lord Rockingham can sit on the sofa, Mama,” Arabella stated with confidence and peered at her adversary. To her surprise, he favored her with a mischievous grin. Perhaps she found an ally, and how she needed one. “You do not suspect His Lordship will accost me with a table situated between us.” Then she glanced at her father, to make a second appeal. Rocking on her heels, she lowered her chin and pouted, given he never could deny her. “What say you, Papa, if I promise to be good?”
“In normal circumstances, I would agree with Helen.” Father appeared to give the request due consideration. “However, inasmuch we are to be family, we can make an exception and dispense with the usual proprieties, because we are not in public. To satisfy the feminine sensibilities, we will leave the doors open, and Helen can sit in the foyer.” To the duke, Papa said, “I trust Anthony will behave like a gentleman?”
“Of course.” His Grace chucked Father on the shoulder in a surprising display of amity, and she realized that, with or without her consent, her path was set. “Let us adjourn to the study, fix a date for the ceremony, review the contracts, and enjoy a celebratory brandy.”
Thus she marched to her demise.
Alone, to a degree, with her opponent, Arabella perched on her makeshift throne and girded her defenses. Recalling her rehearsed oratory, she cleared her throat. “Lord Rockingham, while I am grateful that you deem me worthy of—”
“Lady Arabella, I cannot marry you.” And just like that, Anthony stole the wind from her sails, yet his interests aligned perfectly with hers.
“I b-beg your pardon?” The man was not what she expected. Was it possible her prayers had been heard, and fate delivered a supporter? “Am I dreaming, or did you just declare your opposition to our union?”
“Believe me, I have no wish to cause offense, but I simply cannot abide by the terms of the pact between our two houses.” Nervousness apparent, his fingers shook as he wiped his brow and scooted to the edge of his seat. “Given my appearance, I think it obvious I am unfit to assume the responsibilities of a husband and a father.”
“Given your appearance?” Repeating the phrase in her mind, she canted her head and scrutinized him for some additional deficiency. “I don’t follow. What else is wrong with you?” Indeed, he retained two eyes, a nose, fascinating lips, and
