10. Chapter 9
Rowan
My ride had not been long enough to help me find purchase in my new situation at Elmhurst Hall.
Neither had dinner. How quaint of Mrs. Delafield to sit Miss Delafield between Mr. Clodwick and me.
We were a merry threesome, I assure you.
And if I dared turn from her glower to my left, I met Miss Elizabeth’s sweet look of death.
Notwithstanding Mr. Delafield’s kindness all these years, if not for the bet, I would have left already.
And if not for Mrs. Delafield’s constant compliments, I might think all the Delafield women a fearsome bunch, for even the eldest sister seemed to be shooting poisoned arrows from her eyes every time she looked at me.
I wasn’t trying to ruin their sister’s happiness, whatever they thought.
Marriage to me wasn’t the worst a woman could do—especially if Clodwick were the alternative.
I leaned slightly to my right so Miss Delafield might hear me. “Your sisters have been so welcoming. How am I deserving of such kindness?”
Miss Delafield’s smile was as fake as the waxed fruit at the center of the table. Her answer came in a hushed whisper. “Do not flatter yourself. You do not deserve anything from us.”
That much had been made perfectly clear. But I still had a bet to win, and win it I must. “Is Mr. Clodwick ill?”
Miss Delafield’s head whipped toward her other seatmate before turning back to me. “Of course not.”
“Oh.” I lifted my glass to cover my words. “So then he always looks that way.”
Her fork clanged against her plate, causing everyone’s conversations to pause and them to look her way.
She picked up her fork as if nothing had bothered her and shoved a bite in her mouth.
The conversations picked up again, and I had to stifle my laugh.
It had been rude of me, but I had been behaving well for the entire day, and it had cost me a great deal.
I was not vain about my own looks. I thought myself average enough, but I was certain I was younger and better looking than Clodwick.
What sort of name was that, anyway? A clod was a lump of earth.
I leaned forward to steal a look at him.
Indeed, a lump of earth was an adequate description.
But didn’t clod also mean abominably stupid?
I leaned forward a second time to look at him over Miss Delafield.
Mr. Clodwick cut his mashed potatoes with a knife and ate his peas by stabbing them individually with a fork to eat them one at a time.
It seemed both descriptions of the word fit the man quite perfectly.
Not to mention that I had sworn that he had thrown salt over his shoulder a moment ago.
And she had chosen him over me?
Now that was a tough bite to chew.
My irritation simmered, rising with each hour as the night progressed.
Moving to the drawing room after dinner, I sat on the end of the sofa directly across from Miss Delafield—some breathing room was needed—and had the unfortunate view of her pretty face as she pretended to be besotted with Clodwick.
He gave her one-word answers, and she pretended to be satisfied with them.
Absolute rubbish.
It did give me an adequate angle of her, and I could not help but compare this mature version of herself to the much younger one.
Her legs were still long, although she had grown into them nicely.
She was taller than average, which meant she was just two or three inches shorter than me.
And gone was her scrawny face with too many freckles.
While hints of those sun-kissed spots still existed, they enhanced her beauty rather than covered it.
If I had known that Arabella Delafield would grow into a beauty who was interested in Shakespeare’s Folios, perhaps I wouldn’t have waited for a bet to race here to marry her. Except for the fact that she was still the most vexing woman of my acquaintance.
She met my eyes at that moment and caught me staring rather unabashedly her way.
My stare only intensified, though I did not know what I meant by it.
It was hard not to admire her, even when she made me boiling mad.
Her cheeks reddened, and I would not be surprised if steam poured out of her ears like a porcelain tea kettle.
She broke the connection between us and turned more fully toward Mr. Clodwick.
Interesting. It was quite possible that she hated me more than I detested her.
Such a conclusion did not bode well. Unable to stand Arabella praising Clodwick’s name a moment longer, I excused myself for bed.
With fists clenched only marginally tighter than my jaw, I moved toward the library to select a book to help me sleep.
I was going to lose my bet, disappoint both my parents and Mr. Delafield, and lose my opportunity to purchase the third and rarest Shakespeare Folio.
But at the moment, I was most angry at the spoiled woman I was supposed to be marrying. Shoving the library door open, I stalked to the shelves and stood staring at them, unseeing a single one.
I don’t know how long I stood there, reviewing every word Arabella had spouted since she had arrived home. Arabella. And now I was thinking of her casually too. What the blazes was wrong with me?
The library door swung open, and Arabella herself stalked into the room.
She stopped in front of the shelves on the opposite side of the room from me, not seeing me at all.
Then she stood with her hand on her hips and glared at the books.
I glanced down and realized I had the exact same stance and likely the same expression of utter frustration.
It nearly made me laugh. Or it would have if I had been in a laughing mood. I dropped my hand and turned to her. “If you purchased Romeo and Juliet with the intention of burning it, please have the decency to let me buy it from you.”
Arabella startled, her hand landing on her chest. “The only thing that is going to burn is your soul.”
I balked. “For wanting to marry you? Yes, I believe it’s burning with regret already.”
She stomped across the room, stopping a few feet from me. “I meant for lying and misleading me. But I am impartial to your reasons for suffering.”
My brow furrowed. “So long as I suffer? How thoughtful.”
“Indeed. You are not a gentleman at all.”
Scoffing, I shook my head. “For the record, I did not recognize you either. Here, I thought I had helped you find happiness. How selfless of me to help my fiancée fall into the arms of another man.”
Her frown deepened. “Perhaps you are innocent about our time together in Quillsbury, but there is more fault I can lay at your feet. Selfish is you coming here with the intention of imprisoning me with your name in marriage.”
My glare deepened. “Yes, my name comes with protection, security, and position—mere trifles, of course. I would hate to sentence you to such comfort.”
“Ha! At the cost of my sanity? It does not sound like a worthwhile trade.”
My arms folded tightly across my chest. “So you threw yourself at Mr. Clodwick? How wise of you. You are sure to keep your sanity married to that one.” I watched her mouth fall open before I spun on my heel and stormed to the library door.
“Stick to your literary reviews, Mr. Ashworth,” she called after me. “Your criticisms are not wanted here.”
I let the door fall shut soundly behind me. Forget the bet. I would rather be cut off from my family and living in the poorhouse than married to a woman with such backward thinking.
She could have Clodwick. I wished her all the happiness in the world.
“I thought you had gone to bed,” Mr. Delafield said, sticking his head out of his study door. “I heard voices in the library and hoped it might be you. I would like your opinion on a few books I recently purchased.”
“Now?” I was hardly in the mood to discuss anything at present.
“There isn’t any time like the present.” He put his arm around my shoulders and steered me into his study. “How fortunate to have such a famous literary reviewer in my home.” His proud smile did me in.
I wanted to tell him that I planned to leave his home, but I was not a cruel man, and Mr. Delafield would be crushed. I had only just arrived after all this time away. Surely, I could bear a few more days of torture before I politely declined marrying his daughter and fled for my life.
I just hoped a sliver of my good sense would be intact to take home with me.