Chapter 13
Rowan
Ihad never planned to be this close to Arabella—not like this, with her back warming my chest. I knew eventually there would be the matter of an heir after we were married, but I did not imagine us having a relationship that would merit sharing a horse.
My own parents were respectful and kind to each other, but it was more of mutual tolerance than affection.
I had always assumed it would be the same for me.
I never imagined this level of attraction.
Not when she drove me mad with her temper.
Yet, here I was, holding Arabella in my arms, blood pumping rapidly through my veins, and my thoughts racing just as wildly.
It felt wrong for my body to react to her when there was a strong possibility that we’d never be married.
For the last few days, I had wanted to ask about the letter I had sent her, to assure her of the sincerity of my apology, but she had avoided me at every turn.
I wanted to demand an explanation about Clodwick—force her to admit that she hadn’t any feelings for him, and that she had brought him here purely to come between us.
My own feelings felt reckless, uncontrolled, and unwarranted.
How had my life become so convoluted? Every hour I had fought the temptation to leave Elmhurst Hall forever, but this morning, it had felt too hard to continue.
There had to be another way to come up with the funds I needed.
I still had time, as I had not received any more wedding announcements from my friends.
If I only had an ounce of hope from Arabella, I would stay. But she would give me none.
I had gone for a ride to pass the time until Mr. Delafield had woken and I could say a proper goodbye.
What if I hadn’t gone riding just then? Arabella’s cry of pain and subsequent sobs still rang in my ears.
And her tears . . . my heart constricted at the thought of them.
She had always been so strong and fiery, and seeing her that way had deeply unsettled me.
“Rowan?” Arabella asked, interrupting my thoughts, her soft voice barely above a whisper. “Do you hate me?”
What a question. The apology in my letter must have been poor indeed. I cleared my throat to stall. “Hate is a strong word.”
“I know. I’ve hated you for a very long time.”
She said it so matter-of-factly and without emotion that it was hard to take offense. “I am sure you have.”
“Well? Do you hate me too?”
I had used plenty of negative adjectives in my mind to describe Arabella over the years. “To be honest, I was more annoyed than anything.”
There was silence for a few minutes; the only noise was the sound of Argent’s slow, but steady steps and the occasional birdsong until Arabella spoke again. “I’m sorry for trying your patience. I wanted very much to vex you so that you would never want to grow up to marry me.”
It was a good thing I was sitting behind her because my jaw dropped.
Had she really just apologized? Never in a million years did I imagine it possible, especially after the long days of her completely ignoring me.
I closed my mouth and forced down an awkward swallow.
“I am sorry too, for not being kinder on our visits. I could have been more patient toward you.”
Our apologies did little to dissolve the tension between us, and in a way, I felt it more acutely.
“I cannot forgive you just yet,” she whispered. “But I must admit, you were kind to me in Quillsbury, and you were a true gentleman just now. I’m not saying I will ever marry you, but I will try not to hate you so completely.”
I nodded against her head. “Fair enough.” This was the most real conversation we had had. Well, I had a few with Miss Page, but never Arabella.
We rode the rest of the way without speaking.
We were on uncertain footing, but by the time we reached Elmhurst, Arabella had begun to relax against me.
The brick wall of tension between us had narrowed considerably.
It was a far cry from friendship, but something had happened between here and Nott’s Hill.
Something that had me rethinking my decision to leave.
Could I turn an almost friendship into something more?
I liked the way Arabella felt in my arms—as any man would—but the argument from our first evening together was a vivid reminder that our past was a third player in our present act.
We weren’t passing strangers like we had been in Quillsbury.
If I had any sense, I would bow out gracefully like I’d planned before I’d set out to ride.
I directed Argent to the front door of Elmhurst and dismounted before Arabella. “Easy now,” I directed, as she slid into my arms. I had schooled my thoughts, so it was easier not to let her affect me this time.
“I can walk,” Arabella said, her tone acerbic as she pushed away from me with her good hand.
I set her down, my hands coming up to show her I meant no harm. She fisted her skirt with her good hand and rushed ahead of me.
“You’re welcome,” I muttered to her back.
I would be a fool to stay. One horse ride together wasn’t the same as waving a peace flag between us.
I followed close behind her, observing her slight limp.
I would offer my arm, but I doubted she would accept it.
She might not hate me entirely now, but she was back to the independent, headstrong woman I knew too well.
We climbed the few steps to the door, and this time, I acted without permission.
I stepped ahead and opened the door for her.
“Thank you.” She did not so much as look at me as she said it but swept past me.
The butler rounded the corner, having heard us arrive. “Send for a doctor,” I ordered. “Miss Delafield has been injured.”
“Straightaway, sir.” The butler ran down the corridor to do my bidding, and a moment later, a lanky footman burst out the door before Arabella had even reached the bottom of the staircase.
I followed behind her as she ascended, and we were not halfway to the top before the housekeeper shouted after us.
“Miss Delafield! Oh, Miss Delafield!” I let her pass me, and she whisked Arabella the rest of the way to her bedchamber.
I had not yet reached my room when I saw Mrs. Delafield and Arabella’s two sisters following the same route—the entire house on alert.
There was no need to worry for Arabella now.
She was in more capable hands than my own.
My lips drew into a crooked smile. When I had broken my leg as a child, there had not been the same level of concern.
My father guarded his emotions after Mama died, and the entire house followed suit.
I had spent much of my recovery alone in the nursery, my storybooks my only company.
Perhaps that is why I found it so terrible when I learned that Arabella did not like books.
I wondered again what had caused her to change her opinion of them.
When a maid with tufts of red hair bursting out of the top of her mobcap rushed down the corridor toward Arabella’s room, I stopped her.
This was the same maid from the bakery in Quillsbury, and I had a feeling she would do anything for her mistress.
“Pardon me, but I have a great favor to ask. Will you see that some Shrewsbury cakes are sent to Miss Delafield’s room?
She will appreciate the comfort of her favorite treat. ”
“What a kind gesture, sir,” the maid said. “Will there be anythin’ else?”
When we were children, there was nothing that Arabella devoured more than those buttery biscuits.
I was tempted to send for a small bouquet of violets, but I did not want there to be confusion behind the gesture.
Violets might be her favorite, but they also had a romantic connotation.
Arabella would hate that they had come from me, and I dared not upset her and delay her recovery.
“No, that will be sufficient,” I finally said.
The red-haired maid dipped into a quick curtsy. “I will tell the cook then, sir.”
Just as she turned away, I added, “Please, refrain from mentioning my name when they’re delivered to Miss Delafield.”
“I won’t, sir.”
I nodded and pushed my way into my room.
I wanted Arabella to enjoy her Shrewsbury cakes, and I doubted she would eat them otherwise.
In the meantime, I needed to find Hastings and tell him to start packing.
Then I would have to find Mr. Delafield.
Though, it would be harder to find the opportune time to say goodbye with everyone piled into Arabella’s bedchamber.
“Sir!”
I had almost closed the door behind me, but I pulled it open again and stuck my head out. A footman was striding toward me; this one was opposite from the runner sent for the doctor. He was stout and ruddy faced.
“A letter for you, sir.”
Likely from my father. “Thank you.” I accepted the missive and shut myself in my bedchamber to read it. He would be eager to know if the engagement was official. As his only child, I had never wanted to disappoint him, but it seemed that I must in this.
Breaking the seal, I read through the contents. It was not from my father at all, but the man I had hired to track down the Shakespeare Folios. My eyes raced down the page. He had found it! And in record time. He had found the third and rarest Folio!
My enthusiasm plummeted at the sight of the cost. The sum was more than I had in the bank. I could ask Father for an advance on my allowance, but after he learned that I had failed to engage myself to Arabella, he would see his denial as a way to teach me a lesson.