Chapter 5
Morning light crept slowly across Arabella’s bedroom, pale and cautious, as though even the sun feared disturbing the quiet misery that had settled over the house.
She had not slept more than an hour. Her head ached, her eyes burned, and yet she sat before her writing desk as though stillness alone could sort the chaos inside her.
The quill lay untouched beside a blank sheet of vellum, but her fingers could not seem to grasp it.
Her mind replayed the night in relentless fragments.
The shocking plunge into the lake. The crush of cold water dragging her down. The duke’s hands—strong, unyielding—hauling her back to the surface. Lanterns flaring on the shore. Her mother’s gasp. Her father’s thunderous outrage.
And Balfour’s voice, calm and implacable, declaring their marriage as though it were a simple matter of logistics rather than the dismantling of her entire life.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again… the way he had looked at her in that moment. Steady. Remote. Unmoved by her protests. No hesitation. No mercy. Just a pronouncement delivered with the weight of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
She pressed her palms over her face, as if she could blot out the memory. It lingered anyway.
“Arabella, do not sit hunched over like that. It is unbecoming.”
Her mother’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Arabella straightened at once, heat rushing to her cheeks, though she had no reason to feel ashamed. When she turned, she found both her parents standing in the doorway… silent, expectant, and already poised to scold.
The chamber, though perfectly spacious, suddenly felt suffocating.
“I wish to discuss what happened last night,” Arabella said quickly, rising before they could speak first. “Properly. Without shouting or… sweeping declarations.”
Her father’s brows rose with quiet incredulity. “There is nothing further to discuss.”
“There is everything to discuss.” Her hands curled at her sides. “I fell. That is all. His Grace helped me out of the water because any decent man would have done so.”
Lady Brentwood let out a theatrical sigh and pressed a hand to her forehead. “Arabella, please. Let us at least attempt to cling to dignity, if not sense.”
“It is the truth,” Arabella insisted, her voice tightening as frustration stung her throat. “I was not compromised. Nothing improper happened. I simply slipped.”
Her father’s gaze softened a fraction, but the set of his jaw made the outcome clear long before he spoke. “You were soaked to the skin, unchaperoned, alone beside a lake with a man, and then discovered in his coat. The situation speaks for itself.”
“Then it speaks wrongly,” she whispered, unable to keep the ache from her voice.
Her mother swept into the room, skirts rustling. “Whether it does or not is irrelevant. The ton saw you. Their judgment will not be swayed by explanations. And a duke—a duke, Arabella—has offered marriage.”
“He did not offer,” she protested. “He announced it as if I had no say.”
“Do not be dramatic,” Lady Brentwood snapped. “You should be grateful. Most young women spend Seasons praying for such an opportunity.”
Arabella’s breath caught. “Is that all marriage is to you? An opportunity?”
“To secure your future,” her mother corrected.
“And after last night, this is the only respectable future left to you.” She lifted her chin, a faint edge of triumph threading through her composure.
“Let us be grateful, at least, that it was a duke who pulled you from that lake. Had it been a footman—or heaven forbid, a stable boy—your prospects would be quite beyond salvation.”
The words landed heavily, knotted with disappointment and resignation. Her father stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Arabella, we are not your enemies. We want what is best for you, especially now. You will marry the Duke of Balfour. The matter is decided.”
For a moment she could not speak. Her lungs felt too tight, her pulse too loud. When she finally found her voice, it wavered with the strain of holding herself together.
“I do not love him,” she said softly. “I do not even like him.”
Her father sighed, tired and immovable. “Love can grow.”
“It should not have to,” she murmured.
Her mother shook her head, clearly out of patience. “Enough. You will conduct yourself with dignity today. His Grace will call, as promised, and you will receive him without complaint.”
Arabella sank back into her chair after they left, fighting the urge to cry. She had not cried in years.
Not over disappointment, not over heartbreak, not over anything. She had always believed a sensible mind could overcome a sorrowful heart. But right at that moment, the sorrow felt larger than sense.
She needed air, company, reassurance. Anything to remind her that her life was still her own.
A knock sounded at her door.
Eliza swept in without waiting for permission, her dark curls bouncing, her expression alight with concern. “Arabella,” she breathed, closing the door firmly behind her. “I heard everything.”
Arabella tried to smile, though it faltered. “Of course you did. The entire ton likely heard it by dawn.”
“Indeed they did,” Eliza replied grimly. She crossed to the window, then paced back again, her hands fluttering with agitation. “You are the subject of every breakfast table conversation. And it seems several of our beloved matrons have already rescinded invitations to their soirées.”
Arabella’s stomach dropped. “Already?”
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Havisham, Lady Tierney, the Countess of Whitcombe…” Eliza ticked each name off on her fingers, indignation rising with each one. “And Lady Grafton, who had the audacity to inform my mother that she fears ‘impressionable young ladies’ might be corrupted by your presence.”
Arabella closed her eyes.
Eliza softened instantly. She hurried to her side and took her hands.
“You know I do not care about their opinions. But their collective cruelty is… persuasive. If you refuse Balfour, they will not forgive you. They will tear your reputation to ribbons. You would be shut out of every drawing room in London.”
Arabella knew it. She had known it the moment she saw the shock on those ladies’ faces, their fans snapping open like shields as they whispered behind the rims of scented teacups.
It did not matter that she had slipped on wet boards. It did not matter that she had been dragged half-conscious from icy water. A single compromising tableau carried more power than truth ever could.
Still, knowing did not make it easier.
She rose unsteadily from the chair. “Let us go to the sitting room. I need… somewhere larger than this.” And perhaps somewhere where the walls did not feel like onlookers themselves.
Eliza looped their arms together, and the two made their way down the small corridor to Arabella’s private sitting room. The fire there had been laid but not lit.
Morning light filtered through pale curtains, softening the space into something gentler, less suffocating than her chamber.
They had barely taken their seats when another knock sounded. It was lighter than Eliza’s, and hesitant.
“Enter,” Arabella called.
Edmund stepped into the room, his expression a mixture of worry, sympathy, and brotherly protectiveness. The sight of him unraveled the last threads of her composure.
“Eliza told you,” he said, closing the door behind him.
Arabella nodded, sinking into the nearest settee. “Apparently I am already half-ruined.”
“Nonsense,” Edmund said firmly, though the grim pinch around his eyes betrayed his concern. “You are not ruined. You are merely… excessively discussed.”
“That is not remotely comforting.”
He attempted a smile, but it faltered at the edges. “No, I suppose it isn’t. But it is the truth.” He settled onto a chair opposite her, clasping his hands. There was a heaviness in his posture that made her chest tighten.
“What is it?” she asked.
He hesitated, then said quietly, “I went to see Ewan last night.”
Arabella’s head snapped up. “You did what?”
“Someone needed to speak to him,” Edmund said. “I wanted to understand what sort of man he is now. We were close, once.”
“Before his marriage,” Eliza supplied gently.
Edmund nodded. “Yes. Before Anne-Marie.”
Arabella exhaled slowly. “What was she like?”
A complicated shift crossed Edmund’s face; nostalgia shadowed with discomfort. “She was extraordinarily beautiful. One of the most celebrated women of her time. Sharp-minded. Sharper-tongued. Not easy to love, but Ewan…” His voice softened. “He adored her. Completely.”
“And she returned it?” Arabella asked.
Edmund’s silence stretched. It said more than words could. At length he said, “Not always. She battled… many demons. But he loved her fiercely. More than I have ever seen a man love anyone.”
The ache beneath Arabella’s ribs deepened. She had dreamed of that kind of love since childhood… letters tucked into books, vows whispered in secret gardens, the sort of devotion that existed in stories, not drawing rooms.
“And do you think,” she asked softly, “that he could ever feel such a thing again?”
“No,” Eliza said immediately.
“Yes,” Edmund said at the same time.
They glared at one another.
Arabella pressed her fingers to her temples. “My counsel is wonderfully consistent.”
Edmund sighed. “I do not know if he can love again, but I think he can. Anne-Marie’s death devastated him. He has not been the same man.”
“Then why,” Arabella whispered, “should I marry him?”
“Because the alternative would destroy you,” Edmund said gently. “The scandal would be relentless. You would be shut out of the ton entirely. And… I believe he would treat you with respect. Perhaps even fondness in time. Yours could be a peaceful marriage.”
“But not a love match.” The words tasted hollow.
Eliza squeezed Arabella’s hand. “You want the love found in novels. I understand. I want it too. But it is rarely offered in life, and never by society.”