Chapter 5 #2
Arabella looked between them, their familiar faces blurred by tears she refused to shed. She wanted to be chosen, not out of obligation, but out of genuine feeling. She wanted warmth, tenderness, affection. She wanted more than a quiet life.
She knew however, that what she wanted had never mattered less.
A knock sounded at the sitting room door. A footman entered, bowing.
“Your Ladyship,” he announced, “His Grace the Duke of Balfour has arrived. He requests a private audience with Lady Arabella.”
Eliza’s eyes widened. Edmund straightened, shoulders taut.
Arabella’s pulse fluttered, quick and uneven. “Now?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Eliza squeezed her hands. “Be brave.”
“And be honest,” Edmund added quietly.
Arabella drew a steadying breath. She did not feel ready. Not for him, not for the impending conversation, nor for the future poised to swallow her whole.
But readiness had never been an option.
“Very well,” she said, standing. “Show him in.”
She had barely regained her balance, emotional or otherwise, when the footman returned and bowed once more.
“His Grace,” he announced, and stepped aside.
The Duke of Balfour crossed the threshold.
For a moment, Arabella could not breathe. He cut a striking figure in the morning light; tall, composed, dressed in a perfectly tailored bottle-green day coat that set off the stark severity of his features.
Nothing about him hinted at the disorder of the night before. He looked as though he had stepped straight from marble into flesh: disciplined, remote, carved along clean, unforgiving lines.
Only his eyes betrayed the faintest flicker of humanity—storm-gray and unreadable, skimming over her face before settling somewhere just above her shoulder, as though bracing for impact.
That, somehow, stung more than if he had glared.
“Lady Arabella,” he said with a formal bow.
“Your Grace.” Her voice was polite, steady, even though her heart fluttered wildly against her ribs.
Edmund and Eliza rose, offering him curt bows and curtsies. The duke returned them with impeccable courtesy, but his focus was clearly on Arabella.
“I would speak with Lady Arabella alone,” he said.
A simple sentence, delivered without force… yet somehow the room seemed to shift beneath it.
Eliza darted her a quick, reassuring look. Edmund gave a small nod, though tension tightened his jaw. Then, after a few murmured excuses, they slipped out, and the door clicked softly behind them.
The silence that followed felt startlingly loud.
Arabella clasped her hands in front of her, holding herself still. “Please sit, Your Grace.”
He hesitated, as if unused to being offered hospitality instead of obedience, then lowered himself into the chair Edmund had vacated. She took the sofa opposite. The modest distance between them felt like a chasm.
He studied her for a moment. Not rudely. Not boldly. But with the quiet seriousness of a man accustomed to assessing responsibilities rather than people.
“I wished to speak before arrangements proceeded too far,” he began. “Last night… the circumstances were unfortunate. I do not deny it.”
Unfortunate. As though she had simply spilled tea on his boots.
Arabella folded her hands tighter. “Yes. They were.”
He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her tone without rebuke. “I do not wish you to think me careless with your future, Lady Arabella. What happened in the gardens could not be undone. The gossip was instantaneous and unavoidable. I acted to prevent further harm.”
“Harm?” she echoed. “To whom?”
His eyes flickered. “To you, of course.”
“And to you?” she pressed.
A beat of silence. He did not answer. That was answer enough.
She looked away, heat prickling the back of her eyes. “I see.”
He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped. “I did not intend to force your hand.”
“You did force my hand,” she said softly. “You forced my father’s, too. And perhaps you did not consider it, Your Grace, but a marriage is not some trivial matter. And now my entire life seems to be decided without any consultation from me.”
His brows drew together, but not in anger. Rather in something like discomfort. “I did consider it. More seriously than I have considered anything in years. It was never my intention to deny you a voice.”
“But you did,” she murmured.
He went on, his tone grave, almost formal. “I assure you, Lady Arabella, a duel with your father—and the blood that might have been spilled because of it—would have been a far graver outcome than a marriage to me. This match… prevented disaster, not caused it.”
Her lips parted, but no words emerged. The truth of it, terrible and sobering, settled between them.
He let out a slow breath, the tension along his shoulders easing only a fraction.
“I do not expect you to be grateful for circumstances you did not choose. But believe this, if nothing else: I did not seek to rob you of a voice. I sought only to spare you the worst.”
She looked down at her hands, fingers twisting in her lap. “And yet,” she murmured, “it feels as though every choice has already been decided for me.”
“Then allow me to begin making room for your choices.”
Her eyes snapped to his. He held her gaze for the first time since entering the room.
“I assure you,” he continued, “that I will make you a good husband. I can offer you security. A stable home. A partnership based on mutual respect. I will be dutiful and loyal. You will not want for anything under my protection.”
Arabella stared at him. He spoke the words like an oath: steady, solemn, certain. Most women would swoon at such assurances. Many would hear the promise of comfort and be grateful.
But Arabella was not most women.
“I do not want a husband out of duty,” she whispered. “I want… affection. Fondness. I want someone who cares for me.”
Something unreadable passed across his face; a flicker of something that looked almost like pain, quickly smothered.
“You desire love,” he said, not unkindly.
“Yes.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Love is… unreliable.”
“To you,” she said gently. “Not to everyone.”
“A marriage built on love is a fragile thing,” he replied. “It is easily shattered. It demands… too much. Far too much.”
She heard the grief under his words even if he did not name it.
“Your Grace,” she said softly, “a marriage without love demands something, too. Loneliness.”
His gaze sharpened. Not cruel. Not cold. Simply… honest.
“Lady Arabella,” he said, “love is not something I can promise. Nor is it something I believe I will ever feel again.”
The quiet admission struck her with surprising force. Not because it was unexpected—Edmund had warned her—but because he said it so matter-of-factly, as though it were a truth he had accepted long ago.
She folded her hands tighter to hide their tremble. “Do you feel nothing? Truly nothing?”
His jaw tightened. “Feelings,” he said, “have a way of eroding sound decisions. I have learned their cost.” His throat worked once. “I will not pretend otherwise for your sake.”
Her heart sank.
“Why should I agree?” she asked. “And why should you wish a wife you did not choose? There must be something you stand to gain.”
He hesitated. For the first time, she saw uncertainty flicker across his features; a man accustomed to control, suddenly forced to tread carefully.
“It is not only your future at stake,” he said at last. “A duke requires a household run properly. An estate requires a mistress. My tenants rely upon stability. My title upon an heir.” He paused, the words seeming to cost him something. “I did not come to London seeking affection. Only order.”
It was not quite a confession. Not quite a deflection. A truth wrapped carefully in duty.
He looked at her fully now. “But more than that… I would not see you suffer needlessly. London shows no mercy when it scents scandal. I can at least offer you safety.”
“I will not be a romantic husband,” he added quietly. “But I can be a good one.”
Her throat tightened painfully. She felt the future narrowing before her—the choices dwindling until only two remained. Ruin… or this solemn, honorable man who could offer everything except the one thing she wanted most.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, with a breath that felt heavier than any she had taken before, she nodded once.
“Very well,” she whispered. “I will marry you.”
His shoulders lowered so subtly she almost missed it. Relief? Or resignation? She could not tell.
He rose from his chair and bowed. “Thank you, Lady Arabella. I will speak with your father to finalize the details.”
She remained seated, her hands folded tightly together, as though holding herself in place.
At the door, he paused.
“You will be well cared for,” he said softly.
She lifted her gaze. “And you, Your Grace? Will you be well?”
A flicker. A shadow. A truth unspoken.
“I am accustomed to what I am,” he said simply. “Do not concern yourself.”
And then he was gone.
Arabella sat alone in the quiet room, the echo of his words lingering like a draft.
She would be Duchess of Balfour.
But she could not shake the sinking feeling that she had just stepped into a life where her heart would forever be reaching for something he refused to touch.