Chapter 9 #3
Devon was silent for a long moment, studying her upturned face with an intensity that made her feel as though he could see straight through to her soul.
"In ways that I am not yet prepared to fully acknowledge," he said finally. "But that does not mean I can simply pretend it never happened."
The cryptic response was both more and less than she had hoped for, and Arabella found herself struggling to interpret the complex emotions that flickered across his aristocratic features.
"What are you saying, Your Grace?"
Devon turned away from her, moving back to the window with visible agitation. "I am saying that we must establish new parameters for our relationship once more. What occurred last evening cannot be repeated, yet neither can we return to the simple employer-employee dynamic we maintained before."
"And what would you suggest?" Arabella asked, though she dreaded his answer.
"I suggest," Devon said carefully, "that we acknowledge the attraction that exists between us whilst maintaining the boundaries necessary to preserve both your reputation and my sister's welfare."
The clinical proposal made Arabella's stomach clench with a mixture of disappointment and unwilling hope. "Acknowledge it how, precisely?"
Devon's smile was sharp with self-mockery. "By ceasing to pretend that it does not exist. By accepting that we are both adults capable of managing our desires without allowing them to destroy everything we have worked to build."
"And if such management proves insufficient?" Arabella asked quietly.
Devon's hands clenched into fists at his sides, and when he spoke, his voice was rough with barely suppressed emotion. "Then we will face that challenge when it arises. But for now, we must try to find some middle ground between the impossible extremes of complete indifference and total surrender."
The pragmatic solution should have provided some measure of relief, yet Arabella found herself oddly disappointed by his determined rationality.
Some irrational part of her had hoped that their passionate encounter might have affected him as profoundly as it had her, might have made him reconsider his steadfast opposition to emotional entanglement.
"Very well," she said with careful composure. "I believe I understand your position, Your Grace."
"Do you?" Devon asked, turning back to face her with an expression that held both hope and trepidation. "Because I confess myself uncertain whether such an arrangement is actually possible. The attraction between us is... considerable."
The admission sent warmth flooding through Arabella's chest despite her determination to remain unmoved. "I am aware of that, Your Grace. I am also aware that such attractions, however powerful, need not govern our behaviour."
"Spoken like a true rationalist," Devon observed with what might have been admiration or disappointment. "I hope you are correct in that assessment."
Before Arabella could respond to this ambiguous comment, they were interrupted by a soft knock on the study door. At Devon's invitation to enter, Mrs. Henderson appeared with her usual composed efficiency.
"Forgive the interruption, Your Grace, but Mr. Whitmore has called and requests the honour of paying his respects to Miss Greystone. Shall I show him to the morning room?"
The announcement of her unwelcome suitor's arrival made Arabella's stomach clench with dread, whilst Devon's entire posture changed to one of barely suppressed hostility.
"Mr. Whitmore?" he repeated with dangerous quiet. "The gentleman who has been sending Miss Greystone flowers?"
"The same, Your Grace," Mrs. Henderson confirmed. "He appears most eager to speak with her."
"Does he indeed?" Devon's voice had dropped to that silky tone that never failed to make Arabella's pulse quicken with alarm. "How persistent of him."
"Shall I tell him Miss Greystone is not at home?" Mrs. Henderson asked with the sort of diplomatic tact that spoke to years of managing delicate social situations.
"No," Devon said before Arabella could respond. "Show him to the morning room. Miss Greystone will join him presently."
As Mrs. Henderson departed to attend to their unwelcome visitor, Devon turned to Arabella with an expression that made her heart skip several beats.
"It would seem," he said with deceptive calm, "that your admirer has decided to press his suit in person. How romantic."
The mockery in his voice was unmistakable, and Arabella felt her temper flare despite her precarious position.
"Mr. Whitmore is a respectable gentleman who has been kind enough to remember me despite my altered circumstances," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. "I can hardly refuse to receive him."
"Can you not?" Devon asked with that same dangerous quietness. "How fascinating. And tell me, Miss Greystone, do you welcome his attentions? Do you find his pursuit... gratifying?"
The jealous undertone in his voice sent an unexpected thrill through Arabella's chest, though she forced herself to maintain her composure.
"I find his persistence somewhat overwhelming," she admitted. "But I can hardly be discourteous to a gentleman who offers me the possibility of respectable marriage."
The words were barely out of her mouth before she realized their devastating impact. Devon's face went completely white, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides with barely controlled violence.
"Marriage," he repeated in a voice like winter frost. "How very practical of you."
"What else would you have me consider?" Arabella challenged, her own emotions finally breaking free of their careful restraints. "You have made it abundantly clear that you can offer me nothing but passion without permanence. At least Mr. Whitmore holds out the possibility of a respectable future."
"And if I were to forbid you to receive him?" Devon asked with silky menace. "If I were to use my influence to discourage his suit entirely?"
"Then you would prove yourself to be exactly the selfish, arrogant aristocrat that society believes you to be," Arabella replied with matching steel. "A man who would deny a woman the possibility of happiness simply because he cannot bring himself to offer her the same."
The accusation struck home with devastating accuracy, and Devon flinched as though she had struck him physically.
"You think me selfish?" he asked quietly.
"I think you are afraid," Arabella said with sudden gentleness, her anger evaporating in the face of the pain she glimpsed in his dark eyes. "Afraid to risk your heart again after whatever devastation taught you that caring leads only to loss."
Devon stared at her for a long moment, his expression cycling through surprise, pain, and something that might have been longing before settling into familiar indifference.
"Perhaps I am," he said finally. "But that does not change the reality of our situation. You are free to receive Mr. Whitmore's suit, Miss Greystone. Indeed, you are free to accept it if you find his offer sufficiently... appealing."
The careful dismissal was clearly intended to end their conversation, yet Arabella found herself unable to simply accept his withdrawal.
"And if I do accept him?" she asked quietly. "What then becomes of... us?"
Devon's smile was sharp with self-mockery. "There is no 'us,' Miss Greystone. There is merely a regrettable lapse in judgment that we have both agreed will not be repeated. Your future happiness should not be constrained by such temporary madness."
The words were like physical blows, yet Arabella forced herself to nod with apparent composure.
"I see. Then I shall go and receive Mr. Whitmore's call with proper attention to his feelings."
As she moved toward the door, Devon's voice stopped her one final time.
"Arabella?"
She paused, hope flaring briefly in her chest at the raw need in his voice.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Be happy," he said quietly, though the words seemed to cost him considerable effort. "Whatever you choose, be happy."
The gentle benediction was almost more than she could bear, and Arabella fled his study before the tears she had been holding back could finally fall.