Chapter 2
“Milord, are you intending to go down to dinner tonight?”
Max turned at the diffident tone of his borrowed valet. He grunted. “Did you say something, Milton?” he asked.
His young manservant reddened as he hovered by the fresh set of clothes laid out on his master’s bed. “It’s just that the dinner hour is nearly upon us and you…”
But of course Milton could not put into words what he really meant, which was that Max had been standing immobile for at least five minutes staring at…
Well, he didn’t really know what he had been staring at nor what he’d been thinking of.
No, that wasn’t true. He had been thinking of a pair of cornflower blue eyes staring lovingly at him. He had been thinking of soft white hands gently cupping his cheeks. He had been thinking of delicious, yielding lips flowering against his own.
And then Milton had broken the spell, and all he could think of was the piercing pain of discovering he had been hoodwinked.
Hoodwinked by a beauty who had pretended to love and adore him. Hoodwinked by a woman who’d insinuated those soft white hands into his chest cavity and slowly eviscerated his heart.
Because she had never loved him. No, she was interested only in wealth, comfort, prestige and a title.
A week before their wedding, the beautiful woman he had loved—and whom he had thought loved him—had broken off their betrothal.
In fact, she’d not even had the courage to tell him to his face that she was severing all ties with him before she had made off with a very plump-in-the-pocket viscount, who had made her Lady Lushington.
And Max’s world as he knew it had imploded.
So affected was he that he had been unable to remain in the country.
After realising that Arabella was not coming back to him; in fact, the day after her marriage to Lord Lushington when he finally accepted it was, indeed, a fait accompli , Nicholas had set sail to the continent, where he had remained for four years until he finally believed he was over his heartbreak.
He had returned to England this last week, and his first social engagement was to spend a week as a houseguest of the Earl of Quamby—whose godson he was—and the earl’s beautiful, scandalous wife, Antoinette.
He’d been looking forward to re-entering the social whirl.
In fact, Nicholas had been so sure he was over his heartbreak that he’d even entertained the idea with good grace when, within minutes of him crossing the threshold, Lady Quamby had impishly promised to find him a lovely debutante for a wife.
Max was not sure if Lady Quamby had any idea of his past amours. And nor did he intend to apprise her of the pain he’d left England to cauterize. Or that he’d returned to England with the express intention of starting with a clean slate.
And now this?—
“Well, that is, my lord, if you do intend to go down to dinner, perhaps you might let me dress you.” Milton held up his clean shirt and took a threatening step forward.
At least that was how Max regarded anyone insinuating that he must go down and face the woman who’d ruined his life and ensured he would never trust love again.
The clock chiming quarter to the hour galvanised Nicholas into action. The truth was, he had no choice about it. Good manners required him to sit down with his hosts.
But that didn’t mean he needed to even speak to Arabella.
In fact, he would do everything in his power to avoid doing so.
Arabella stared at the two beautiful gowns that her maid, Sarah, was holding up while she asked, “M’Lady, will you wear the burgundy velvet or the Pomona green to dinner?”
She tried to make some rational response, but words failed her. How could she think of anything except getting out of here? Escaping Quamby House.
But how could she think of anything except the effect Nicholas’s cold, icy stare had upon her dangerously susceptible heart? She closed her eyes and tried not to reveal the extent of her trembling to Sarah.
No, she must leave at the earliest opportunity. If it were at all possible, she would leave before she even had to speak to Nicholas. Clearly, he believed the worst.
And there was no way for her to clear her name. So what point was there in suffering the pain of knowing she would never find happiness in his arms again?
“I think my travel clothes and my warm cloak and boots are what I really need,” she said, moving to the window and staring out at the black sky.
The snow continued to fall in thick, relentless sheets, blanketing the landscape in pristine white that seemed to mock the darkness churning within her heart.
Against the windowpane, flakes gathered like tiny stars, beautiful yet imprisoning.
“When we set out, I had hoped to reach Lushington Hall tonight, Sarah. And there are at least three or four hours’ travel. How can I possibly remain here?”
Sarah sighed. “How can you not, milady? The carriage is still out there in the snow and not yet fixed.”
“Of course I must stay here tonight, but tomorrow I must discover a way of reaching Lushington Hall before my brother presents to the authorities whatever this so-called evidence is that he believes will entirely clear his name. If he could just have let sleeping dogs lie.”
Sarah’s brow furrowed with worry as she set down the gowns. “But, milady, surely, if you got word to him and explained what you’ve done on his behalf, he’d drop it.”
“That’s if I only knew where to find him.
” Arabella sighed. “No, I’ve decided the safest plan is to get to Lushington Hall as quickly as I can so that I can destroy every document and piece of evidence my late husband compiled against me.
” Arabella’s voice trailed off. Sarah knew what was at stake.
She knew the full extent of her mistress’s crimes.
“Very well, milady. But for tonight, you must dress for dinner. The Pomona green, perhaps? It is very fine.”
Arabella nodded absently, allowing Sarah to help her into the elegant silk gown with its delicate embroidered trim.
Catching sight of herself in the looking glass, as her maid fastened the tiny pearl buttons, Arabella could not reconcile the image.
The woman staring back appeared composed, aristocratic, every inch the refined widow.
If only they could see the tempest raging beneath her calm exterior.
“There now, milady. You look beautiful.”
Beautiful perhaps, but doomed. Arabella touched the pearl necklace at her throat—one of the few pieces of her mother’s jewellery she had not sold to help James.
“Read, m’lady?” Sarah gave her mistress a short, bolstering smile and, with a steadying breath, Arabella set off through the corridors of Quamby House, the sounds of conversation and laughter drifting from the dining room below.
At the threshold, she paused, her hand resting on the doorframe as she gathered her courage. The warm glow of candlelight spilled into the hallway, along with the cheerful chatter of the other guests. And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, her gaze found him immediately.
Nicholas stood near the fireplace, devastatingly handsome in his black evening clothes, his dark hair catching the golden light from the wall sconces.
For one breathless moment, their eyes met across the room, and her treacherous heart betrayed her yet again, leaping with the same wild joy it had known five years ago.
But his expression remained coldly impassive, those beloved brown eyes now hard as winter earth. The love that had once blazed there had been extinguished, replaced by something far more painful to witness: complete indifference.
Arabella gripped the doorframe tighter, acknowledging the bitter truth that had haunted her for five long years. Their love was doomed, had always been doomed, and tonight would likely be the last time she would ever look upon his face.