Chapter 7
SEVEN
ARABELLA
There was a knock on the bedroom door just as Arabella’s maid put the finishing touches on her hair the next evening. The door opened, and Felicity’s head peeked in.
“Finished?” she asked.
“Nearly,” Arabella replied. “Am I late?”
“No.” Felicity closed the door behind her and came to sit on Arabella’s bed. She looked particularly beautiful this evening, despite the fact that they were spending it at home.
Arabella thanked and excused her maid, then opened the jewelry box on the dressing table, glancing at its contents. Her mind went to the butterfly bracelet Mr. Hayes had purchased, and she felt a flash of regret and guilt—regret for not accepting it and guilt for seeming ungrateful as a result.
She was simply unaccustomed to navigating interactions with young gentlemen.
“I just spoke with Mama,” Felicity said, “and she informed me that Benedict and the others are joining us for dinner.”
Arabella’s gaze snapped to her cousin’s through the mirror, her heart skipping a beat. “The others?”
“Mr. Drake, Mr. Yorke, and Mr. Hayes, of course. Benedict was complaining about the quality of food from their kitchen the other day, you know, and Mama was so taken with Mr. Yorke and Mr. Hayes yesterday that she sent one of the footmen over with a message inviting them.”
“And they accepted?”
Felicity laughed. “Of course they did.” Her eyes fixed on Arabella’s, her smile perceptive. “You and Mr. Hayes spent a great deal of time conversing at the market yesterday.”
Arabella broke her gaze away and selected a necklace from the box, focusing all her attention on fixing the clasp behind her neck, though it reminded her of doing the same with the bracelet around Mr. Hayes’s wrist. “He was very attentive.”
“And…”
“And kind,” Arabella said, her fingers fumbling with the clasp.
Felicity stood and came up behind Arabella, taking the ends of the necklace and securing it with ease. She smiled at her through the mirror. “Do you fancy him?”
Arabella’s cheeks grew warm, and she turned away, smoothing her skirts. “I hardly know him.”
“That is precisely when one fancies a gentleman, Bella.” Felicity took her by the hands and pulled her up.
“There is no shame in it. I am sure I have fancied two dozen men since I first came to London. It makes the Season so much more enjoyable when one can look forward to seeing a particular face at parties and engaging in a bit of flirtation.” She clasped Arabella’s hands more tightly and smiled.
“Mr. Hayes seems just the right sort of man for it. Handsome, amusing, easy to converse with.”
“Felicity,” Arabella said, her cheeks burning like a winter fire, “I am not here to pursue courtship.”
“Courtship? We are speaking of harmless flirtation. Or do you mean to say that you feel more for Mr. Hayes?”
“No, no,” Arabella hurried to say, embarrassed at her own naivety.
The truth was, she didn’t know how she felt.
She simply hadn’t the experience to describe it.
She certainly felt an affinity for him, but she could not confidently say anything beyond that.
“I merely do not wish for Papa to disapprove of my actions.”
“And he shan’t,” Felicity reassured her.
“Your father would not consider Mr. Hayes an eligible prospect as a husband for his treasured eldest daughter, but I imagine Mr. Hayes knows that as well as you and I do. That is when flirtation is safest—when both parties understand that flirtation is all it ever can be. If you come to doubt that with Mr. Hayes, you know it is time to put an end to things.” She shrugged. “It is as easy as that.”
Arabella let out a breath. “As easy as that.”
“Come,” Felicity said. “Let us go downstairs.”
Arabella hardly knew what to hope for as they did so. She did not wish to put an end to things with Mr. Hayes, for she enjoyed his company and found conversation with him interesting and enlivening.
But Felicity was right—Papa would not approve of Mr. Hayes as a marriage prospect.
Arabella had been raised with the knowledge that when she married, it would be to a man of Papa’s choice, and that man would be titled or wealthy—likely both.
Mr. Hayes was genteel, but he was not titled, and there was nothing to give Arabella to think him possessed of the sort of wealth Papa would expect.
Papa had always sought the very best for her, and marriage would be no different.
But did she hope, then, that Mr. Hayes merely saw her as a way to pass the time in Town? As an entertainment, much like Vauxhall or the opera?
Felicity might be content with such a thing, but Arabella found it a lowering prospect.
Perhaps what she wanted was a friend.
And perhaps it was naught but the novelty of having a new one that made her heart skip when Mr. Hayes arrived and then again when he smiled at her and bowed.
Whatever it was, Felicity seemed to have full confidence in Arabella’s ability to manage a flirtation with him, for she arranged it so that he and Arabella were seated beside one another during the meal.
Mr. Hayes assisted Arabella into her chair. “I have been anxious to see you, Miss Easton,” he said as he took the seat beside her.
Her heart flipped. “You have?”
He nodded. “I have come to rely upon you to tell me what I am—a husband, then a liar and a coward—and not having seen you, I had no choice but to continue being a liar and a coward. I find myself eager for a new role, so I trust you will tell me what I am today.” He shook out his wrists and set them on the table.
Something glinted, and Arabella searched for the source until her eyes caught on it: the butterfly pendant, hanging from the chain around Mr. Hayes’s wrist.
Her gaze flicked to his, which was entirely somber, belied only by the barest twinkle in his eye.
Arabella pulled at the fingers of her gloves to remove them. “Happily for you, I know precisely what you are today.”
He shifted toward her with interest. “And what, pray, is that?”
She set her gloves on her lap and met his eye. “An incorrigible tease.”
The edge of his mouth quirked up. “I think you will find me quite corrigible.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the placing of the food on the table, and Arabella’s mind was caught up trying to determine what Mr. Hayes’s intentions were. He certainly enjoyed teasing her, which seemed to confirm Felicity’s assertion that it was entertainment he sought.
Arabella disliked the way the thought bothered her.
“Take care,” Arabella said as he served her a helping of green beans, “or you will sully your bracelet.”
“It is not my bracelet,” he said. “It is yours. I am merely caring for it until you wish for it.”
She admired the piece of jewelry, which she liked even better than she had remembered. It was uncanny how well it matched her masquerade costume.
“Are you still pleased with your purchases from the market?” he asked.
“Quite,” she said, leaving thoughts of the bracelet aside. “I have begun working on the designs.”
“You design your own gowns?” he asked.
“I have done so for years.”
“Did you design that one?” He indicated the dress she was wearing with a nod. It was made of silk—a dusky rose with small pearls adorning the neckline and matching the earrings and necklace she wore.
“I did.”
His eyes ran over the dress, patent admiration in them. “You have considerable talent, Miss Easton.”
A flush of pleasure coursed through her, warming her cheeks and her chest. “Thank you. It is easy to make beautiful garments with beautiful fabrics, and I have been fortunate to have had access all my life.”
“And how comes that to be?”
“My father deals in textile imports.”
His brows rose. “And do you guide him in this endeavor?” He asked the question as though it was the most natural thing in the world that a daughter would advise her father on such matters.
She doubted Papa would agree. He did not solicit her opinion—indeed, he rarely spoke to her regarding matters of business.
“Given the keen eye you have for fashion,” he clarified after her silence, “it would seem a great waste of talent if you did not.”
“That is kind of you.” She hesitated, glancing at him from the corner of her eye as she stabbed a green bean on the outer point of her fork.
She had never spoken the desire she harbored, but given what Mr. Hayes had just said, he seemed a safe recipient of her confession.
“I have often thought it would be enjoyable to curate the pieces on display in the shop Papa owns.”
“And what is preventing you from doing so?”
She searched his face, then turned back to her food. “Papa would not approve.”
Mr. Hayes watched her for a moment. “Have you put the question to him?”
“No,” she admitted.
He returned to cutting his potatoes. “Perhaps you should. Life is too short to let important questions remain unasked.”
Important questions. He thought her desire to curate the window display of Papa’s shop important. Not silly or improper.
Papa was a talented businessman, and he had his hand in many a pie, but he was also conscious of what was owed his dignity, which meant that some of those endeavors—the shop, for instance—required a certain degree of distance to avoid sullying the family name.
But it was not as though Arabella wished to work in the shop herself. She would simply design the window display. What harm was there in that?
“Is that a bracelet you are wearing, Mr. Hayes?” Felicity craned her neck for a better view.
Arabella’s eyes widened, but Mr. Hayes lifted his wrist without the least bit of embarrassment. “It is. It belongs to a friend.”
Heat crept up Arabella’s neck, and she forced her gaze to her food.
Felicity squinted and leaned forward for a better view. “It is a butterfly! It is very beautiful. Do you not agree, Bella?”
The pointed question was not lost upon her, and Arabella glanced reluctantly at the bracelet. “It is very pretty.” She turned to Mr. Drake on the other side of her, leaving Mr. Hayes to speak with her aunt.