Chapter 24 #2
His expression softened, though the change did not reach his eyes. “You are gracious, even now. It is… admirable.”
Jane’s hand brushed lightly against Arabella’s sleeve—not by accident. A question, unspoken.
Arabella did not answer it.
“She is also recovering, Lord Covington,” Jane said, her tone firm enough to settle the matter. “I think she requires very little admiration at present, and rather more air.”
Cissie nodded in agreement. “We shall take her home at once.”
Covington inclined his head, acknowledging the correction without quite retreating. “Of course. Forgive me. I meant only to ensure she was not in distress.”
Arabella might have answered him then, might have dismissed his concern outright, but he spoke again before she could gather the words.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, more quietly this time.
Something in his tone stilled her.
“For my behavior,” he continued, his voice lowering further, as though the words were not meant for the others. “I spoke out of turn before. I allowed my… opinions to overshadow my regard for your well-being.”
The irritation rose almost at once, sharp enough to cut through the lingering weakness in her limbs.
“My well-being does not require your oversight,” Arabella began, the words forming more firmly than she had expected.
But as she drew breath to continue, the world tilted again.
This time it came without warning. The dizziness returned with a force that left her grasping blindly for the arm of the chair, her stomach turning in a sudden, violent wave of nausea that swallowed whatever composure she had managed to reclaim.
“Arabella,” Cissie said at once, dropping to her side.
Jane reached for her other hand. “We must take her out. Now.”
Covington stepped forward before either of them could move her, his hand hovering just short of her shoulder, uncertain whether to touch her. “Careful,” he murmured. “Do not rush her. She will faint if you move her too quickly.”
“I shall not faint,” Arabella managed, though the words sounded distant even to her own ears.
“You need not prove anything,” he replied softly.
The shopgirl returned with a damp cloth, and Cissie pressed it gently into Arabella’s hand. “Hold this,” she said. “Breathe slowly. It will pass.”
Arabella obeyed, though her focus narrowed to the simple act of remaining upright. The voices around her blurred, the edges of the room softening once more.
Somewhere close, Covington leaned in, his voice lowered to something meant for her alone.
“You should not be enduring this,” he said. “Not under such circumstances. Not with a man like—”
Arabella’s fingers tightened. Her eyes opened despite the strain. She would not hear it again—not here, not now.
But the nausea surged before she could form the words.
She turned away sharply, one hand rising to her mouth as the room seemed to drop beneath her. Cissie steadied her at once, Jane calling for assistance again, the quiet order of the shop dissolving into a low, contained urgency.
Covington’s voice returned, closer still. “Easy,” he said. “There is no need to distress yourself further. You are not alone in this. You will not be left to manage it.”
The words pressed against her without meaning. She had no strength to question them, no clarity to object. They existed only as sound—something to endure until the moment passed.
And at last, it did.
He inclined his head as though nothing of consequence had occurred. It was almost convincing.
Arabella did not look back.
That, more than anything, told her she was finished with him.
The quiet that followed felt different. Not relief—something firmer. As though the world had shifted half an inch and settled there.
She would not see him again.
By the time the carriage door closed behind her, the worst of it had subsided, though the weakness remained. Jane and Cissie sat on either side, their concern quiet but unwavering, the earlier ease of their outing replaced with something far more careful.
“You must see a physician,” Jane said once they were underway. “We cannot simply assume it is nothing.”
“It is likely the heat,” Arabella replied, though she did not sound convinced.
“Perhaps,” Cissie said. “But we shall not rely upon perhaps.”
Arabella did not argue.
The journey home passed in a blur of muted conversation and measured breathing. By the time they reached the townhouse, the familiar sight of it brought a sense of relief she had not expected.
The physician arrived within the hour.
He was an older man, composed in the manner of one who had seen every variety of distress and was not easily unsettled by any of them. He asked his questions with quiet efficiency, his tone neither overly concerned nor dismissive, as though the matter would reveal itself in due course.
Arabella answered as best she could, though her thoughts felt oddly distant, as though she were observing the exchange rather than participating in it.
When he was finished, he did not hesitate.
“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head, “there is nothing to be alarmed by. You are with child.”
The words settled into the room with a weight that felt disproportionate to their simplicity.
Jane drew in a breath, her hand lifting instinctively toward Arabella’s. Cissie went very still beside her, her gaze searching Arabella’s face for understanding.
Arabella said nothing.
She nodded because it was expected. Because there was nothing else to do.
Arrangements were made. Instructions given. The physician took his leave with assurances that all would proceed as it ought.
And then, at last, she was alone.
Poppet found her almost immediately, leaping into her lap as though nothing at all had changed. Arabella’s hands came to rest against the soft weight of her, the steady rhythm of the cat’s breathing grounding her in a way nothing else had managed.
Pregnant.
The word did not settle easily.
She had known this was the purpose of it all. The agreement had been clear from the beginning. There had been no misunderstanding in that regard.
And yet—
Maxwell had not been there to hear it.
The thought came with a strange, conflicting relief.
He would expect it. Accept it. Perhaps even welcome it as the successful conclusion of their arrangement.
And then?
Arabella’s gaze drifted toward the window, unfocused.
Their agreement had never accounted for this moment—for what came after. For what she had begun to feel.
She had intended to speak with him, to give voice to the shift that had taken place between them, but her courage faltered beneath the weight of it. The possibility of his rejection, once distant, now felt immediate and final.
She pressed her hand lightly against Poppet’s back, grounding herself in the small, familiar warmth.
There was certainty in one thing, at least.
The child.
Whatever else might come, whatever choices lay ahead, that would not change.
Her love would not be divided. It would not be withheld.
And if it meant protecting herself from what Maxwell might say—from what he might choose—
Then she would do so.
The thought formed slowly, not with drama, but with quiet clarity.
She would not wait to be dismissed.
She would not stand before him and hear that their arrangement had reached its natural end.
If there was to be an end, she would be the one to name it.
Arabella exhaled slowly, her hand stilling against Poppet’s fur.
She might tell him.
She might even give him the chance to ask her to stay.
The thought slipped in quietly—dangerous for how hopeful it felt—and she closed her eyes before it could take hold.
No.
She would speak first.