Chapter Five
Arden slept terribly. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Arabella as she was five years before: a girl who’d held his future in her hands.
Or else he saw Arabella—or whatever her name really was—as she was now: a stranger, colder than the streets of Strall in winter. He tossed and turned through the night.
In flashes of dreams that plagued him in the rare moments he found sleep, he was back in Strall in that other lifetime, the scent of lemons in the air and her laugh in his ears.
Even in sleep, he could feel the warmth of her body flush against his as they rode his horse through the park, her back fit snugly to his chest as she squealed with untempered delight.
He could taste the skin of her throat where he brushed heated kisses against her pulse when they’d stolen a moment in a deserted hallway at the Rutherford ball, feeling how the rhythm of it was synchronized with his own.
His body, at least, didn’t care about honesty or deception—it wanted her all the same no matter what lies she told or what name she called herself.
His body craved her, and having her so close to him again last night had been the equivalent of waving a dram of fine whiskey beneath the nose of a recovering lush.
By the time he dragged himself downstairs, dressed in a freshly pressed linen suit and clean shaven, the sun was fully risen, streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and casting the entryway in a warm, bright light.
No sooner did he step off the stairs than he heard a high trill of laughter that he realized, belatedly, belonged to his aunt.
Curious, he followed the sound down the hallway, nearly running into a maid he vaguely recognized from his arrival the day before.
She was middle aged, with a flush of color in her cheeks and her graying hair arranged high on top of her head. He cast around his memory for her name as she hurried to right the silver tray she was carrying—empty, mercifully.
“Hilda.” He gave the woman a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry—I hope I didn’t startle you.”
“Not at all, sir,” she said, shaking her head. “Are you looking for your aunt? She’s entertaining in the Rose Room. She always entertains in the Rose Room—she claims the hue enhances her complexion.”
The Rose Room was an orchestra of pinks—walls papered in blush and mauve stripes, velvet sofas the color of pomegranates, a plush rug patterned in colors that resembled a sunrise.
Even the lamps that lined the walls were cased in pink glass, making the light itself rosy—the source, Arden suspected, of the complexion-enhancing effects Hilda mentioned.
At the center of it all, his aunt sat primly on one of the sofas facing him, an appropriately pink teacup held in her hand. At first glance, her sky blue dress appeared to be the only thing in the room that wasn’t pink, but then Arden noticed his aunt’s companion.
The woman was sitting on the second sofa with her back toward him, but her golden-blond hair was curled into ringlets and arranged over her shoulders elegantly, almost blending in with the butter yellow cotton dress she wore.
When she noticed his presence, his aunt nodded a greeting. “Ah, Arden—it’s about time. Come, meet Miss Mayles.”
Arden understood exactly what he’d walked into just as the woman turned toward him, finally giving him a face to put to the woman his aunt had decided he should marry.
It was, as he’d been led to believe, a beautiful face—heart shaped with dimpled cheeks; wide, clear gray eyes; and a full, bow-shaped mouth that broke into a bright smile when she met his gaze.
“Mr. Ryskamp,” she said, her voice polished and smooth as a pearl. “Your aunt has been telling me so much about you.”
Arden managed to return her smile. “All lies, I’m sure. Except for the good things—those are true.”
That drew a laugh from Oriana Mayles that had a cadence trained musicians would strive to emulate. Some of Arden’s nerves abated. He could do this. He could flirt and charm and woo, after all. The women he’d tried to court before had just been some sort of fluke.
“They were all good things, I assure you.”
Arden joined them, sitting beside his aunt and pouring himself a cup of tea from the porcelain pot that was, of course, pink. It wasn’t coffee, but it would do. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Aunt Phi—I wouldn’t have dared if I’d known you had such beautiful company.”
The words were the right thing to say, but while his aunt and Oriana offered polite smiles, he knew the flirtation had been more strained than charming.
You’ve always been a terrible liar.
The words Arabella said to him the night before came back to Arden, and no matter how he tried to push her and the things she’d said out of his mind, the ghost of them lingered.
He hadn’t been lying, exactly. Oriana was beautiful, only a fool would disagree with that—but that beauty didn’t stir anything in Arden. He found her lovely in the same way he might find a painting of a meadow lovely.
Unbidden, he thought of Arabella again, of what he’d felt five years ago when he saw her for the first time.
He still remembered how she’d swept into the Ballans’ ballroom in a gown of turquoise silk that had set off the color of her hair, how her copper curls were already threatening to escape from the careful style they’d been coerced into, how her green eyes had found his across the room, like she’d been searching just for him.
Now, he knew that she had been searching just for him, but it didn’t change anything.
Because that moment, how earth-shatteringly beautiful she’d looked, how she’d drawn him toward her like a moth to the flame, had changed him in some fundamental sense he still didn’t understand.
He might have believed he’d embellished her in his memory if he hadn’t seen her the day before, hadn’t found himself every bit as attracted to her as he’d been five years ago, despite the truth that should have shattered the illusion of her.
Oriana was beautiful, yes, but Arabella had ruined him in more ways than he could count, and Arden’s palate for beauty seemed to be just another casualty.
Aunt Philomena surveyed Arden over the rim of her teacup as she took another sip, and Arden was sure she was finding him wanting. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore her judgment, and focused his attention on Oriana.
“I do apologize for my tardiness, Miss Mayles. I only arrived yesterday afternoon, and the journey was more exhausting than I realized.”
Even to Arden’s own ears, he sounded boring, but boring was an improvement on awkward, at least.
“No need for an apology.” Oriana gave him a kind smile. “Your aunt mentioned you traveled all the way from Strall. You must find Garlin quaint in comparison.”
Arden shook his head. “I haven’t seen nearly enough to have an opinion yet, but the sea air makes for a refreshing change.”
The sea air makes for a refreshing change. Gods of Old, he sounded like an elderly matron prone to fainting spells.
“Strall is close to the coast as well, is it not?” Oriana tilted her head.
“It is,” Arden agreed. “But not close enough for the sea air to have a fighting chance against the stench of smog, sweat, and refuse.”
The clatter of Aunt Philomena’s cup rattling on the saucer was the only sound that cut through the silence that followed Arden’s words.
“That does not sound pleasant,” Oriana managed finally. Her smile was still kind, but now it reminded Arden of the way a patient nanny might smile at a child who said something outrageous.
“Indeed,” his aunt added, frowning at Arden. “Why, the thought of it is ruining my appetite, Arden, and I’d just asked Hilda to bring us scones and jam.”
Arden’s cheeks grew warm. “Apologies, Aunt Phi.”
An uncomfortable silence followed, but Arden resisted the temptation to break it. The chances of him saying something odious, tedious, or otherwise offensive were too high for him to risk it. After a moment, Oriana turned back to his aunt.
“I believe invitations will go out later today, but I suppose there’s no harm in spoiling it—I’m hosting an engagement ball next week for my brother and Miss Lindcourt. I hope you both will be able to attend?”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” his aunt said, even as Arden’s stomach turned.
He knew he would have to see Arabella again, but the thought of being in the same room as her, pretending not to know who and what she was as she proceeded to do to some other unsuspecting man what she’d done to Arden five years before felt like a peculiar sort of torture.
“You must be so thrilled for your brother,” his aunt continued. “Tell me—do you and Miss Lindcourt get along well?”
Oriana’s smile brightened. “Oh, yes. I do adore her. She’s ever so clever, you know.”
Arden hid his grimace behind a sip of tea.
“Is she?” his aunt asked dryly. “I confess, clever isn’t an adjective I’ve heard to describe Miss Lindcourt before.”
Oriana clicked her tongue and fixed his aunt with a stern look. “Now, now, Mrs. Gellis. You mustn’t be unkind.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied quickly, hand over her heart. “I only meant that everyone speaks so much of Miss Lindcourt’s beauty, grace, and charm that there is no breath left with which to praise her intellect.”
It was a far kinder description of Delphinia Lindcourt, or whoever she was, than the one Arden’s aunt had given the day before, but Arden took some small measure of joy in seeing his aunt chastised.
He might not know the woman terribly well, but he had the distinct impression that it was a rare occurrence.
“I understand Miss Lindcourt is new to Garlin as well,” Arden said, finding his voice again, though he struggled not to say Miss Lindcourt with disdain.
“Yes, she and her brother travel a lot for his business. They’re from Beldor originally.”