Chapter 16
"If you're going to be sick again, perhaps you should stay in bed."
Lucien's suggestion, delivered while watching Arabella turn green at the thought of breakfast, was met with a glare that could have melted steel.
They were in their chambers at the Duchess of Marlborough's sprawling estate where they'd arrived the day before for what promised to be a week of socializing, sport, and, if Arabella's stomach would cooperate, spectacular food.
"I'm not sick," she insisted, then promptly covered her mouth and fled to the dressing room.
Lucien followed, finding her looking thoroughly miserable. It was the third morning this week she'd been ill, though she'd tried to hide it.
"Perhaps we should call for a physician," he suggested.
"It's just travel sickness."
"We arrived yesterday."
"Delayed travel sickness."
"Arabella..."
She straightened, accepting the damp cloth he offered. "I'm fine. Truly. It's probably just nerves about this week."
"Since when do you have nerves? You faced down Cassandra without flinching."
"That was different. That was one evening. This is a full week of society, with activities and expectations and..." She paused, looking green again.
"Not feeling well still?"
"Stop being so calm about this."
"Would you prefer I panic?"
"A little concern would be nice."
"I'm extremely concerned. My wife has been ill every morning for the last few days, refuses to see a physician, and insists on attending a house gathering where she'll be expected to ride, dance, and play croquet."
"I can do all those things."
"You can barely look at breakfast."
As if to prove him wrong, she straightened, splashed water on her face, and marched back into the bedroom with determination.
"See? Perfectly well."
"You're still green."
"It's a fashionable colour this season."
"Arabella..."
"Lucien, please. Can we just... not discuss this right now? We have to meet the Duchess for the morning ride in an hour, and I need to make myself presentable."
He caught her hand, pulling her into his arms. "You're always presentable."
"I look like death."
"Beautiful death."
"That's morbid."
"That's romantic. I'm getting better at it."
Despite her misery, she smiled. "You are. It's disturbing."
"Julian's been coaching me."
"That explains the morbidity."
He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips—gentle, undemanding kisses that made her melt against him.
"Better?" he murmured.
"Much better," she admitted.
"Good. Now, tell me what's really wrong."
"Beyond the mysterious morning illness?"
"Beyond that."
She sighed, moving to sit on the bed. "Lady Worthington mentioned yesterday that Cassandra is here."
"What?" The warmth in his voice vanished instantly. "Cassandra is at this house gathering?"
"Apparently she arrived late last night. Uninvited, but the Duchess couldn't turn her away without causing a scene."
"We're leaving."
"We can't leave."
"Watch me."
"Lucien, if we flee every time Cassandra appears, we'll never stop running."
"I'm comfortable with that."
"I'm not." She stood, squaring her shoulders. "We faced her once and won. We can do it again."
"The last time she tried to destroy us with innuendo about Matilda."
"And failed."
"She'll try something worse this time."
"Then we'll be ready."
He studied her—his brave, stubborn, occasionally infuriating wife. Three months of marriage had only made him love her more, which he hadn't thought possible. Every morning he woke beside her still felt like a miracle, every night a gift he probably didn't deserve.
"Fine," he said. "But if she so much as looks at you wrong..."
"You'll glower magnificently and possibly push her into something?"
"I was thinking the lake, actually. Full circle."
"There's no lake here."
"There's a decorative pond."
"That's full of ornamental carp."
"Even better. She can make friends."
Arabella laughed, then immediately looked queasy again. "Oh, don't make me laugh when I'm nauseous."
"Back to the bathroom?"
"No. Maybe. Yes."
He looked at her, worried despite his attempts at lightness. This was more than travel sickness or nerves. But pressing her would only make her stubborn, so he waited, patient as he'd learned to be with her.
Jane arrived to help Arabella dress for the morning ride, making comments about her pallor but managing to make her presentable in a deep green riding habit that brought out the gold flecks in her eyes.
"You're staring," Arabella observed as Jane pinned up her hair.
"I'm admiring," Lucien replied.
"You're worried."
"I can be both."
"I'm fine, Lucien. Truly."
But she swayed slightly as she stood, and he was at her side instantly, steadying her.
"We're staying in today."
"We're not."
"Arabella..."
"I'm going on this ride even if it kills me."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm never dramatic. I'm appropriately concerned."
"You're overprotective."
"That too."
They made their way downstairs, where the guests were gathering for the morning's activities. The Duchess of Marlborough, a formidable woman who'd somehow forgiven Thistle for the slipper incident, greeted them warmly.
"Lord and Lady Blackthorn! How wonderful that you could join us. I trust your rooms are satisfactory?"
"Perfect, Your Grace," Arabella replied, managing not to look like she'd spent the morning being violently ill.
"Excellent. We have a lovely ride planned through the grounds. Nothing too strenuous."
"Delightful," Lucien said in a tone that suggested it was anything but.
The Duchess laughed. "Still not fond of society, Lord Blackthorn?"
"I'm fond of my wife. Society is a necessary evil that comes with her."
"How romantic. In a backwards sort of way."
"It's his specialty," Arabella said. "Backwards romance."
"Forward romance is overrated," Lucien countered.
"Is there such a thing as forward romance?" a familiar, unwelcome voice asked.
They turned to find Cassandra, resplendent in a crimson riding habit that made her look like a particularly venomous flower. She was accompanied by someone Lucien didn't recognize—a dark-haired man with calculating eyes and an unpleasant smile.
"Lord and Lady Blackthorn," Cassandra purred. "How lovely to see you again."
"Lady Velott," Lucien said coldly. "I understood this was an invitation-only gathering."
"Oh, it is. Dear Mr. Harrington here was invited, and I'm his guest." She gestured to her companion. "Have you met? He's recently returned from France."
The emphasis on 'France' made Lucien's jaw tighten.
"I haven't had the pleasure," Arabella said, though her tone suggested it wasn't a pleasure at all.
"Charles Harrington," the man said, bowing. "I've heard so much about you both. The lake story is quite famous even on the Continent."
"Infamous, more likely," Arabella replied.
"Oh no, definitely famous. Romance and heroism, all in one. Though I heard another version recently..."
"Did you?" Lucien's voice had gone dangerously quiet.
"Something about it being staged? A desperate attempt to trap an earl?"
"How fascinating," Arabella said sweetly. "And who told you this version?"
"I couldn't possibly say."
"Couldn't or won't?"
"Is there a difference?"
"Usually, yes. Couldn't implies inability. Won't implies cowardice."
Harrington's smile faltered. "I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, did that sound like an insult? How clumsy of me. I meant it as an observation."
"A rather pointed observation."
"I'm known for those. Ask anyone."
"She is," the Duchess confirmed, having watched the exchange with interest. "Lady Blackthorn has the most refreshing way of making observations. Just last week, she observed that Lady Potts’ vase collection looked like a porcelain army preparing for war."
"It does," Arabella insisted. "They're all facing the door. It's strategic positioning."
Despite himself, Lucien felt his lips twitch. His wife's ability to defuse tension with absurdity was one of her many talents.
"Shall we ride?" the Duchess suggested, clearly eager to prevent bloodshed before breakfast.
The party moved toward the stables, where grooms had prepared their mounts. Lucien helped Arabella onto a gentle mare, noting her slight pallor.
"You don't have to do this," he murmured.
"Yes, I do. Cassandra is watching."
"Let her watch."
"She's looking for weakness."
"Then give her none."
"Exactly my plan."
The ride began pleasantly enough, winding through the Duchess's extensive grounds. Autumn had painted the trees in spectacular colors, and the morning air was crisp but not cold. Arabella seemed to recover once mounted, her natural seat making her look completely at ease.
"You ride beautifully," Harrington observed, maneuvering his horse beside hers.
"Thank you."
"I wouldn't have expected it from someone of your... background."
The insult was barely veiled. Lucien started to turn his horse, but Arabella caught his eye, shaking her head slightly.
"My background?" she asked pleasantly.
"Well, reduced circumstances don't usually allow for extensive riding lessons."
"No, they don't. But they do teach resourcefulness. I learned on cart horses and whatever ancient mounts the neighbours would let me borrow."
"How... enterprising."
"Isn't it? Much like how some men of reduced morals learn to attach themselves to wealthy women."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, I wasn't talking about you, Mr. Harrington. Unless... is that how you met Lady Velott?"
Cassandra, riding just ahead, turned sharply. "Actually, we met at a funeral."
"How appropriate," Lucien observed.
"It was Matilda's funeral, actually," Cassandra said, watching him carefully.
The entire riding party seemed to hold its breath.
"How ghoulish of you," Arabella said calmly. "Collecting men at funerals."
"I was paying my respects."
"To a woman you barely knew?"
"I knew her well enough."
"Well enough to spread lies about her after her death?"
"Is the truth really lies just because it's inconvenient?"
"Is speculation really truth just because you want it to be?"