Lady Arabella's Scandalous Marriage (6 page)

The cold and remote man who swept so arrogantly into the marbled hallway of Carlyne House the moment the door was opened by a footman brandishing a candelabra was not the man who had made love to Arabella either a week ago or earlier this evening.
This
man was a stranger to her. A cold, aloof stranger to whom she was now married and who questioned her belief over whether the carriage accident had even been an accident at all…

‘Ah, Reynolds,’ Darius spoke to the butler as he appeared in the hallway. ‘There has been a accident. No one was injured,’ he assured the butler quickly as the
man looked alarmed. ‘But I am afraid we were forced to abandon the carriage and walk home. It is my intention to return to the scene and check on progress with the carriage. I am sure Her Grace would appreciate being shown to her bedchamber, and then provided with a tray of tea and dainties.’ Darius’s expression was forbidding as he released Arabella to turn back towards the front door, which the footman instantly swept open once again, allowing a blast of cold night air to swirl about the hallway.

Arabella shivered as that coldness pierced the thin material of her gown in accompaniment to the ice creeping through her veins at Darius’s announcement that he intended leaving the house. Leaving her on their wedding night!

‘Darius?’

Narrowed lids hid the expression in the deep blue of his eyes as he paused in the open doorway to turn and look at her. ‘What is it, Arabella?’

Pride—the St Claire pride so embedded in her own nature, as well as that of her brothers—dictated that she could not demand an explanation in front of the listening butler and footman as to why Darius felt it necessary to return to the broken carriage tonight of all nights.

Yet incredulity at his obvious intent of leaving the house on such a fool’s errand, rather than remaining with his bride of but a few hours, dictated that she could not just let him leave the house without some show of disapproval at his actions, either!

On top of which, Darius had absolutely no right to instruct that she be ‘shown to her bedchamber’ in what was effectively now her own home!

She forced a cool smile to her lips, although the blaze in her eyes as she looked across at him gave the lie to that air of serenity she was projecting. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me in a reviving cup of tea before venturing back out into the cold?’

At any other time Darius would have enjoyed taking the time to indulge his wife’s request for his company—as he would no doubt have enjoyed even more the consequences of quelling her obvious sparks of temper!

At this moment, however, he had far more pressing matters to attend to—he had to think about her safety above all else, even if she wasn’t aware of it.

‘I think not, thank you, Arabella,’ he drawled. ‘It’s probably best if you do not wait up for me,’ he added dryly. ‘I have no idea when I will return, and you are no doubt tired after the excitement of the day.’

Darius could only regret the way her cheeks paled at his obvious dismissal, and he made a mental promise to himself—and her—to make up for the disaster of this, their wedding night, as soon as could be. As soon as they were both safely away from London…

Her dismay did not last long, however, as two bright spots of colour appeared in the pallor of her cheeks. ‘What a considerate husband you are, to be sure, Darius.’ The sweetness of her tone did not match the anger glinting in her golden-brown eyes.

He could only eye her appreciatively, even as he once again privately regretted his need to leave her. ‘I have no doubt that you intend being as considerate a wife as I am a husband.’

‘Oh, undoubtedly!’ she retorted.

Darius bit back a smile at the promise of retribu
tion glittering in those bright golden eyes. ‘Pleasant dreams, Arabella.’

She gave him a sweetly saccharine smile. ‘I have no doubt they will all be of you, my dear Darius!’

In that case he very much doubted they would be pleasant dreams, but rather ones of a violent nature, no doubt culminating in some painful punishment dealt him by her for his desertion.

All humour left Darius’s expression as he strode back towards the disabled carriage, pondering what he was sure was an attempt on his life. And not just on his life, but Arabella’s too. Darius considered himself more than capable of taking care of himself. Indeed he had been doing so for some years now. But endangering Arabella in this way was unacceptable.

Someone would pay for this evening’s mischief.

Someone would pay dearly, he vowed grimly.

Arabella ignored the tray of tea things that had been brought up to her as she paced restlessly, agitatedly, angrily, up and down the spacious bedchamber that, as the Duchess of Carlyne, was now her own. It was a graciously appointed bedchamber that had been hurriedly decorated to her tastes in gold and cream this past week, in preparation for her arrival this evening, and it possessed an adjoining door to the room of her husband.

A husband whom, at this particular moment, Arabella dearly wished to throttle within an inch of his life!

Admittedly the broken carriage had to be removed from the street. The grooms must be returned to the house. The horses stabled and calmed after their ordeal.

Yet it was simply beyond Arabella’s understanding that Darius considered those grooms and horses more deserving at present of his solicitude than his own wife. Surely a senior member of his household could have sorted out the mess?

How could he treat her in this callous way?

How could he just turn her welfare over to the care of servants after the scare she had suffered such a short time ago?

How
dared
he just abandon her on their wedding night?

Arabella sat down abruptly on the gold brocade coverlet draped over the blankets of the huge four-poster bed that dominated the bedchamber. A four-poster bed in which she was expected to sleep alone.

On her wedding night…

After days, a week, of nervousness as she imagined herself and Darius going to bed together on the night of their wedding, Arabella instead found herself abandoned and alone. It was an unforgivable insult. A humiliation beyond endurance!

Arabella was well aware of the gossip of servants. They would all know that the Duke had not cared to share the Duchess’s bed on their wedding night. From which piece of delectable gossip certain conclusions would no doubt be made…

Either that the rumours were all true, and the Duke had already shared his bride’s bed before their marriage and so felt no particular compunction to share it again on their wedding night. Or—more humiliating still—having dallied with her and then been forced into a marriage not of his choosing, the Duke felt no inclination to claim what was now his by right.

Darius would pay for insulting her in this way, Arabella vowed fiercely.

He would most definitely be made to pay!

‘Y
ou are very quiet today, Arabella.’ Darius eyed his young wife across the width of the carriage—the second-best carriage, as the main ducal vehicle was once again safely in the stables at Carlyne House and awaiting repair—as they travelled from London to Worcestershire in the early-morning gloom.

Arabella turned from looking out of the window and returned his gaze coolly. ‘I prefer to think of it as being introspective, Your Grace.’

Oh, dear, they were back to the formality of Your Grace! ‘No doubt you have much to think on?’ he pressed.

‘No doubt.’ The smile that accompanied her reply did not reach the coldness of her eyes.

Everything about Arabella was cool today. The pale green gown and matching bonnet she wore for travelling. The pristine white lace gloves that covered her tiny hands. The pale, smooth alabaster of her face and throat. The deep, unfathomable brown of her eyes.

Not that Darius did not fully deserve Arabella’s cold
ness after the way he had left her so abruptly the night before—a desertion that had ultimately proved fruitless.

There had been nothing to gain from examining the wheel and axle of the carriage once it had been returned to the stables. Except to tell Darius what he had already guessed: the rivets that held the wheel in place had come loose. Whether by accident or design it had been utterly impossible to tell.

A visit to the home of William Bancroft, recently returned home from Darius and Arabella’s wedding celebrations, to continue their earlier discussion in view of this latest ‘accident’ had been of little help, either. Bancroft had no new information as to the whereabouts of Helena Jourdan, the French spy whose existence Darius had denied to Arabella, following her escape from custody the previous week. If, indeed, it
was
she who was trying to kill Darius. There was a second possibility, much closer to home, that Darius found even more unpalatable.

His younger brother Francis…

Disgraced and banished, could Francis have returned to England somehow and even now be plotting Darius’s and Arabella’s deaths?

His mouth thinned at the thought of the danger he might have placed Arabella in simply by marrying her. The same danger that Sophie had found herself in the moment Darius had taken her as his wife a year ago…

Was Darius
never
to be allowed any personal happiness?

Last night’s ‘accident’ gave every indication that was the case!

He sighed heavily. ‘You are still angry with me be
cause of last night.’ It had been very late when Darius had returned to Carlyne House after seeing Bancroft, almost two o’clock in the morning, and as promised, rather than disturb Arabella, he had instead retired directly to his own bedchamber.

Only to remain restless and virtually sleepless for the remainder of the night as he regretted telling her he would not be joining her in her bedchamber. It had been impossible to sleep when he could so easily imagine how beautiful, how desirable, his wife would look as she lay back against downy pillows, with that gloriously golden hair spread out beneath her….

Darius still ached at the vividness of that image!

Arabella raised haughty blond brows. ‘What happened last night, Darius? Admittedly, the carriage accident was a little—bothersome, but I assure you I slept surprisingly well, considering.’ The dark shadows visible beneath those dark brown eyes gave the lie to her claim.

A fact that Darius was well aware of. Just as he was aware that it was the St Claire pride that sustained Arabella in the face of what she no doubt saw as Darius’s abandonment of her after she had been so shaken by the carriage accident, and also his rejection of her on their wedding night.

It was not Arabella that Darius had rejected, it was the taking of a wife at all when his own life was being dogged by someone who wished him harm and did not care if his young and beautiful wife shared that same fate, that caused Darius to guard his thoughts and deeds. But he dared not share that information with her.

‘In that case you will have no need of sleep once we have arrived at the coaching inn,’ he murmured.

‘I do not understand, sir.’ But the delicate colour that crept up Arabella’s throat and into her cheeks said she understood his huskily spoken words only too well!

Darius sat forward on the padded bench-seat so that his face was only inches away from hers. ‘I am sure we will both benefit from retiring to our bedchambers for the rest of the afternoon. In order that we might bathe and…rest after travelling.’

Arabella stared at Darius. Was he seriously suggesting that they amuse themselves in bed all afternoon? Did he really dare to think that she would be willing to participate in the pleasures of the bedchamber after the way he’d treated her?

Her disappointment at Darius’s desertion the evening before, followed by outrage as his absence continued long after she might have expected his return, had sustained Arabella through the long night that had just passed. She certainly had no intention of allowing Darius to make love to her for the first time in a coaching inn, of that she was sure. As was the case in most inns, it would offer little comfort and absolutely no privacy!

Arabella’s intention to treat Darius with dismissive coldness for the dreary and lengthy duration of their journey into Worcestershire, in an effort to show him how contemptible was his behaviour of the night before, was completely forgotten as she bristled indignantly. ‘You may choose to pander to your mistress rather than your wife, Darius, but I assure you that I am not someone who can be discarded and then picked up again when it suits your own needs!’

Amusement darkened the blue of his eyes to
cobalt. ‘And what do you know of the treatment of mistresses, Arabella?’

Her eyes snapped with temper. ‘You seem to forget, Darius, that I have three older brothers.’

‘And?’

‘Do not treat me like a backward child, Darius,’ she warned tartly, her mouth thin. ‘It is well known that the men of the ton change their mistresses as often as they change their linen.’

‘Oftener, in some cases,’ Darius allowed, and he sat back against the upholstered seat, arms folded across the muscled width of his chest as he gazed at her speculatively. ‘And you count me in their number, do you, Arabella?’

She gave an inelegant snort. ‘Your own actions have placed you in their number.’

‘Indeed?’

Arabella was completely aware of the underlying steel in Darius’s tone. But she felt perfectly justified in ignoring the warning in view of his desertion of her the previous night. Long hours which Arabella had spent alone in her bedchamber. Hours when her imagination had provided her with thoughts of whether or not it was actually another woman rather than the broken carriage that had drawn Darius’s attention away from his new wife so soon….

It had also occurred to Arabella some time during her sleepless night that when she’d questioned Darius the previous week he had not denied having a mistress at present, only the need to continue to keep one after they were married. Perhaps last night had been the end of their affair? Perhaps the woman had even been a guest at their wedding!

Once the idea had presented itself to her, Arabella had found her imagination taking flight to the extent that she had clearly been able to visualise Darius in bed with the other woman. To imagine the two of them lying naked and entwined, satiated from their lovemaking, as they perhaps laughed together at the thought of Darius’s abandoned lonely bride.

The mere thought of that being the case made Arabella’s blood boil anew!

She looked across at Darius coldly. ‘I take it you feel no desire for me to produce your heirs immediately?’

He frowned. ‘Not particularly, no.’ He didn’t want to give his enemies yet another innocent, vulnerable target!

Arabella nodded abruptly. ‘In that case I see no reason to share your bed at the present time.’ She turned to once again stare out of the window at the now softly falling rain. The gloomy weather was reflective of her own mood.

Darius continued to study Arabella through narrowed lids and he realised from her remarks, as well as from the things she had left unsaid, that she had drawn her own conclusions concerning his lengthy absence from Carlyne House the night before. He was experienced enough to know that her anger at the thought that he’d visited his mistress was merely a shield for the much deeper hurt she felt at his apparent shunning of her on their wedding night.

The obvious thing to do to put things right between them would be for Darius to offer Arabella reassurances as to his whereabouts the night before. Unfortunately, in doing that he would also have to explain his reasons
for having gone to see Bancroft. An explanation that even now Darius would not—could not—share with anyone. Even his young wife.

Eight years ago, in the midst of those bloody years of England’s battles against Napoleon, Darius had known that as the second son he was expected to take up a commission in the army. Tired of Society, jaded from his years of drinking and gambling, disenchanted with the women who frequently shared his bed, it had been an action Darius had been only too willing to take.

However, before he had been able to do so he had been approached by a member of the English government—a man who had explained that he recruited a widespread group of men and women, both in England and France, who, despite the danger to their own lives, had become spies for their country rather than overtly displaying their patriotism on the battlefield.

The work was dangerous, the man had explained, the rewards few, and the thanks non-existent as the role those people played in the fight against Napoleon could never be made public.

All that was required of Darius was for him to continue to live the debauched and profligate life he was already leading. To lull the public in general, and the ton in particular, into believing he was nothing more than a wastrel and a rake. He would be surprised, the man had assured him, how indiscreet a traitor could be when in the company of a man they considered too drunk or uninterested to pay any attention to their conversation.

They had been prophetic words, Darius now acknowledged wryly.

For six years the ton had continued to believe him too lazy or cowardly to fight for his country. During those same six years Darius had become adept at discovering a man’s—or a woman’s—secret alliances. More so than he could ever have imagined. His success had been such that he had moved quickly up the rank and file of this secret organisation, until he had eventually found himself as the head of one of the networks of England’s spies.

Two years after Napoleon’s final defeat Darius still headed that network. William Bancroft, Earl of Banford, was only one of their number.

None of which Darius was at liberty to share with anyone—not even his own wife. Not even when the work he had done, and continued to do, might have placed Arabella in that same danger as Darius himself….

There was one thing he
could
make clear to her, however. ‘I do
not
have a mistress, Arabella.’

Her expression was scornful as she turned to look at him with hard brown eyes. ‘Perhaps not now, no. But only because you probably ended it just last night!’

‘Not for some time,’ he stated firmly, his expression intent as he leaned forward again. ‘Arabella, there has been no woman in my life, or my bed, since Sophie’s death.’

Arabella’s eyes widened. Did Darius seriously expect her to believe he had been celibate for a whole year? A man who, despite having gained respectability since inheriting a dukedom, was still known for his womanising. For his carousing. For his gambling.

Had he been womanising, carousing or gambling during the week of their betrothal?

Not to Arabella’s knowledge. Or that of her brothers, she felt sure. For Arabella had no doubt that one or all of them would have brought it to her attention if he had.

But just because he had behaved himself in the week before their wedding it did not necessarily mean that Darius had remained celibate for this past year.

Then why would he say that he had?

Darius was still very much a puzzle to her, and did many things she could not approve of, but she had no reason to believe he had ever lied to her. More truthfully, Darius was arrogant enough never to feel the need to lie about any of his actions.

Her chin rose challengingly. ‘Did you love your first wife so much, then?’

He gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘I can always rely on you to ask the unexpected, can’t I?’

Her brows rose. ‘In that case you will not find me tedious.’

‘Far from it!’

‘Did you love your first wife?’ she repeated determinedly.

‘For my sins—no.’ Darius grimaced.

Arabella gave a graceful inclination of her head—as if the answer were just as she had expected. ‘You have been widowed a year. Even before you became a duke you were considered highly eligible. So why have you not taken advantage of that rank and fortune this past year to secure yourself a mistress?’

Darius mouth twisted with distaste. ‘Perhaps because I preferred it when I knew a woman’s partiality was only to me rather than due to a title or a fortune.’

Arabella bristled. ‘Your implication being that
I
only married you for your title?’

‘There can be no other reason,’ he pointed out calmly. ‘Not when I have been reliably informed by Hawk that you have no need of my fortune when considerable personal wealth became yours upon our marriage yesterday.’

It was true, of course. Arabella’s parents had been more enlightened than most, and had considered their daughter to have as much right to financial independence as any of their three sons. Consequently her father had left her a vast fortune in his will, which Hawk had managed for her these past eleven years, and a small estate in Norfolk, which Hawk had also taken care of by putting in a manager. The estate had become part of Arabella’s husband’s lands upon her marriage, of course, but the fortune would remain in trust for her children, with the interest set aside for her personal use.