Louise Allen Historical Collection (47 page)

And she was not a beauty, or virtuous, so he was being sarcastic, she supposed, which was disappointing—she had thought him kinder than that. She tried to ignore the hurtful sting of his words and focus on the good news—she would have a female friend who could support her through this pregnancy.

They drove the short distance to Hadleigh Old Hall in silence. By the time they arrived Bella had a composed smile on her face and two firm resolutions—not to expect anything from Elliott and to think only of the here and now.

Elliott helped her down. ‘Well, Lady Hadleigh?’

‘Very well, my lord.’ Her dignified composure was shattered as Elliott swung her up in his arms. ‘Elliott!’ The other carriages were drawing up around them. There was a burst of applause and a cheer as she buried her face in his shoulder and was carried through the front door.

T
he hall was full of staff, laughing and smiling. For one appalled moment Bella thought Elliott was not going to stop and she would be swept up the stairs and into his bedchamber. Her heart thudded with fear and excitement, then he set her on her feet, his long fingers laced into hers.

‘Three cheers for our new ladyship.’ Henlow stepped forwards. ‘Hip, hip, hoorah!’ The staff needed no urging from the butler and the hall rang with their enthusiasm.

Bella felt her eyes beginning to swim with emotion—they genuinely sounded happy that she was there. Everyone was being so kind to her. She untied the wide satin ribbons on her bonnet and one of the maids came forwards to take it and her gloves.

‘Bella! I insist on being the first to kiss the bride in her new home.’ Daniel took her by the shoulders and dropped a smacking kiss on her lips. ‘You’re a lucky fellow, Elliott.’

‘I am indeed.’ Elliott turned, bringing Bella with him, and walked towards the dining room.
‘Bella?’
he enquired, low-voiced.

‘I thought…as he is your cousin, family, that it was unexceptional. He asked me to call him Daniel. Was I wrong?’ Had she erred already, committed some breach of etiquette?

‘Why does he not call you Arabella?’ The guests were behind them, but not crowding too close. There were a few steps still to the table.

‘Bella is my pet name. Rafe…I mean, everyone uses it. My family…’ she started to explain.

‘I see. One you do not expect me to use.’ Elliott brought her to the foot of the table where a footman was holding her chair. ‘Your place,
Arabella
, my dear.’

‘Thank you.’ Somehow she kept the smile on her lips as Elliott went to the head of the board and their guests found their places. She must never have told him that to everyone who mattered to her she was simply
Bella
. And now he was hurt that she had given his brother and his cousin the right to use her pet name, but not him, her husband.

Part of her, the part that was still smarting from his sarcasm in the carriage, was glad. But that was petty; she must make this marriage work as well as possible.

John Baynton took the seat on her right hand, the rector on her left. Elliott was flanked by Lady Abbotsbury and Anne Baynton. In the middle of the table Daniel was already teasing Dorothy about something while Mrs Fanshawe shook her head indulgently at him.

Bella swallowed. She had never been to a formal dinner party before. She knew that as a guest she should make conversation to her right for the first course, then to her left. But now she was the hostess with a duty to promote conversation generally.

‘Are you both from this part of the world?’ she asked. ‘It is very beautiful. So many fruit trees,’ she added a little wildly, recalling yesterday’s drive.

‘Yes, I was born not six miles away,’ John Baynton began when the sound of a knife blade against crystal had them all looking towards Elliott.

He was on his feet, a champagne flute in his hand as the footmen finished filling the glasses down the length of the table. ‘Great-Aunt, Cousins, friends. I give you Arabella, Viscountess Hadleigh.’

The men rose and everyone lifted their glasses. ‘Arabella!’

She sat, blushing and charmed, while the diners settled themselves again. Elliott was watching her, his eyes steady on her face. And then he lifted his glass again. She saw his lips move.
Arabella
. And then they curved into a smile that reached his eyes and made her feel hot, flustered, special, and she felt, all at once, that she could manage a dinner party for the king himself.

It was half past nine. Elliott shook hands with the departing guests and decided that timing such a departure was a delicate matter—if guests rushed off too early then it pointed up the fact that this was the wedding night. If they lingered too long the unfortunate bridegroom would be champing at the bit.

He glanced across at Arabella, who was smiling at Anne Baynton. She had done well, he decided. With experience would come confidence, but she had natural grace and a real interest in her guests that could not be counterfeited.

But now she was tired. Her skin was pale under the slight flush that heat and excitement had brought to her cheeks and she was resting one hand on a chair back for extra support. For a while he had forgotten her condition, forgotten that this was a match neither of them had wanted.

‘Goodnight, John.’ He gripped Baynton’s hand. ‘Thank you for standing with me today.’

‘My pleasure. She is charming, your Arabella.’

‘Yes, I believe so,’ he agreed thoughtfully. His friend shot him a look of surprise at his measured tone. ‘I had no idea how easily she would take to company,’ he added to excuse his unlover-like lack of ardour.

Then, at last they were alone. ‘That went very well, I thought.’ Strange to have to make conversation on one’s wedding night, if he had thought of such a thing before then he had imagined his bride falling into his arms the moment the guests had gone and… He was being as romantic as a girl, Elliott thought, smiling at himself.

Arabella sat down on the nearest couch, but she kept her back straight, her head up. ‘I am glad you think so. I like the Bayntons very much. Mrs Baynton
is
increasing, you were correct. That is such a relief.’

Elliott wondered if he should sleep alone tonight and let her rest. But there was a point to be made, and one night apart might well slip into two and then three and there would always be an excuse not to take that step and make her his in body as well as in law.

‘Elliott,’ Arabella said, her hesitant tone pulling him out of his thoughts. ‘I am sorry I did not think to ask you to call me Bella.’

‘I prefer Arabella.’ It was a pretty, gracious name that reflected her inner dignity.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, getting to her feet. ‘I can quite see it is more suitable for a viscountess.’

It was not what he had meant, but he did not labour the point; she did not appear to be in the mood. ‘Would you like to go up? I will linger over my brandy for half an hour before I join you.’

She looked at him, her hazel eyes widening. ‘Yes, of course, but I do not know where my room is yet.’

Next to mine.
Anticipation ran through him and he saw her recognition of it reflected in those big eyes. The tip of her tongue emerged, touched the curve of her upper lip. It was nerves, but it was also an innocent provocation that had his groin tightening in almost painful response.

‘No, of course, you have not seen around upstairs yet.’ He opened the door. ‘Henlow, please show her ladyship to the viscountess’s suite and ring for her maid.’

Arabella’s lips parted in surprise. She was going to be even more surprised when she saw the suite in question, Elliott thought as he closed the door behind her and went to the sideboard to pour a glass of cognac. He had scoured the rooms himself, removing such souvenirs of Rafe’s female guests as stockings, garters, a collection of illustrated books that he had pitched on to the fire after a quick glance, several lengths of silken cord and a set of black satin bedclothes. Even so, there was no hiding the fact that the rooms had been decorated with a very different woman in mind than a decorous wife and viscountess.

There had not been time to do anything about the mirror set into the underside of his own bed canopy. It would definitely be better to go to her bedchamber, although the thought of that sweetly curved body reflected in the glass as she lay on the dark green silk coverlet was powerfully arousing. But that was for the future.

Elliott knew it would be no hardship to make love to his new wife once he had her confidence. In the garden she had responded with an innocent ardour that had seemed to surprise her as much as it had him.

The clock struck the hour. The brandy glass in his hand was still full. Elliott set it down, stood up and looked at his own reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back was harder than Rafe’s, less charming. But he was not going to put on a false face for Arabella—this was not a one-night
affaire
, this was for life. From today they had to learn to live with each other.

He went out to the hall. ‘Thank you, Henlow, that will be all for tonight.’

Should she get into the bed? Arabella regarded it warily, wondering what Elliott would expect. It was large and tented in pale pink silk from a corona fixed to the ceiling. Not a colour she would have chosen herself. Nor would she have lavished all these frills around the room, nor had quite so many mirrors. The paintings and ornaments appeared to be very… sensuous and made her uncomfortable without quite knowing why. The sitting room next door was
soft
. That was the only word for a room with so much fabric and so many cushions. No bookshelves, no writing table, no sewing basket in sight. And as for the dressing room, it was positively sybaritic.

There was the marble tub big enough for two with a cistern that could be filled with hot water that showered down at the pull of a chain. There were gilded swan-necked taps. There were heaps of soft pink towels and a
chaise longue
and more mirrors and endless wardrobes and drawers where her new clothes looked lonely in all the space.

Instinct told her that the entire suite had been created with pleasure in mind. Rafe had used this for his lovers, not a wife, and it made her uncomfortable to think of what had happened in these rooms, where every step was muffled in sensual luxury.

She came back to the bed, distracting herself by observing how its shell-pink drapes contrasted unpleasantly with the green of her négligé. Elliott had said she might change what she pleased; well, she would start with this suite.

On the other hand he might like it as much as Rafe had done. What had he said about the lingerie she had thanked him for—that it was as much for his pleasure as hers? Just how much like his brother was he? Probably all men were alike when it came to the sexual act. And if that was the case then he would feel all those things that Rafe had told her he felt. Only Elliott would not be so cruel as to berate her with her clumsiness and ignorance, her plainness and lack of sophistication. He would be too well mannered to refer to the fact that she was pregnant. He would just think all those things.

She sighed, leaning her forehead against one of the elegant bedposts that reached almost to the ceiling. There was so much to worry about, so much to learn.

‘Arabella?’ She turned and found Elliott standing just inside a jib door that she had not noticed before, its fabric covering matching the wall it was set into. It must open on to his own rooms. He was wearing a long blue robe, the shirt under it open at the neck to give a glimpse of dark hair. A jolt of desire lanced through her and she grabbed the bedpost behind her with both hands, shocked by the intensity and unexpectedness of the reaction.