Lord Deverill's Heir, Catherine Coulter [the best motivational books .TXT] 📗

blankly at her mother for a moment, her hand already on her own chair. Oh God, her mother was right. She was the Countess of Strafford. No, it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to do anything that would make her feel more bound to the earl than she already was. She shook her head. “Oh, no, Mother, I have no wish to take your place. It is altogether ridiculous. I will keep my usual seat.” Arabella’s knuckles showed white on the back of her chair as the earl said in a calm, bored voice, “Lady Ann is quite correct, Arabella. As the Countess of Strafford, it is only proper that you take your place at the foot of the table. This way, every time you look up, you will see your husband. Does that not gratify you?”

Yes, indeed, she thought. It was bloody wonderful. Eating and then looking at him would surely make her stomach hurt. She meant to speak lightly, but her voice came out thin and shrill. “Father always called it the bottom of the table. Come, let us cease this nonsense, my roast pork grows more leathery by the moment. Mother, please, keep your place.”

“You will sit yourself where appropriate, madam. Giles, will you kindly assist her ladyship into her place?”

The second footman, never having rubbed Lady Arabella against her grain in all her eighteen years, turned beseeching eyes to Lady Ann.

“Come, my dear,” Lady Ann said very quietly, “do allow Giles to seat you.” Oh drat, she should never have raised the matter in the first place. It had given Justin more ammunition. But why did he want to use it? Arabella looked white with strain. She also hadn’t moved. Lady Ann waited with held breath to see if Arabella would turn the dining room into a battleground.

Arabella wanted to hurl the chair at her husband. She wanted to hurl all the knives at him as well. But she knew she couldn’t. If she continued to resist, everyone would quite clearly see that all was not right between them. She cursed beneath her breath. Only Giles heard her. She thought he would faint when she turned to tell him she would take the bloody chair.

She managed to smile.

Following a very silent first course of turtle soup, Dr. Branyon asked the earl, “Have you made the acquaintance of old Hamsworth, Justin?” A slight smile indented the corners of the earl’s mouth. “A testy old curmudgeon and a tenant who has well served the land. He provided me with quite a long list of the improvements he wished to see made on the estate. He told me I was probably too young to step into the old earl’s boots, but he would try to help me stay on the proper course. He even provided me with hours he would be available to me.”

“He was forever doing the same with Father,” Arabella said without thinking. “Always telling him he should do this and not that. Father ground his teeth. But he never lost his temper with Hamsworth.”

“And what was the outcome?” the earl asked, his eyes meeting hers down the long expanse of table.

“Father never listened to him, so Hamsworth was forever trying to bribe me.”

Justin thought of the leering old man and his vulgar observations on one of the milkmaids, and felt his hand tighten about his fork. “Oh? What were his bribes?” His tone was so very harsh that Elsbeth’s almond eyes flew from her sautéed mushrooms to his face in confusion. Even the comte laid down his fork and stared at the earl.

Arabella felt an uncontrollable demon burgeon inside her. Why not? She allowed a knowing smiling to flit over her face and raised her brows.

“How very odd that you should ask, my lord. When I was five years old, his bribes took the form of apples from his orchard. Of course, as I grew older, old Hamsworth became more creative. Goodness, some of the things he offered to show me still make me blush. Of course, then he wasn’t all that old.”

Her reward for so outlandish a tale was a dull flush of anger that spread over her husband’s tanned face. She returned to her dinner, finding that if her pork was not actually leather, it tasted so in her mouth. She was only dimly aware throughout the remainder of the meal that her mother and Dr. Branyon conversed almost solely with Elsbeth and the comte.

“Arabella.”

She raised her head at the sound of her name. Lady Ann continued softly,

“Whenever you would like the ladies to withdraw, you have but to rise.” What an awesome power, to be sure, and she had not even thought of it.

Swiftly she pushed back her chair, leaving poor Giles in the lurch, and rose. “If you gentlemen will excuse us, we will leave you to your port.” How very simple it was. She was free. She looked the earl straight in the face, then turned on her heel and strode so quickly from the dining room that Lady Ann and Elsbeth were taking double steps to keep pace with her.

“Whatever is wrong with Arabella?” Elsbeth whispered to Lady Ann as they trailed after her into the Velvet Room. “And his lordship? He spoke to her so very coldly. Indeed, I thought he looked angry, but surely that cannot be right. They are newly married. It can’t be right.”

“Sometimes, my dear,” Lady Ann said finally, “married people, when they are first wed, do not always agree. It is a lovers’ quarrel, nothing more. Don’t worry about it. These things pass quickly.” If only she could believe that. Dear Elsbeth, she thought, how very innocent she was. It seemed that Elsbeth had accepted her simple explanation, her attention already elsewhere, perhaps to her future Season in London. Yet, Lady Ann was puzzled, for it had been days since Elsbeth had made any reference either to her ten thousand pounds or to their trip. Nothing was quite right.

Lady Ann eyed Arabella, who was