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

restlessly pacing in front of the long French windows. She turned to her stepdaughter. “Do play for us, Elsbeth.

Perhaps some of your French ballads, the happier ones, not the ones that make me cry.”

Elsbeth complied willingly, sat gracefully at the pianoforte, and soon heartbreaking chords filled the room. These were the crying ballads.

Lady Ann walked to her daughter and laid her hand on her sleeve. “Why did you tell such a lie about poor old Hamsworth? You know perfectly well that your father never allowed you within a mile of his cottage. I even remember that he threatened to keep you off a horse for an entire week if you disobeyed him. You never did.”

Arabella felt incredibly weary. She wanted to cry. She also wanted to shriek. She tried for some spirit but couldn’t find any. She could only shrug and say, “It was only a jest, Mother, nothing more.”

“A jest that made Justin very very angry. You did it on purpose. You wanted to anger him. Why did you do such a thing, my dear?”

“It was what the earl expected, no, it was what he wished to hear. I but fulfilled his expectation.”

“Arabella, whatever are you talking about? How can you say that such a story as you concocted is what he wished to hear? Surely you can’t be right. He is your husband, not some jealous lover for you to taunt.” Arabella raised fine gray eyes to her mother’s face. Her dinner began to churn uncomfortably in her stomach. She had very nearly given herself away. If only she were gazing into her father’s world-wise eyes rather than her mother’s so very innocent blue ones. She took a tight hold on her disillusionment, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Please, Mother, don’t take what I say seriously. I’m sure you have guessed that the earl and I have had a slight misunderstanding.” Before Lady Ann could even open her mouth, there was a swirl of black satin and Arabella called over her shoulder, “I shall set up the table for lottery tickets.”

To Arabella’s relief, the earl and Dr. Branyon did not join in the game of lottery tickets. She found, though, that the excitement of winning and losing her fish did nothing to enliven her spirits. Because the earl believed the comte to be her lover, her most innocently spoken phrases took on a guilty meaning to her. She tried vainly to ignore the comte and found to her horror that a dull flush crept over her cheeks when his beautiful dark eyes rested upon her. If she were not certain herself of her own innocence, she would have pronounced herself to be guilty. She would have announced that she was a slut.

The friendly word and glance of yesterday seemed today fraught with betraying dual meaning. She fell as quiet as the burning logs in the great fireplace.

When Crupper entered with the tea tray, she was near to the breaking point. She dispensed the tea without her mother having to tell her to and luckily she didn’t spill any. As soon as she had filled the last cup, she rose quickly from her chair. She yawned rudely. “It has been a long day.

I wish all of you a good night.”

She nodded to the group in general, avoiding the earl’s eyes, and made for the door.

“Do wait a moment, my dear,” the earl said, stopping her. “I myself am also ready to retire.”

Arabella wanted to run, but knew she could not. He had adroitly cornered her, and to protest would announce her fear to everyone. She stood in tense silence until the earl, with his customary grace, had made his round of good nights. She knew he was taking his time on purpose.

Dr. Branyon didn’t like any of it. He watched the earl slip his arm about Arabella’s waist and lead her from the room. He hoped Ann would not ask him to speak to the earl. He had no idea what he would ask, or, for that matter, what the earl would say to him. He imagined that Justin could be just as ruthless as the former earl had been. Could he also be as carelessly cruel? There was indeed trouble between Justin and Arabella, but why? What the devil could have happened?

Dr. Branyon had remarked to the earl that the comte seemed to have a fair way with the ladies. The earl had replied, “It perhaps serves his best interest to be all things to all people.” He had then said more to himself than to Dr. Branyon, and in the most oblique manner, “I shall shortly know if our young French relative has the spirit of a dove, the fangs of a viper, or simply the unprincipled instincts inherent in his French blood. I believe you saw him very clearly when he first arrived, Paul.”

Dr. Branyon hadn’t really seen a thing. He’d had just instinctively disliked the young man. He’d said, “It you do not like him, why not tell him to leave?”

The earl had been quiet for a long time. Finally, he’d said, “I can’t, not just yet. Besides, I do believe I would rather kill him than allow him to leave Evesham Abbey. I would very much enjoying killing him.” Good God, Dr. Branyon had thought. What was going on here?

Arabella maintained a wary silence until they reached the top of the stairs. She tried to pull away from him but could not. She said between her teeth, “Let me go. I want to go to my bedchamber now.” He tightened his arm around her waist. “Of course, you mean to say our bedchamber. That, my dear, was exactly where I was taking you.”

“No, damn you, no.” She managed to wrench away from him. She sped down the corridor to her room and flung the door wide. She stopped dead in her tracks. A sense of unreality seized her. All the furniture was swathed in ghostly holland covers. Her favorite pictures were gone, her