Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

“Well, old dukes have to have sons, don’t they? Surely they can’t all be snapped up. You know, it would serve Mama right were I to marry our chinless paunchy viscount. All the money that has been lavished on clothing for my back for the Season—why Papa was livid when the only result he saw was one visit from a gentleman who could not play at whist and the other visit from a gentleman who could talk only of his mistress.” She paused, then turned. “Yes, Mama, it’s true. Don’t look so shocked. No, no one said that in front of me. I, er, was standing just outside Papa’s library and overheard it.” She paused a moment and sat daintily beside Arabella, arranging her lavender skirt in becoming folds about her. “Oh, my, Elsbeth is going to play. I do hope Mama will not insist that I follow such a performance. She is so very talented. It is depressing. It is difficult to keep up pretenses.”

“I know. It’s as if she puts all her passion into her music. If she would speak as she plays, I think she would be an excellent orator.” After a third Bach prelude, Suzanne began to fidget. She put her blond head next to Arabella’s ear and whispered behind her lavender-gloved hand, “How very lucky you are, Bella. The earl is so very handsome and, well, handsome as the devil actually. If I were not a properly brought-up young lady, I should long to be wicked and ask you all about your wedding night. So, how was it?”

The stark memory of pain and bitter humiliation sent bile into Arabella’s throat. She finally said, “I will forget what you asked. Just know that wedding nights aren’t—no, forget that. Be quiet. Listen to Elsbeth.”

“Such a spoilsport you are.”

After Elsbeth’s performance had received its usual loud applause, and Suzanne had complained convincingly to her mama of a sore finger that would render her in horrible pain if she had to strike a single pianoforte key with it, Arabella found herself paired with the comte against the earl and Suzanne in a game of whist.

She soon discovered that the comte’s skill was nearly on a par with hers.

She began to play with the daring and skill that her father had taught her. Without intending it to be so, she found herself engaging in silent battle against her husband, the comte and Suzanne fading out of her thoughts, out of her sight. When Lady Ann halted their game for tea, Arabella and the comte had soundly thrashed their opponents. Suzanne, who was in reality as competitive as Arabella, merely laughed gaily and fanned the deck of cards in colorful profusion about the tabletop.

“You were just like Jeanne d’Arc, strewing her enemy in her path,” the comte said, admiration and something else in his voice. He clasped Arabella’s hand and kissed her wrist.

The earl’s eyes were narrow. He looked ready to kill. She grabbed her hand back and said, “That is nonsense, and you know it. I dislike flattery. We had excellent cards, nothing more. Suzanne is the killer.”

“No, I’m only a killer occasionally. The comte is quite right, Bella,” Suzanne said. “You’re a veritable dragon. Don’t you remember when we were children and you were always trying to drum the strategy of the game into my head?”

“You have far too lovely a head for nonsensical games, Miss Talgarth,” the earl said as he helped her to rise and drew her arm through his.

“I had believed you a man of truth, my lord,” Suzanne said. “Come, admit it, you could most willingly have wrung my neck when I trumped your winning spade in the third game.”

“Very well, I will admit it. Truth is sometimes the very devil, isn’t it, Miss Talgarth?”

“His lordship finds the lovely Miss Talgarth most amusing, is it not so, cousin?”

Arabella raised gray eyes to the comte’s too-handsome face and said, “I daresay, monsieur, but then again, I myself find Suzanne most amusing.

She enlivens any conversation, brightens any party.” When, amid wraps and bonnets, Lady Talgarth and Miss Talgarth took their leave, Arabella quickly excused herself, not meeting the earl’s eyes, and hurried up the stairs. She locked the door to the earl’s bedchamber, and heaved a sigh of relief, only to gasp with surprise as the door to the adjoining dressing room slowly opened. She stood frozen in the middle of the room, as the earl strode toward her.

He saw her eyes fly to the small nightstand, guessed her pistol lay in the drawer, and drew to a halt. He watched her closely as her hands balled into fists and her face paled in the dim candlelight. A picture of Arabella, dancing toward him in her nightgown, smiling confidently and unafraid, darted through his mind. Their wedding night seemed an eternity ago.

He said to her in an even voice, “You will not need your gun tonight, Arabella. I merely came to wish you a good night. You were an excellent hostess. I was pleased. I believe the evening was successful.”

“Thank you. I agree,” she said, nothing more. She stood there unmoving until he had strode from the bedchamber and into the adjoining room, closing the door behind him.

Rain slashed against the windows and cascaded in thick sheets onto the rows of rosebushes, flattening them against the outside wall of the library. Arabella sighed in frustration at her enforced inactivity and hurriedly scanned the dark-paneled shelves for a suitable book to while away the afternoon hours. How very strange it was that she, the Earl of Strafford’s favorite daughter should be roaming furtively about the abbey, purposely avoiding nearly all of its occupants. Even Dr. Branyon, who was expected later in the afternoon for tea, had joined the ranks of those whose penetrating stares made her feel like a guilty intruder in her own home.

“Oh, damn, how absurd it is.” She grabbed the