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

my gallants to dance with you. But you must give up the earl, for we have an overabundance of young ladies tonight.” Oliver Rollins managed a stuttering hello before being borne away.

Arabella turned at a tap of a fan on her arm. Lady Crewe, a formidable dowager of indeterminate years and bright red hair that was still untouched by gray, stood at her side, two great purple ostrich plumes swinging about her angular face. “You are looking fit, Arabella. I see that marriage agrees with you. It’s rare, you know, fine marriages, that is. Except when it involves money, of course. But you two young people—both of you looking as besotted as my peacock Larry and his peahen Blanche. A fine choice your papa made, and I would tell him so if he were here.

“Damn, I wish he weren’t dead. I’m sorry to remind you, my dear, but I know you loved him very much.” She patted Arabella’s hand even as her brilliant hazel eyes swept across the room to rest a moment on the earl, creditably performing his part in the country dance with the very buxom Miss Eliza Eldridge. “Yes,” Lady Crewe said more to herself than to Arabella, “the new earl is a fine figure of a man. How very like your papa he appears. And you as well. You look so alike, the two of you. You will have handsome children. Your father would have been mightily pleased.”

“I hope,” Arabella said, looking at her husband, “that we will have a score of children. And yes, they will be handsome, you are right about that. I just hope they all have clefts in their chins, like my father and Justin. My father made an excellent choice.” Lady Crewe paused a moment and turned a large ruby ring about her thin finger. “Perhaps your mama will be surprised, Arabella, but I do not fault her for marrying Dr. Paul Branyon, as does poor Aurelia Talgarth.

Silly woman! All her nonsense about his not being a lord, not being of our class, why, it is really too absurd.” Her eyes were shrewd. “You are open, Arabella. I like that. Your father never really was, but that’s neither here nor there. I can see that you, my dear Arabella, have given your approval to your mama’s marriage to Dr. Branyon. It’s wise of you.

It shows a maturity that is refreshing as it is pleasing.”

“My mother is very beautiful and too young to spend her life alone. Also, I am very fond of Dr. Branyon. I have known him all my life. There is no kinder man. I’m pleased he will be my step-papa.” Lady Crewe was still looking toward Lady Ann. She said slowly, her voice meditative, “I will tell you, my dear, that for the first time in nearly twenty years I have found something admirable about your mother besides her immense sweetness and good looks. At last she has shown character and spirit that match her beauty. I do believe it came quite easily to her, proving it was there all the time.” She added very quietly, “Your father was a very strong man, a very dominant man who wouldn’t accept a female ever questioning him. Yes, your mother has come into her own now.” Arabella, who was still trying to keep the comte in view, was a bit distracted. “Yes, ma’am,” she said briefly.

Lady Crewe mistook her response. “Now, Arabella, you are a married lady.

I have marveled at the fact that your mother survived these nineteen years and has still retained her youthful bloom. Perhaps God, in his infinite wisdom, does reward the innocent.” She caught Arabella’s attention fully. She turned to Lady Crewe and in her eyes was an understanding that she would not have had, had Justin not spoken frankly to her about her father. She looked searchingly at Lady Crewe, noting the traces of beauty still evident on her proud face. She knew then that Lady Crewe and her father had been lovers. She felt no anger, only a mildly detached acceptance of the fact. She finally accepted that her father had been a man, an adult, and she had been a child, blindly believing him to be perfect. But she was no longer a child.

Lady Crewe had, of course, observed the new maturity on the young countess’s face, seen the understanding then the acceptance in her eyes—her father’s eyes. She said kindly, “Do come and call on me, Arabella. I believe that we would have many interesting things to discuss. I have stories to tell you about your papa, stories, perhaps, that you don’t know. He was an amazing man.”

“I shall, ma’am,” Arabella said. She realized that she did indeed wish to further her acquaintance with Lady Crewe. She left the older woman’s side to join the dancing with Sir Darien Snow, a long-time crony of her father’s. He smelled faintly of musk and brandy, a pleasing combination.

She saw somewhat sadly that the years were gaining inexorably upon Sir Darien, deep lines etched about his thin lips and eyes, knots of veins on the backs of his hands. He was as gentle and unassuming as her father had been loud and boisterous. Undemanding as always, he led her through the steps with the practiced grace of long years in society. He didn’t speak, which relieved her. She had to keep her eye on the comte. She saw him dancing with Elsbeth. Damn, if only there were some way to get Elsbeth suddenly on the other side of the ballroom. She tugged on Sir Darien’s arm, taking the lead from him, to draw closer to Elsbeth and Gervaise. At least she wanted to hear what they were saying. As they drew near, she heard Gervaise say in his lilting caressing voice, “How lovely you are this evening, ma petite. These English parties seem to agree with you.” Then they were swept away in the crush of other dancers, and she was unable to hear any