“Bermuda?” Arabella lifted a brow, attempting to keep the distaste out of her voice, lest Lady Corbett think it was meant for her. “What an odd coincidence. My brother has betrothed himself to a girl from Bermuda.” She thought of those long months when Nick’s endless, horrible grieving for someone named Jem had Arabella and Aunt Maisy fearing he would drink himself to death. Her brother was finally past his grief whensheshowed up again and quite alive. Mysteriously. Her brother told her that he and Jemma had courted briefly in Bermuda and fell out over something too ridiculous to name. He later tried to find her and was told she’d died. Nothing about her brother’s story rang true for Arabella, and it made her all the more suspicious of Jemma. Nick was hiding something from her.
“Perhaps I know your brother’s betrothed?” Lady Corbett said quietly. “Bermuda is really a string of islands, and not so large as all of that. We only have one truly large city, Hamilton, where I reside. It is the capitol. My husband is governor. A wan smile crossed her lips. “At any rate, we all know each other.”
Arabella thought it all sounded rather provincial and not at all interesting. “I’m not sure which island, and I daresay I didn’t realize there was more than one. She’s only ever mentioned Bermuda. Her name is Jane Emily Grantly. Her family calls her Jemma. She is the niece of the Earl of Marsh. After her father passed away, she came to stay with her uncle. I believe her father was in trade of some sort, though I’m not sure what. I’m afraid I knew nothing about Bermuda until she became betrothed to my brother.” Arabella looked hungrily at the plate of small sandwiches a passing servant laid on the table before her. She was starving. The watercress looked particularly tasty. “Do you know her?”
Lady Corbett’s left eye twitched. “Jane Emily Grantly?” Her hands shaking, she set down her teacup with a clatter.
“Lady Corbett?” Arabella thought the woman had to be ill. Probably all the traveling back and forth from Yorkshire. Arabella detested Yorkshire. Everything was dark and dank and smelled of the moors. “Should I ask for your daughter?” Raising her hand, Arabella waved back the servant who’d brought the sandwiches.
“No.” Lady Corbett lightly touched Arabella's arm. “No.” She cleared her throat. “I’m just a bit shocked. I need to collect my thoughts.”
Arabella lowered her hand and nodded for the young servant girl to leave them alone. The skin on the back of her neck began to prickle, and she had the distinct impression Lady Corbett was going to tell her something she didn’t wish to hear.
“You see, my lady,” Lady Corbett said in a rush, her voice quaking, “I know Jane Emily. Quite well as it turns out.”
Arabella swallowed and regarded the woman patiently. “How do you know her my lady?”
Lady Corbett turned to Arabella. "She is betrothed to my son.”
20
“Miss Grantly,” Jacobs, the Marsh's butler intoned, “you have a visitor.” He held out a silver tray.
Dear God, she hoped it wasn’t the dressmaker again. She’d been pricked and poked with enough pins within the last fortnight to last her a lifetime. The woman usually made an appointment, but her last visit was not planned. Jemma’s betrothed kept adding to her trousseau. Nick, as it turned out, could be more thorough in the dressing of a woman than a lady’s maid. She wished to warn him of his highhandedness, but he avoided her, neither attempting to see or speak to her since that day in the conservatory. All communication for her came through Uncle John.
I caused this. I asked for this.
Her father’s deceit would be with her always, but at least she no longer woke up every day feeling as if a stone sat on her chest. She thought if she waited, perhaps a bit longer, Nick would make the first move and try to see her. As the weeks dragged on though, it was becoming clearer that if she wished to speak to her future husband before their wedding, she would need to extend the olive branch first.
Sighing, she took the card, expecting to see the dressmaker’s name but instead her eyes flew to the Dunbar coat of arms. Beneath, in perfect gold script readLady Arabella Tremaine.
Petra looked up from her embroidery. “Oh dear, is it the dressmaker again? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many fittings and so many gowns. I wonder that you’ll be able to wear them all.”
Jemma’s mouth went dry.“No, not the dressmaker, though for once I wish it was.” Nick’s sister did not bother to disguise her dislike for Jemma, so there was little likelihood that Arabella was paying a social call.
Petra laughed. "I've never seen such an assortment of gowns and underthings. I still can't believe you are to marry the Duke of Dunbar. I wish you had told me of your prior relationship as I pattered on about him.”
“He called himself Viscount Lindley when I met him,” Jemma said lying automatically, using Nick’s former title. Her uncle explained to the family that Jemma, living in Bermuda, would not know of the death of Nick’s grandfather, and thus not know Nick by his current title. It was the simplest way to explain why Jemma remained silent as Petra spoke of the duke.
“Yes,” Petra shot her a look of sympathy, “and all that time you thought he didn’t care and he thought you were dead.” Petra was a rather hopeless romantic. “But you have found each other again.”
“Indeed we have.” Could she pretend not to be home for her future sister-in-law?
“My lady?” Jacobs, with a servant’s intuitiveness, said, “Shall I say you are not at home? Perhaps abed with a headache?”
Petra put down her embroidery hoop with a frown and marched over to Jemma, her skirts swinging. Snatching the note out of Jemma's hand, her eyes widened in panic as she saw who called upon her cousin.
“Good Lord. Lady Arabella.” The blood left Petra’s face. “Why is she here?”
“I’m here.” Lady Arabella waltzed in, pausing only to wave Horace away. “To speak to my brother’s betrothed.” She said the last with particular distaste, her full lips pursing as if she sucked on a lemon. “Your presence.” She glared at Petra. “Is not required.”
Lady Arabella sauntered over to the sofa facing Jemma. “Be useful,” she said over her shoulder to Petra who stood still clutching the calling card in one hand, shocked into silence by Arabella’s intrusion. “Send for tea." She flounced down across from Jemma, her dark eyes glittering with dislike.
Jemma wondered what on earth Arabella wanted. They’d been re-introduced, of course at the Cambourne ball, but barely spoke, Arabella’s attitude one of chilling indifference. If the two women did see each other in public, Arabella made a point of avoiding Jemma. Invitations from Aunt Mary for luncheon or tea were returned with curt regrets, followed by much hand wringing from her aunt. Jemma wondered that Nick’s own aunt didn’t take Arabella in hand and teach her better manners. Truth be told, Jemma did not care for Arabella either, finding her to be so bitter she could likely turn wine to vinegar.
Arabella's eyes, such a dark brown they were nearly black, looked Jemma over from head to toe. Her lips curled in disdain as if Jemma were wanting in some way. Hair, a shade darker than her brother’s but with the same red glints, was pulled back severely from the thin oval of her face and twisted into two large braided hoops over each ear. Bits of topaz dangled from each ear, complementing the coffee colored gown she wore. She looked privileged and elegant, though the gown and hairstyle would better suit a woman twice Arabella’s age.
“Well?” Arabella said, addressing Petra while keeping her eyes firmly on Jemma. “I’m quite parched. Do get on with it. Surely you can ask for tea to be sent?” Arabella tapped her foot in irritation.
