The reference to Augie made Jemma's heart skip a beat. How in God’s name could Arabella know about Augie? A chill crawled up her spine.Why would Nick tell Arabella such a thing?“Did His Grace tell you this incredible fable?”
Arabella gave a small shrug as if what they discussed were of no consequence. “Perhaps. I’m not sure you are even free to marry my brother. Surely, if you were betrothed to another man, that man would have a prior claim.”
She thought of Augie as he slapped her to the floor at Sea Cliff, of his gambling debts, of his greed for everything she owned. She thought of the Corbetts’ betrayal of her father and of her. She wondered if they had taken Sea Cliff for themselves and found she didn’t care, she cared only for Nick and what was left of the Marsh family. She would never return to Bermuda.
Poor manners though it was, it was time for Arabella to leave, whether she wished it or not. Jemma stood, looking down her nose at her future sister-in-law and used her most haughty demeanor. She would not allow this woman, nor anyone else, to harm her family. Nick may not love her any longer, nor ever forgive her, but Jemma was still betrothed to him.
“I’ll be sure and let His Grace know how much I enjoyed our visit, Lady Arabella.”
“I am not done speaking to you,”Arabella sneered.
“Yes, but I am quite done speaking to you,Arabella.”
Arabella drew in her breath sharply. Her nostrils flared with outrage.
“I’ve had quite enough of you for today, your reputation is well earned.” Jemma stood and regarded the woman who was now almost hissing like a trapped cobra on Aunt Mary’s sofa. “You do not frighten me,Arabella.You may be the sister of a duke,” her voice was even, “but I will be aduchess.I will not be subjected to your foul temperament. Nor do you have leave to speak to me so.”
Arabella shot off the sofa, her hands curled into fists at her sides. An ugly, mean look crossed over her beautiful features. “Make no mistake, I know what you are.” She made a choking sound. “You are nothing but the daughter of atraitor, by all rights you should be in rags begging in the streets. You lived well for years because ofmyfamily. My parents are dead because of you.” Her voice shook with rage. “You are the daughter of aservant. Amaid. Andyouthink you are good enough to marry aduke?”
Jemma placed both hands across her waist. Dear God, she would be ill. Had her uncle told Nick about her mother? He must have for how else could Arabella know such a thing?
“Did I not tell you,Jem, the Devils of Dunbar know everything?” Arabella smiled gleefully at her. “I will spend every moment dissuading my brother from this marriage. Every moment.” Her head shook, and her earbobs swung against the length of her neck.
Jemma stepped back carefully lest she trip on the rug and embarrass herself in front of this viper. She reached behind to grab at a tasseled cord to summon the butler, pulling so forcefully she thought she might tear the ringer from the ceiling.
Jacobs immediately appeared at the door. His knowing glance flitted over Arabella before looking directly at Jemma, belaying his concern at her evident distress. “Miss Grantly?”
“Please show Lady Arabella out. She's feeling ill and must return home immediately.” Would Arabella contradict her? She thought not.
“Yes. I’ve developed a sudden headache.” Arabella gathered her gloves and stood to face Jemma, tilting forward so that their noses nearly touched. “I wish you had stayed dead,” she snarled before sailing past Jacobs and through the drawing room doors.
“Is there anything I can bring you Miss Grantly?” Jacobs inquired politely.
Jemma didn't answer, she couldn't. Her temples throbbed with Arabella's horrible words. She must speak to Nick and end this foolish stalemate.
The butler nodded and began to shut the drawing room doors.
“Jacobs.”
The doors swung open again, and the butler’s head immediately reappeared. “My lady?”
“Bring me pen and paper. I need to send a message to His Grace immediately.”
21
Jemma paced back and forth for the thousandth time, counting the number of roses adorning the rug beneath her feet. Tugging her dressing gown tighter, she shivered in the damp coldness of the room. England was so bloody frigid compared to Bermuda. Her uncle assured her that over time she would acclimate to the difference in temperature, but Jemma thought she would be forever cold.
A light rain rattled against the window and the sky had gone gray and dark with the coming storm.
Jemma moved before the roaring fire in the hearth, holding out her hands to chase the chill from her fingers. Two days. It had been two long days since she'd sent a note to Nick, asking to speak with him privately. She thought he would reply immediately, perhaps show up demanding to see her at the door of the Marsh town home. When he didn’t come right away, she tried to keep herself busy, reading books she had little interest in, pretending to care which gown Petra would wear to Lady Dobson’s ball and glancing at the door every five minutes in hopes that a message from Nick would arrive. Dinner came and went and still there was no messenger, no word.
She retired early.
After a sleepless night in which she repeated to herself over and over what she would say to Nick, she’d finally given up, rising from her bed to see the day had turned cold and gray. In spite of the weather, she’d walked around the garden, endlessly, thinking of her meeting with Arabella. Had Nick suddenly changed his mind about their marriage and had yet to inform her uncle? She could still see him moving through the crowd at the Cambourne ball and the blonde who trailed him, attaching herself to his tall form.
The longer she waited, the more muddled her thinking became until she now found herself wishing she’d simply appeared at Nick’s home. The sight of her on his front steps might force him to speak to her, or he might have her refused at the door. Arabella would certainly deny her entrance. Nick had been very angry the last time she’d seen him, and rightly so.
“Bloody arrogant man. He wishes to make me suffer.”
