“I do not go to Weston myself,” Mr. Hubbard said, “ever since he looked down his nose at me as if I were a worm when I offered to pay a bill on delivery of a waistcoat. A true gentleman will leave his bill unpaid for at least half a year, it seems, and then pay only in part.”
“Well, how very ridiculous,” Arabella said. “I do not blame you for refusing to encourage such nonsense, sir. So you see, Mr. Browning, you must not always fear that you are unfashionable. You must remember that Mr. Hubbard has a different tailor, and no one would say that he is unfashionable, would they?”
Mr. Browning looked even more cheered. Mr. Hubbard’s cynical mouth quirked into a smile for a brief moment as he looked at Arabella’s bright expression.
“May I take this seat, ma’am?” Lord Farraday asked, indicating an empty one beside Arabella. “I was walking all morning—on Bond Street again. I cannot think what keeps those ladies of mine so busy at the shops. After admiring a fan in one, they can walk the length of the street admiring a dozen others, and then decide to return for the first one, only to discover when they get there that it is not nearly as pretty as they had thought.” He grinned.
“Please do sit down,” Arabella said. “We simply must find out from you if you patronize Weston, my lord. If you do not, I believe we have won our point, for your coat looks remarkably fashionable.”
“It takes two footmen and his valet to pour him into it,” Mr. Hubbard said languidly.
They all laughed, and Arabella caught her husband’s eye again across the room.
The guests began to drift away eventually, and finally even Lady Berry took her leave, after promising to call with her carriage the next morning to take her two charges to the library to exchange their books.
Frances was starry-eyed. “Sir John Charlton is to return later with his phaeton to take me driving in the park,” she said. “Which of my new bonnets should I wear, Bella? The blue, do you think? My lord, are you quite sure that the blue parasol I brought with me to town is quite fashionable enough for Hyde Park?”
Lord Astor turned to his wife with a smile when Frances’ anxieties were finally allayed. “Would you like to put on one of your new bonnets while I have the curricle brought around, Arabella?” he asked.
She flushed. “Oh, I am sorry, my lord,” she said. “I have just told Mr. Browning that I will drive with him.”
He inclined his head. “I hope for your sake that Mr. Browning can drive rather better than he dances,” he said.
“Oh, I am sure he can, my lord,” Arabella said, her expression serious. “He did not have the advantage of a dancing master, you see, because his grandfather raised him and would never send him away to school or allow him to associate with other children of his own age. But I am sure that he learned to ride and handle a conveyance.”
“Well,” Lord Astor said, “you had better go and get ready, then.”
“It is all right?” she asked, looking anxiously up at him. “Aunt Hermione has assured me that it is quite unexceptionable for a married lady to be accompanied by a single gentleman in a public place. She even said that a lady will be considered positively rustic if she does not cultivate male acquaintances and that her husband will find her tiresome if she relies on him always to escort her everywhere. You are not angry, my lord?”
“Of course I am not angry, Arabella,” he said. “Run along now. Perhaps I shall take you and your sister to the theater again tonight. There is to be a different play.”
“Oh.” Her face looked stricken. Her fingertips covered her mouth. “Mrs. Harris has invited Frances and me to accompany her and Adelaide—her daughter and Frances’ friend, you know—to Mrs. Sheldon’s literary salon. The conversation there is very superior, she says, though it sounds to me as if it might be tedious. I would far prefer the theater, my lord, but I cannot go back on my word now, can I?”
“Of course you cannot,” Lord Astor said with a somewhat stiff bow. “I am pleased that you are so well-occupied, Arabella. If you are sure that you have plenty of diversions for the rest of today, I shall keep a dinner engagement that I was prepared to break.”
“By all means, my lord,” she said, brightening. “Please do not let me be the cause of your breaking your promise.”
Less than an hour later, Lord Astor was on his way to his mistress’s house, congratulating himself on having a part of the afternoon and all of the evening in which to relax and enjoy her company. And he would not even have to feel the guilt of wondering if Arabella was at home, bored and unoccupied. He did not drive through the park, although doing so would have taken him just as quickly and by a far more scenic route to his destination. Somehow he had forgotten that the sky was blue, the sun warm, and the trees and grass and flowers dressed out in all their spring freshness.
Chapter 8
ARABELLA was seated at her escritoire in the morning room, trying yet again to write the letter to her mother that had not been written the day before. If only there were not so much to think about, she felt, the task would be very much easier. She had succeeded in describing the Marquess of Ravenscourt’s ball, but there was so much more to write about. Poor Mama and Jemima had never had the chance to know what life was like in town—Papa had never been willing to make the journey even when he and Mama were younger.
But truth to tell, Arabella could not concentrate on bringing alive the splendors of the Season because she was beset by so many conflicting feelings that had no place in her letter at all. She was excited, depressed, contented, and unhappy all at the same time, and it was difficult to sort out her emotions and know what the exact state of her life was. In retrospect, life at Parkland seemed a time of incredible peace and placidity.
She had been happy in the last few days to find that after all she was being accepted by theton. She had been somewhat afraid that she would be rejected as someone far too young and uninteresting to mingle on terms of equality with members of society. She had been convinced that people would consider her something of an impostor in her role as Lady Astor.
But it was not so. She was receiving numerous invitations, and several of them were for her alone and did not even include her husband. She knew that he had other interests. And Lady Berry had told her that husbands did not like to feel obliged to spend a great deal of their time with their wives. Lord Berry himself was living proof of that. And so she was pleased to find that she could live a life of her own and release her husband from any sense of duty that might keep him at her side. After feeling some guilt at having to reject two of his invitations the day before, it had been a relief to know that after all he had asked her only out of politeness. He had had a dinner invitation that he wished to keep.
A relief, yes. But also a little depressing. In the long-ago days of her youth she had thought of marriage as a companionship. She had pictured herself with a husband who never left her side and one with whom she could share a deep and personal friendship. That was long before her agreeing to marry Lord Astor, of course. Even so, it was depressing to know that marriage was nothing like that at all. At least the marriages she had seen in the past few weeks were not. And hers was not. Lord Astor was kind. He always made sure that she was fully occupied and properly clothed. He had bought her gifts. But for all that, there was no closeness between them. And how could there be when she was so inferior to him in every way? She continued to lose weight, but the loss of a few pounds would not transform her into a beauty.
Her problem, Arabella decided, trimming her pen and preparing to write to her mother about her drive in the park the afternoon before, was that she was not always willing to accept reality. And she was very perverse. She had always felt decidedly uncomfortable in the presence of his lordship because his splendor was a continual reminder of her own plainness. The present turn of events, then, should thoroughly satisfy her. It seemed they were about to lead their own fairly separate and busy lives. There was no reason whatsoever why the idea should depress her.
She had found poor Mr. Browning, with his dreadful lack of confidence in himself, very easy to talk with during the drive in the park, and she had not given one thought to her own lack of beauty while she was with him. So there was no reason why she should have wished she was with her husband, torturing her mind for ideas of what to say to him. And at the literary salon the evening before, she had had a long and comfortable conversation with Lord Farraday and avoided having to listen to the languishing poet who tried so hard to look as gloomy and romantic as Lord Byron was reputed to be. Why should she have wished her husband was there?
And he had not come to her the night before. He was not at home when she and Frances returned—she had asked the footman who admitted them. She had lain awake for a long time expecting him, wondering if he stayed away because he thought she was asleep, wondering if perhaps he had not come home at all. She had missed him. She had become accustomed to his visits. She liked them.
She must finish her letter before Frances came downstairs, Arabella thought, bending determinedly over it again. Once Frances came, there would be no more writing. Her sister would be either too excited or too unhappy about the news that was awaiting her. Either way, there were bound to be tears.
