“What are you going to do?” Arabella asked.
“It would not be right to forgive her, would it?” he asked. “Some things are unforgivable. What she has done is unforgivable.”
“Yes,” Arabella said sadly. “But your son?”
“She wants to send him back to me, whatever I decide,” he said. “She wants him to have a chance of a decent life. But I cannot take him from his mother. It would kill her. She loves him dearly, you see.”
They sat side by side for a few minutes. He turned to her finally and smiled before getting to his feet. “This is a garden party,” he said. “My pardon, ma’am. I merely wished to show you my paternal pride in my son. I did not intend to make both you and myself gloomy. Shall we go in search of refreshments? This heat must have made you thirsty.”
Arabella took his arm and allowed herself to be led across the lawn to where tables set with white linen cloths were loaded with drinks and delicacies of all kinds.
“There is Lady Berry,” she said, raising one hand and waving to her husband’s aunt. “I should go and speak to her, sir.”
He bowed and released her arm.
“Thank you for showing me the picture,” she said before leaving his side. “I know it must be one of your most precious treasures.”
Lord Astor was leaning against the stone balustrade at the edge of the terrace later that evening, looking out across the moonlit lawn. The air felt delightfully cool after the heat of the drawing room, where all the guests had just finished playing a spirited game of charades. His team, captained by Lady Harriet Meeker, had been soundly beaten by Frances’ team, despite the fact that they had had Farraday, a natural actor, on their side. Frances had had Sir Theodore Perrot.
He was aware of Frances now, walking quietly along the terrace behind him with Sir John Charlton. Several other guests had also discovered the coolness of the outdoors. He wondered about Charlton. He had been remarkably attentive to Frances in the last month. Was he about to offer for her? Somehow Astor doubted it. The man seemed to be puffed up with his own consequence. It seemed unlikely that when choosing a bride he would choose someone of relative social insignificance, like Frances. She was remarkably lovely, of course, but she had no title or large dowry to bring along with her.
Would the girl be disappointed at the end of the Season? Would Arabella have to cope with her tears and laments all through the three-day journey back to Parkland? If she had any sense, Frances would grab Perrot and hang on to him for life. He was clearly besotted with her, for all his apparent interest in Lady Harriet. Besides, wasn’t Lady Harriet promised to someone? He seemed to have heard that Ravenscourt had brought her to London for her come-out but intended to take her back to Yorkshire again for her betrothal.
Lord Astor sniffed the air. He longed to take a walk across the lawn to the rose garden. But not alone. He wanted Arabella with him. She probably would come too if he asked her. No, not probably. She would construe his merest request as a command, and the moonlight and the smell of the roses would be ruined by the distance she would set between them.
He had left her in the drawing room in the midst of an animated conversation with Lincoln and Miss Pope, Hubbard, his aunt, Farraday’s mother, and one or two others. She would have stopped talking and laughing if he had joined them. As she had that afternoon when he had stood outside the rose garden with her and Hubbard. He had left them there eventually almost with the feeling that he was interrupting a lovers’ tryst. And when he had turned later, they had disappeared into the rose garden.
He knew it had not been a lovers’ tryst. Hubbard was still pining for his Sonia, and Arabella was strictly loyal to her marriage. But he still felt sick with ... What? Was he jealous of Hubbard and Farraday and Lincoln and the gangly youth—Browning?
Why would he be jealous? What was it he wanted from Arabella exactly? The smiles and the easy friendship that she bestowed on other men around him? If she treated him as she did them, would he be satisfied?
Lord Astor tested the thought in his mind as he shifted his weight and rested his elbows on the balustrade. He wanted to make love to Arabella. No, he wanted to make lovewithher. He wanted her to love him.
He wanted her to love him? Did he? Why? Surely it could make no difference to him whether she loved him or not, unless he loved her.
He did not love her. That was an absurd idea. She was merely Arabella, the little, only slightly attractive daughter of his predecessor, the addition to his life who had caused him endless upheaval. The woman who wanted his soul.
Of course he did not love her. He wanted to bed her because he had been two weeks without a woman. It was as simple as that. A simple biological urge.
It was almost bedtime. And they were to share a room. They were to share a bed for the first time since their marriage. And he must not touch her. He could not touch her for as long as her hostility lasted. It would seem like rape, even though she was his own wife.
Lord Astor pushed himself away from the balustrade and made his way back inside the house again. He would see if Hubbard or Farraday fancied a game of billiards after most of the guests had retired for the night.
“It is so much like home to stand here and breathe in the smell of clean country air and roses,” Frances was saying to Sir John Charlton. They had walked to the end of the terrace and had stepped onto the lawn that led to the stable block west of the house.
“We could walk closer to the roses,” he said. “I shall pluck one for your hair. There is always the danger of pricking one’s finger, of course, and shocking one’s manicurist, but I am sure we can manage.”
“The rose garden is too far away in the darkness,” Frances said. “We had better walk back to the house, sir.”
“A month in town has not educated you in the ways of the world, has it?” he said. “What a prude you are, Miss Wilson. Come, you must prove to me that you are not quite the country mouse.”
He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. A startled Frances was being kissed before she could even begin to defend herself. She stood still in utter shock and revulsion. His mouth was open over hers, and softly moist.
“We will drive over to my home tomorrow,” he said when he finally lifted his head. “I see that you are learning after all.”
“I really think I should not,” Frances said. “I do not know what I have done to give you the impression that you might take liberties like this, sir.’’
“Are you crying?” Sir John asked, peering at her in some surprise. “You are a tender creature, are you not? Here, take my handkerchief. I had no idea my embrace would be so overpowering to a lady of such tender sensibilities. I will have to remember to be more gentle the next time, until you are accustomed to my attentions. Come, I will take you back to the drawing room. The rose garden will have to wait for another night.”
