Arabella stared at the golden letters.
The Duke of Morley, it said in golden cursive.
Philip.
One morning, Lucy had wordlessly shown her an announcement that said that the old duke had passed away. Philip was now the new duke.
Arabella had been shaken.
“Henry mentioned he had something political to discuss with some people, but he might’ve mentioned that he’d invited him. He’s declined, though. He’s still in mourning. Have you heard from — him?”
“No.” Arabella stared blindly at the card. She hadn’t heard a single word. It was as though she’d never met Philip and his children. She’d been throwing herself into a wide range of activities, trying to forget.
Arabella shook away her thoughts and roused herself. “No. I haven’t heard from them at all.”
Lucy reached out for her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s no matter, Lucy. Really.” Arabella’s smile never reached her eyes.
Arabella triedto postpone the moment of going down to greet the guests. She’d even played with the thought of telling them she was indisposed. A headache, maybe. But then there’d be an unequal number of ladies to gentlemen, and that wouldn’t reflect well on the hostess, Lucy.
Arabella sighed. Her abigail helped her put on her golden satin dress and fixed her hair. Then she went downstairs.
The guests were gathered in the blue drawing room. Arabella entered with a polite smile plastered on her face. She scanned the crowd. Everyone was gathered around one tall figure, clad in black.
Arabella froze.
Her heart started to thump slowly, then faster, until it filled her ears. She barely heard her brother say in that bored drawl of his, “Ah, Arabella. Look who is here.”
She already knew. Her heart told her with every slow agonising beat.
“Lady Arabella.” She had goosebumps at the sound of his voice.
She stood in front of him, staring at the white frills of his cravat. “Mr Merivale.” Her voice shook.
“He is The Duke of Morley, now, Arabella. Remember?” Lucy said.
Only now she noticed the black band of mourning on his sleeve. “My condolences. You are a duke now.”
He grimaced. “It seems it can’t be helped.”
The rusty voice of the Dowager Duchess Augusta spoke up. “Yes. Yes. These days dukes are raining from the sky. It is really quite incredible. Never has England been populated with so many dukes. One wonders where they all come from.” She sniffed. Turning to Lucy she said, “Child. Are we to starve here or do you intend to feed us, eventually?”
“Supper’s ready, Grandmamma. Shall we go in?”
The dowager’s eyes roamed. “I shall sit next to that young popinjay over there. He looks amusing.” She pointed to a middle-aged man with a burgundy waistcoat, thereby completely oversetting Lucy’s table placements.
Lucy threw up her hands. “As you wish.” Then her eyes flitted from Arabella to Philip. “You’ll take Arabella in to supper, of course,” she told Philip. As the highest-ranking guest, he’d normally have to take in Lucy.
They ate the first two courses in awkward silence, listening to the main talk at the table, politics. Philip fumbled with the utensils, and once or twice, Arabella tapped inconspicuously at the right fork to guide him.
Arabella fiddled with her food and had no appetite whatsoever.
Neither did Philip. He fidgeted and used the napkin to wipe his forehead instead of his mouth.
“How are the children?” she murmured in–between two bites of venison.
“Fine.” That came out as a croak. He cleared his throat. “They’re fine.”
