Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

H arry dismounted his horse, handing the reins to one of the waiting grooms. The flickering light in Arabella’s chambers on the second floor drew his attention. A shadow flitted past the window, and he knew she was still awake. At least she was in her chambers, ensuring he could avoid encountering her tonight.

With a heavy heart, he made his way into the house. It had been three weeks since their wedding, and he had endeavored to avoid her as much as possible. It wasn’t because he lacked the desire to be with her. Rather, he knew he had to keep his distance. For the truth was, whenever he saw her, he felt an overwhelming urge to converse, to ask how her day had been. On the few occasions when he succumbed to this desire, they sometimes spoke for an hour, and she would tell him everything she had done throughout the day.

It felt so comfortable, so natural, to sit and talk with her, but he knew he could not make it a habit. It would be detrimental to them both.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Mrs. Blomquist, the housekeeper, greeted as he entered.

“Good evening,” he returned, but his attention was quickly diverted by the sound of music emanating from the music room. “Who is playing?” he asked as the melodious strains of the pianoforte filled the air.

“Lady Emma, Your Grace’s sister-in-law,” Mrs. Blomquist replied.

Harry blinked, recalling the figure he had seen rushing about upstairs. “I thought Her Grace had retired to bed. I could have sworn I saw her upstairs.”

“That would have been Mabel, Your Grace. She is preparing the room for Her Grace and her sisters. They are to have a sleepover.”

Harry paused, wondering if he had forgotten that Arabella’s sisters were visiting. They had been here for tea on occasion, but never for a full night. Not until now.

“Was I informed of this?” he asked.

Mrs. Blomquist shook her head. “I believe not, Your Grace. It seems to have been a rather spontaneous decision.”

He wet his lips, feeling a little uncomfortable at the thought of two additional people roaming the house. He had told Arabella that her sisters were welcome to visit anytime, but he would have preferred to be notified. He might have secured his chambers or study to prevent any accidental intrusions.

“I see,” he muttered, making his way toward the grand staircase. He felt Mrs. Blomquist’s eyes boring into the back of his head and turned around, a smile on his lips. “Yes, Mrs. Blomquist?”

“Nothing, Your Grace. I thought you might wish to greet your sisters-in-law, that is all.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I should not intrude.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, is it not a little late for that? They are your family, and you did make a promise to assist them in finding husbands.” Mrs. Blomquist said this with a gentle firmness that made Harry wish he had not shared such details with the woman—she had the memory of an elephant.

“You are right,” he conceded and turned swiftly on his heels to make his way to the music room.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching as Arabella and her sister Hanna sat on the settee, listening to Emma, their middle sister, play the pianoforte. To say that Emma was accomplished was an overstatement. It was clear she had not received proper instruction, yet her sisters seemed to enjoy her playing.

In fact, there was a warmth in the air that he had never noticed before.

“Your Grace,” Lady Hanna said, suddenly leaping from her seat and bobbing a deep curtsy.

Likewise, Lady Emma ceased her playing and curtsied from behind the pianoforte.

Arabella, meanwhile, rose and folded her hands in front of her lavender-colored gown, inclining her chin in acknowledgment.

“You are late,” she said, her tone light but tinged with reproach. “I had hoped you might join us for supper.”

“I beg your pardon, I was not aware we had company. Otherwise, I would have,” he replied.

“Were you in town until now?” There was a hint of accusation in her voice, though her sisters appeared oblivious to it.

“Business,” he uttered tersely.

“Of course.” She nodded. “Well, I suppose we should bid you good night.”

He noted the stiffness in her posture; she did not want his company. Good. That was good. She was finally understanding that they could not spend time together. But why did it bother him that she didn’t want to be in his company? Why was there a small but ever-growing part of him that longed for her to desire his presence? Was it merely because he had so enjoyed hearing a voice other than his servants’ and his own echoing through the halls?

“But we had hoped that His Grace might join us,” Lady Hanna interjected, a slightly panicked edge to her voice.

“Yes,” Emma agreed. “We had hoped to discuss our future with you.”

Arabella looked at her sisters sharply, but Harry merely nodded.

“Of course,” she said. “The Land of Nod can wait.”

Harry smiled and gestured toward the settee and armchairs. He took a seat while Arabella rose to pour a glass of brandy. To his surprise, she brought it to him, their fingers briefly touching as he accepted the glass. He noticed she wasn’t wearing any gloves, and the warmth of her skin sent a shiver down his spine that he could not quite explain.

“I do not mean to be so forward, Your Grace,” Lady Hanna began, her voice tentative, “but we do not know each other very well. However, I do know that you made a promise regarding helping us find suitable husbands.”

She meant to escape their father’s oppressive household, but he did not correct her.

“I did, and I fully intend to uphold that promise. In fact, I met with Lady Morley in town. Are you familiar with her?”

Lady Hanna and Lady Emma exchanged glances, their eyes widening in surprise.

“She is the premier matchmaker!” Arabella gasped beside him, her voice tinged with awe. “She hardly takes on anyone. Father tried to engage her some years ago, but she refused.”

“Well,” Harry said with a shrug, “your father is not a duke, and back then, you weren’t a duchess, my dear.” He paused as he saw a blush rise to her cheeks at the term of endearment.

Why had he said that? He had never used such words with her. He also noted the way her sisters exchanged glances.

“In any case, Lady Morley has agreed to assist you. Although she has set off for Scotland and will not return for another two months. Once she is back, she will come to our home to meet with both of you.”

“That is wonderful, Your Grace,” Lady Hanna said, her hands folded in her lap. “With Lady Morley’s help, it is certain we will find husbands.”

Lady Emma’s smile faded then. “Father will be very upset that you managed something he could not.”

“Leave your father to me. Do not fret, I will speak with him. Pray, how are things at Hayward Manor?” Harry asked, bracing himself, for he had already heard that the Earl of Worcester was worse now than he had ever been.

Indeed, the Earl had his voucher to Almack’s revoked just the previous week due to bringing alcohol into the premises. His seat in the House of Lords had been taken for some time, and other lords had been attempting to compel him to attend through various means of pressure.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lady Hanna said. “We are more than grateful. I hope you know this.”

“Well, we are related by marriage now.” He shrugged, aware that it sounded much colder than “We are family.”

His choice of words had been deliberate; he had to maintain some distance between himself and these three young ladies—and Arabella, in particular. His fingers still burned with the memory of her brief touch, and he was acutely aware of the way her chest rose and fell as she sat beside him.

How easy it would be to take her hands now, to kiss her fingertips. But he couldn’t. And not just because her sisters were present.

“Well,” Lady Emma said with a yawn that seemed somewhat contrived, “I suppose we should retire for the night. It is rather late.”

Arabella sat up straighter. “Go to bed? But I thought you wanted to play that sonata…”

“I did, but my hands are rather fatigued,” Lady Emma explained. “Perhaps Hanna and I could go and prepare some hot chocolate?”

She raised her eyebrows at Hanna, and Harry knew what she was trying to do—give him and Arabella some time alone.

He hoped, for a moment, that Lady Hanna would be too dense to pick up on the cue, but she was not. In fact, she immediately rose and turned to Arabella. “We will bring you a cup to your chamber,” she offered, and then the sisters quickly curtsied once more and rushed out of the room.

Suddenly alone with Arabella, Harry shifted and rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension that always seemed to grip him.

“I am glad your sisters are here. You seem pleased with their company,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “I am pleased with their company,” she replied. “It can be rather lonely when one’s husband is never around.”

Harry stiffened. “Arabella, I told you what this marriage was. I…”

She raised a hand, silencing him. “I do know, and I am grateful for everything you have done, particularly for aiding my sisters. And for the canopy above my bed.”

Harry blinked, realizing they had yet to discuss the gift he had bought her. He hadn’t anticipated her expressing her gratitude, though he had harbored a faint hope. When her thanks hadn’t come, he reminded himself it was just as well. There was no need for unnecessary conversation between them. The gift had been rather impulsive, and now he worried it might have been too grand.

“Well, I recall you mentioning how your brother sent you one, but your father took it away. So, I thought it would be a kindness. Besides, the old hunting motif was rather dreadful. My uncle had it installed for reasons known only to him.”

“I see. Well, I am grateful. I do enjoy gazing up at the stars.”

“I did request that they embroider actual constellations on the fabric,” he added, turning slightly so that he was facing her.

“I noticed,” she replied, a small smile playing on her lips. “The Pleiades are there, and Orion, and the Big Dipper. They’re not in the right places, but the number of stars is accurate, and it is a comfort to look at them.”

“I am glad. I have observed, on occasion, when I return late, that there is a candle flickering in your bedchamber, and I imagine you lying there, gazing up at the stars.”

Why did I just say that? She does not need to know that I think of her when I see the light in her window. This will only lead her to misconstrue things .

Yet, it was true. Sometimes, Harry lay in his bed, staring up at his plain red velvet canopy, picturing Arabella beneath the blue one adorned with stars. He imagined it brought her comfort, that the flickering candle on her nightstand chased away her fear of the dark.

“It does bring me comfort,” she admitted, her voice soft. “And I must say, I am grateful there is no restriction here on the beeswax candles. As you know, I am not fond of the dark, but my father allowed us only a limited number of candles each week. I could not leave one burning for long, and often, in the dark… all manner of fears would rise.”

“Have you always been afraid of the dark?” he asked, his tone gentler than he had intended.

She tilted her head slightly, absentmindedly playing with her earlobe, rubbing it between her fingers. “I believe it began when my mother passed away. When she died, the servants prepared the parlor, and she lay at rest there. I remember the windows were covered with black crepe, and the entire room was so dark. One night, I snuck down on my own because I couldn’t believe she was truly gone. She looked as though she were merely sleeping. I crept to the parlor, but the darkness was so overwhelming… I couldn’t even see my mother. It was as though she had been swallowed up,” she murmured, her speech quickening as the memory flashed through her mind.

On impulse, he placed a hand on her arm, his thumb grazing her skin as she spoke. It was a mistake, sending the wrong signal, but he couldn’t bear to sit there and hear her distress without attempting to comfort her.

“There was a gust of wind that howled around the house,” she continued, her voice trembling, “and it sounded like a wolf or a ghost. I remember crying, and I must have been screaming, for Alexander—who was only fifteen at the time—came barreling down the stairs. He picked me up and carried me back to my chamber. My father appeared from… I know not where and began shouting because of the commotion. I was so afraid. He didn’t see me or Alexander—I believe he was too deep in his cups to notice, but I recall the shouting, the howling wind, and the darkness. Ever since, I have been terrified of the dark…”

As her words trailed off, they both became acutely aware of his hand resting on her arm, a strange and fragile connection between them at that moment. He quickly withdrew his hand and shifted in his seat, putting more distance between them.

“What a dreadful experience,” he said, his voice strained.

He wanted to tell her of his own fear of water, born from the tragic drowning of his parents—how he couldn’t set foot on a ship without breaking into a cold sweat. But the words wouldn’t come. It would only close the distance between them, giving them something more in common.

And why did he long so much to confide in her? Why did he ache to share things he had hardly shared with anyone, not even Helen?

“Harry…” she began, but he had already risen from his seat. Whatever she intended to say remained unspoken as he turned and bowed.

“The hour is late, and your sisters will be waiting with the hot chocolate upstairs. If you will, I brought back a box of chocolates this morning. It is in the sideboard drawer. Please, take it upstairs and share it with your sisters.”

“Harry,” Arabella called, rising as she reached for his arm, but he stepped back, subtly shifting his body to the right, out of her reach.

“You must go to sleep. I have a meeting first thing in the morning. Good night, Arabella,” he said, slipping out of the room, loathing himself for leaving her standing there alone, likely feeling foolish at his rejection.

But he could not yield to these growing feelings. It wasn’t right for either of them. The more he stayed away, the better it would be for her.

She might not see it now, but he was doing her a kindness by distancing himself, he told himself as he made his way up to his bedchamber, once again alone.