Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

“ W hat are you doing, Your Grace?” Arabella demanded, looking at her hand before raising her eyes to meet his.

His piercing blue eyes seemed to bore into hers, as if he were looking into her soul. It was a disconcerting feeling, and yet she could not help but notice his handsome features—and the skin beneath his hand grew warm, much warmer than it should have.

No. It is me. I am flushed.

Faith, was her visage reddening? She could not allow herself to be embarrassed in front of him, not now.

“Let go,” she said.

His grip on her hand loosened, but only a fraction.

“I need you to know I am not the enemy. I mean you no harm,” he murmured.

As his grip loosened further, his touch became almost a caress, sending a tingle through her entire body.

“I know that,” she said, though the words came out thick like molasses.

He still hadn’t let go of her hand, and the air between them grew warmer by the minute. Why hadn’t he let go?

“Good. I do not want you to resent me before we are even wed.”

“You’d rather I keep my resentment for when we are wed?” she asked, the challenge coming out of her mouth before she could stop it.

His face contorted as if she’d slapped him.

“I’d rather you never resent me. I did not want this, and neither did you, but it shall all be well,” he said before releasing his grip on her hand.

She didn’t move for what felt like an eternity, her eyes locked on his. Why did he have to be so handsome? This would have been so much easier if he were an ugly toad, not a handsome prince. Or if at least his personality matched his looks. For so far, she’d heard nothing that redeemed him, nothing that would make her look forward to becoming his Duchess.

Well, the escape from her father’s house was tempting, but no… she didn’t want to marry him.

“Excuse me,” she muttered and dashed out of the study, determined to get away from him.

Arabella hurried back to her chamber, her heart pounding. Harry’s touch still lingered on her hand, a phantom sensation that made her cheeks flush with frustration. As she reached her room, she threw open the door and stepped into the oppressive warmth, the fire blazing in the hearth despite the summer heat. She slammed the door shut behind her, the wood scraping against her back as she slowly sank to the floor.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she buried her face in her knees, overwhelmed by a flood of emotions she couldn’t quite name.

What is wrong with me? And what is wrong with him?

Harry’s intense gaze had unsettled her, those piercing blue eyes seeming to look right through her, stripping away her defenses. She’d felt exposed under his scrutiny, yet she hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away.

She knew Harry wasn’t her enemy. She kicked out her foot in exasperation, her heel striking the floor with a dull thud. The truth was, she knew who her true enemy was—her father. But Harry’s presence only made everything more complicated, more uncomfortable. His insistence on helping her, on protecting her, was as intrusive as it was unsettling. His reputation and true personality were so shrouded in mystery that she didn’t know who he truly was, nor if she could trust him. The only thing she knew about him for certain—other than what was written in the gossip columns—was how handsome he was.

Arabella rolled her eyes.

Stop making a cake of yourself…

She tilted her head back, staring up at the ceiling as if it might hold some answer to her inner turmoil. But her gaze fell instead on her writing desk, and a surge of determination replaced the confusion.

Alexander.

Her brother had promised that if things ever became unbearable, he would come for her and her sisters.

Surely, being forced into marriage is unbearable enough.

Without hesitation, she crossed the room and pulled out a sheet of parchment. She dipped her quill into the inkpot, her hand trembling slightly as she began to write:

Alexander,

You must help me. It is a dire emergency. Father has arranged my marriage to the Duke of Sheffield against my will. He pulled a cruel trick, trapping both the Duke and me in an impossible situation, and now the whole ton knows about it.

The Duke has agreed to this match, but only to save me from ruination. He has no love for me, nor I for him. His reputation is well known—he is a cold, sullen man, feared rather than loved. He is high-tempered, and I cannot imagine a life with a man who finds marriage so detestable.

You promised to help us if things became unbearable, and now that time has come. You must come back to England and take me away, to Ireland, where no one knows me. I can live in peace, free from this dreadful fate.

Please, Alexander, do not abandon me now.

Desperately,

Arabella.

She paused, rereading her words. Anger flared in her chest, hot and fierce. Alexander had been living carefree for years, while they’d been trapped here. The thought only fueled her frustration, and she dipped the quill into the inkpot again, more forcefully this time, splattering droplets across the bottom of the page. She crossed out her name and continued, not wishing to write a postscript when there was so much more to say.

You must come for us. We are adults now, and we cannot be forced to return to Hayward Manor if we leave. He does not want us here any more than he wanted you.

Our situation has only worsened with time. We are prisoners in our own home, suffocated by Father’s temper and the dark cloud of his reputation. You cannot leave us here to suffer. It is your duty to save us now.

Please, Alexander. We need you.

Arabella.

She scattered sand over the ink to dry it, then folded the letter and sealed it. In her desperation, she dashed downstairs and handed the letter to a footman, instructing him to take it to the post first thing in the morning.

As she stepped back into the hallway, the tension that had gripped her began to ease. Her eyes landed on the music room, and she headed toward it, seeking solace. There, in a glass-fronted cabinet, sat her mother’s violin. The sight of it stirred a bittersweet longing in her heart. She pressed her hand against the glass, remembering the joy she’d once felt when secretly playing it, the way it had made her feel closer to her mother.

But those memories were tainted by the day her father had discovered her with the instrument. His fury had been swift and brutal, and the violin had disappeared for years, only reappearing recently. She traced the outline of the violin with her finger, her heart aching for the lost connection to her mother.

A creak in the floorboards behind her snapped her out of her reverie. She turned, and for a fleeting moment, her eyes locked on Harry’s. He stood in the doorway, hat in hand, his coat draped over his arm, as if he were on the verge of leaving. He nodded to her, and she returned the gesture, her expression guarded. He hesitated, his gaze lingering on her, but then he turned and walked away.

A moment later, the front door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughts, the echoes of the day’s turmoil still reverberating in her heart.