Chapter Four

ChapterFour

Two days had passed since the night she'd spent with Charles and Ariel still couldn't believe no one could read the changes on her face.

She'd woken the following morning deliciously sore in new places; rubbing her thighs together produced an interesting ache where the short stubble on Charles's jaw had rubbed her intimately when he'd… Her cheeks flushed at the wicked memory and she'd pressed her legs together more tightly.

The actual day of her birthday came with rather less fanfare than the night before—it wasn't precisely the thing to be celebrated and called attention to when a woman turned thirty without any marital prospects to speak of. She did not see her brother until it was nearly late afternoon. Both pretended he hadn't been spotted returning from his mistress's home (disheveled and weary) just as she settled into her favorite chair in the library for a reading spell. Arnold, the Earl of Darby, greeted her with a kiss atop her head and dropped a small par- cel in her lap.

"Happy birthday, dear sister," her brother smiled warmly and threw his large frame across the cushions of the sofa. They shared a similar build and stature, but the ton didn't seem to take issue with his appearance. Perhaps he was spared because he was a man or because he possessed a title; either way, she'd never felt it was quite fair.

"What is this?" Ariel grinned and set aside the book she'd been reading.

"You'll just have to open it, won't you?"

"You appear obnoxiously pleased with yourself, so it must be something wonderful."

Her brother simply replied with a lift of his shoulder and focused on fiddling with the gold signet ring he wore on his smallest finger.

Ariel recognized the paper and cobalt blue ribbon as belonging to one of the premier booksellers in London; the Ladies' Reading Society to which she belonged often ordered their materials from them.

Arnold was not an overly demonstrative sibling, so receiving a gift from him once each year was an occasion. Even so, he'd often defer to her "expertise" and simply gift her with additional funds to purchase a special gown or select a piece of jewelry for herself. The fact that he'd gone and purchased something for her was novel and touching.

She'd dropped several none-too-subtle hints about a particular collection of essays she'd been eyeing and, while it certainly was no garment or gem, Ariel didn't care. The fact that he'd—

Her fingers stilled when she revealed enough of the leather cover to read the embossed title.

"‘A Good and Virtuous Lady's Guide to Comportment and Marriageability'?" The title alone nearly caused bile to rise in the back of her throat.

"Hemsley recommended it highly. Gave a copy to his sister and she had three offers in a fortnight."

"Because Amarintha is only eighteen years of age, biddable, and—while sweet—has fewer unique thoughts in her head than the poor pocket-sized dog she drags around." Ariel's annoyance rose as reality settled in her gut.

"No need to be unkind or ungrateful, Ari." Her brother frowned as if she'd stomped all over his gift and then spat upon it for good measure—as if he'd truly believed the book had been a kind and thoughtful gesture.

Ariel took a bracing breath and counted to five before she spoke again. "I appreciate the thought, Arni…but aren't I well past the stage of trying to reform enough so I might make a match?"

"I suppose three decades is rather long in the tooth…" he began thoughtfully; "however, I choose to remain optimistic. As should you, dear sister." He sounded almost chastising as if she were the one who had just likened herself to a nag fit for nothing but being turned out to pasture.

"This is optimism, then?" She did her best to omit the disdain from her voice as she held up the book, but she doubted she was entirely successful.

"I should think so."

"And you believe this book will contain anything I have not already been trained, coached, or shamed to do in these past three decades?"

Arnold finally sat up to face her squarely, rather than reclining like a recalcitrant wastrel. "How do you expect me to know? It was a book and you like books. It came recommended, so I purchased it. I see now that I was foolish to believe I might present you with a gift which might also serve to assist you in your predicament."

Ariel's fingers tightened on the leather-bound book and every fiber of her being wished she could toss it into the hearth and watch it burn. Leave it to Arni to reduce her existence to merely "liking books." It wasn't the first time he'd been dismissive of her enjoyment of the written word. The book she held was about as far removed from Greek mythology and new essays on women's rights as blancmange was from one of Cook's raspberry-lemon tarts smothered in clotted cream and sugar crystals. Her brother had spent years attempting to water down what he believed were the reasons she was unmarriageable.

At sixteen, she'd gently corrected one of Arnold's friend's references to the story of Narcissus and Echo in a poem he had penned and then presented to them. Her brother had then pulled her aside and told her she couldn't possibly believe anyone would take her seriously, so there was no point in speaking up.

At twenty, she'd merely meant to participate in a dinner conversation being had regarding a current court matter of a woman wishing to retain property after the death of her husband. When she'd finished citing several poignant and highly-relevant cases and essays, the en- tire table was silent. The look in Arnold's eyes told her everything she knew she would hear later: Men did not enjoy being made to appear uneducated on a topic, nor was it becoming for a woman to appear so knowledgeable.

She could dance as well as any lady of breeding—in fact, she quite enjoyed it—but it didn't help a man's ego when his partner was a head taller than he…not that there was anything Ariel could have done about that , but she was still somehow at fault.

These were only a few of what she knew her brother (and Society) viewed as her myriad of sins.

Ariel didn't doubt that the book in her hand wholeheartedly corroborated Arnold's stance and she would be, yet again, condemned for having a brain in her head and meat on her bones. How many times had she heard that a woman must be meek, soft-spoken, and defer to a man's knowledge and guiding hand; she must place her husband and her home before all else, she must take great pains to follow Society's standard of beauty to the letter? Merely thinking about it made Ariel's stomach churn like a boiling sea.

"So nice to hear that you view my life as a predicament," she muttered; a much more muted response than the one she'd wanted to deliver, but she'd long learned when to save her breath. To her surprise, this response elicited some tenderness from Arnold. Her brother rose and crouched down beside her.

"Don't be so downtrodden, Ari, you know I cannot stomach it." He took her hands in his and set aside the blasted book. "You're no burden, you know that? I only want you to have the life you deserve." His fingers squeezed hers and he placed a quick brotherly peck on her forehead. "I'll return the book if it bothers you and I'll buy you twenty in its place if it'll make you smile. It was not my intention to make you feel this way today, of all days."

She gave him a tight smile. Arnold could be obtuse, selfish, and too prone to caring about Society's opinions, but he wasn't a bad brother. At only eighteen months apart in age, they were closer than most siblings. She knew he loved her, but that didn't change the fact that his comments and jabs left invisible bruises and sore spots. This book just happened to whack a particularly tender one.

"I have no need of twenty more books," she said, attempting levity.

"Really?" His brows rose in mock shock and then he glanced around the room. "I think there might still be some room up near the ceiling…way over in that corner."

Ariel couldn't resist giggling. She'd amassed quite the collection of books and had gradually filled every shelf in the room. The house may belong to the title and her brother, but these books…these were her treasures.

"Maybe one or two, then," she conceded and was rewarded with a warm smile and a pat on the hand.

∞∞∞

The rest of Ariel's birthday went more smoothly. Two of her friends, Alaina, the Duchess of Morton, and Meredith, Viscountess Sommerfeld, surprised her after luncheon and whisked her away for a few hours of shopping on Oxford Street. Together, they traversed the popular area, arm-in-arm, ducking into whichever storefront caught their fancy. In addition to two books intended to replace the atrocity Arni had given her, Ariel wound up with a new pair of fine gloves and allowed the Lady Morton to talk her into purchasing a golden broach in the shape of an owl with emerald eyes so green they appeared to glow

—the symbol of Athena, Ariel's favorite of the Greek goddesses. She represented wisdom, a wealth of bravery, resourcefulness, and, as a virgin goddess, she had no children of her own so she often formed other bonds in place of a spouse or offspring. Ariel liked to think she had lived her life similarly. Her entire remaining family consisted of her brother, and he would someday need to marry and start a family of his own to carry on the title; she would be relegated to the role of spinster aunt on the periphery. She'd been adopted into a clutch of women and, likewise, she'd adopted them in return. She'd made her own family. And, up until the prior night, she'd also been a virgin.

Her cheeks flared once more as the memories washed over her in a pleasant, erotic tide.

She'd woken that morning feeling forever changed after her night with Charles. Though she liked to believe herself mostly levelheaded, there were several long moments in the watery morning light when she'd wondered to herself how she was supposed to go back to her old life after experiencing such rapture at his hands. How was she supposed to move forward? How was she supposed to forget about him and resume her respectable spinster lifestyle? How could she be content knowing pleasure of that magnitude existed in the world…and she would likely never taste it again? Her eyes had been forever opened to it and there was no turning back.

She realized it made her the worst sort of pathetic ninny, but, even now, she couldn't help but feel that she had shared a connection with Charles, that he'd understood her and liked her as well.

Ariel shook her head to knock some sense into herself. Of course, Charles hadn't felt that way—if that was even his real name! It had been one night and that was it.

One night to last her forever.

∞∞∞

The ballroom was abuzz with excitement, the low hum of voices rising and falling like the drone of an excited bee flitting from bloom to bloom. London's elite had gathered for a birthday ball and Arnold had insisted Ariel accompany him; he'd missed a meeting with the guest of honor and wanted to apologize in person—though, upon their ar- rival, he'd promptly relinquished her into the care of her friend, Caroline, Marchioness Brinley, and ducked off to the room set aside for cards and drinks. She and Caro were taking a turn around the room, waiting for the duke's arrival, when Ariel was suddenly tugged into a secluded corner.

"I simply must know," Caro gripped her hands, her wide hazel eyes sparkling. "How did the other night go?"

"Caro…" Ariel groaned and glanced around to confirm they were well out of earshot of other guests. Her cheeks began to burn furiously and she barely resisted the urge to fan her face. The last thing she wished to do was draw attention to them.

"Well you aren't offering up any details and I've been desperate!" she hissed, not unkindly. "I helped facilitate this little rendezvous and I feel entitled to at least know if it was everything you were hoping for." Ariel chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. Caro was right; Ariel wouldn't have been able to procure Charles' company without Caro's connections. Her husband's illegitimate half-brother had married a very sweet young lady…whose mother happened to run the most illustrious and scandalous bordello in London. It was all a very com- plex, thrillingly scandalous story better saved for another time.

Ariel flushed even more deeply and finally admitted that the evening was so much more than even her wildest imaginings. Caro practically squealed in delight for her friend.

The things Ariel had done…the things Charles had done to her…made her skin flush and just thinking about it made the flesh between her legs grow damp. She'd been brave enough to revisit the memories and try her hand at pleasuring herself. While the memories of Charles' touch did bring her to climax, it was not quite the same as having his hands and his mouth on her. She nearly shivered from the memories.

"So, Adonis lived up to his reputation, then?" Caro asked, wagging her perfectly arched brows a little. Though she was a respectable lady and a mother now, it wasn't difficult to see what a hellion she'd been even a few years prior. She'd been persona non grata amongst respectable circles, but her marriage to another former hell-raiser and subsequent motherhood had gone a long way toward making her more respectable in the eyes of most of Society. Her closest friends, however, knew a bit of the old Caro remained.

"I suppose Charles was an Adonis," Ariel replied thoughtfully, his handsome features playing before her mind's eye.

"Charles? Emily said he went by Adonis." Caro gave a little frown. "Oh? Perhaps Charles is his real name?"

Caro shook her head. "I'm told they never use their true names. Blond? Tall? Blue eyes? Emily inquired about your tastes, but I wasn't sure. He sounded more than passably handsome from her description." Ariel's stomach grew uneasy; Caro continued. "Perhaps he looked different in the dark and just decided to offer you a mundane name to make you more comfortable?" Caro offered. Just as Ariel's confused mind began to pick up speed, Caro grabbed her upper arm. "Oh, look! The duke is arrived!"

Ariel's mind was whirring so quickly she barely had time to register the steadily rising excitement surrounding them. It made some sense that Charles—Adonis…whatever his name was—may have used a different name with her. But then why would Caro have believed his appearance was supposed to be so very different? He was certainly tall, but there was nothing blond about his hair, nor had his eyes been blue. She'd stared into them enough to memorize the honey-gold rings around his pupils.

Ariel missed her friend's next words, but she did her best to respond with a weak smile and look in the direction to which Caro was gesturing. Their fellow guests were gathered like a swarm around a man whom Ariel couldn't quite see for all the plumage and flower arrangements. The duke gradually made his way through the crowd, greeting guests and accepting well wishes, and Ariel caught glimpses of broad shoulders and dark, curly hair…

"I met him at Lady Morton's dinner last month when you had that head cold," said Caro. "If I weren't a very happily married mother, I certainly would have tipped my cap at that tall, dark American."

"A—American?" Ariel had known the new duke to be an American—all of London did—but this, coupled with the odd conversation about Adonis made Ariel's knees weak. Her stomach lurched uncontrollably.

It couldn't possibly be.

There was simply no way.

Improbable.

Unthinkable.

She hardly heard Caro speaking over the growing deafening roar in her ears. She watched the dark head grow nearer, along with her unease. She didn't want to look, but she knew she had to. She had to prove to herself just how foolish she was being. Surely there was no way fancy man Charles was—good lord, he was the Duke of Ryton!