about all of this?"
Marcus was silent. He remembered Arabella's eyes when he said he was about to inherit, the way the green had deepened to jade. So she truly was nothing more than a money-grubbing little schemer, he thought with disappointment, and his burgeoning feelings for her must be nothing more than physical attraction, and the tendency to imbue the desired object with graces and attributes.
Eveleen O'Clannahan was watching him, he could feel it, and he met her steady gaze.
"You blame her for her ambition?" the young woman asked.
"How can I help but blame her for fortune hunting? You yourself called the mother mercenary. I despise people who only care about wealth. It was one of the reasons I was not sad to leave this country."
"And no one anywhere else in the world does this, or something very like it? Do parents in other lands not wish their children to marry well, to be wealthy and happy, whatever that means in another culture? Somehow, I cannot believe it."
"But we have made a sport of it," Marcus protested. "Like hunting. In England we hunt for the inedible merely for the sport You will not find anyone in Canada doing that. There, we hunt to eat. There is so much about this country I do not like." He watched Arabella sail by again, her whole focus on the young man holding her in his arms. He felt his stomach convulse in a queer twist of jealously and revulsion. "How can she," he burst out, crossing his arms across his chest. "She is so intelligent and witty and beautiful and lively and—and she is worth more than that, damn it, so much more!"
"Do not condemn, sir, what you do not understand. I urge you to get to know her before you decide what she is. You could be surprised." Eveleen, with one last look at Marcus, turned away from him and drifted off to join other friends.
Five
Arabella buried her nose in the massive bouquet of white roses that sat on a table in the hall, and sniffed deeply. What a glorious scent! She eagerly read the card and felt a jolt of disappointment. They were from Lord Bessemere. She should be in alt, for such an offering meant she had made an impression on him, though a personal visit would have been better. And she had liked the young marquess. He was not bad-looking, she supposed, and his character was one of studious gentleness. For the longest time he had seemed almost frightened by her gay chatter until she had hit on the subject of books, not something she knew a lot about, but that was never a reason to shy away from a subject, she had learned, since gentlemen invariably wanted to lead the talk anyway. Then his eyes had lit up and the rest of their dance, a waltz, had gone well.
No, her disappointment was not because she had not liked him; she had. But she had hoped a floral offering would come from another gentleman she had spent some time with. She searched among the bouquets and cards. Sanders, MacDonough, Lewisham, Andrews— not there.
Nestled among the larger bouquets, though, she saw a tiny basket and fished it out. It was small, just the size of her two cupped hands, and it was made of some strange white bark and with a twig handle, all lashed together with what looked like leather thongs. It had a kind of rough, sturdy beauty all its own. Nestled in the basket, in moss, was a small bouquet of golden buttercups. A moment of fierce longing swept over her, a longing for her childhood. These were the very same flowers she and True and Faith, True's younger sister, had been used to gather down by the river when they were all children at the vicarage where True's father made his home.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes as she turned the basket around, noting the fascinating texture of the bark and how it contrasted with the soft waxy petals of the buttercups. Who sent this? She saw a note slipped down in the basket and pulled it out. It was damp from the moss, but she could still read it.
"To the Belle of the Ball, from a secret admirer."
Her heart thudded. It
Marcus was silent. He remembered Arabella's eyes when he said he was about to inherit, the way the green had deepened to jade. So she truly was nothing more than a money-grubbing little schemer, he thought with disappointment, and his burgeoning feelings for her must be nothing more than physical attraction, and the tendency to imbue the desired object with graces and attributes.
Eveleen O'Clannahan was watching him, he could feel it, and he met her steady gaze.
"You blame her for her ambition?" the young woman asked.
"How can I help but blame her for fortune hunting? You yourself called the mother mercenary. I despise people who only care about wealth. It was one of the reasons I was not sad to leave this country."
"And no one anywhere else in the world does this, or something very like it? Do parents in other lands not wish their children to marry well, to be wealthy and happy, whatever that means in another culture? Somehow, I cannot believe it."
"But we have made a sport of it," Marcus protested. "Like hunting. In England we hunt for the inedible merely for the sport You will not find anyone in Canada doing that. There, we hunt to eat. There is so much about this country I do not like." He watched Arabella sail by again, her whole focus on the young man holding her in his arms. He felt his stomach convulse in a queer twist of jealously and revulsion. "How can she," he burst out, crossing his arms across his chest. "She is so intelligent and witty and beautiful and lively and—and she is worth more than that, damn it, so much more!"
"Do not condemn, sir, what you do not understand. I urge you to get to know her before you decide what she is. You could be surprised." Eveleen, with one last look at Marcus, turned away from him and drifted off to join other friends.
Five
Arabella buried her nose in the massive bouquet of white roses that sat on a table in the hall, and sniffed deeply. What a glorious scent! She eagerly read the card and felt a jolt of disappointment. They were from Lord Bessemere. She should be in alt, for such an offering meant she had made an impression on him, though a personal visit would have been better. And she had liked the young marquess. He was not bad-looking, she supposed, and his character was one of studious gentleness. For the longest time he had seemed almost frightened by her gay chatter until she had hit on the subject of books, not something she knew a lot about, but that was never a reason to shy away from a subject, she had learned, since gentlemen invariably wanted to lead the talk anyway. Then his eyes had lit up and the rest of their dance, a waltz, had gone well.
No, her disappointment was not because she had not liked him; she had. But she had hoped a floral offering would come from another gentleman she had spent some time with. She searched among the bouquets and cards. Sanders, MacDonough, Lewisham, Andrews— not there.
Nestled among the larger bouquets, though, she saw a tiny basket and fished it out. It was small, just the size of her two cupped hands, and it was made of some strange white bark and with a twig handle, all lashed together with what looked like leather thongs. It had a kind of rough, sturdy beauty all its own. Nestled in the basket, in moss, was a small bouquet of golden buttercups. A moment of fierce longing swept over her, a longing for her childhood. These were the very same flowers she and True and Faith, True's younger sister, had been used to gather down by the river when they were all children at the vicarage where True's father made his home.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes as she turned the basket around, noting the fascinating texture of the bark and how it contrasted with the soft waxy petals of the buttercups. Who sent this? She saw a note slipped down in the basket and pulled it out. It was damp from the moss, but she could still read it.
"To the Belle of the Ball, from a secret admirer."
Her heart thudded. It
Similar Books
