Belle of the ball by Donna Lea Simpson Page A

had to be from Westhaven; the rough bark was as unique as he was, rugged yet attractive. Somehow she knew it was his offering, and her heart was touched. As she stared at it she relived the thrill of his hands touching her, his gray eyes looking deep into hers, as though he were seeking her very soul. She had never been stirred like that, had never felt as though—
    "What is that you have there?"
    Her mother had come upon her, her slippers silent on the marble floor of the hall of their borrowed May-fair town home. Flustered, Arabella said, "Oh, 'tis nothing, just a ... a small basket with a nosegay of buttercups from . . . from a secret admirer, it says."
    Lady Swinley grabbed the basket, glared at it, and said, "Paltry offering! Who would send such a piece of trash?"
    "I ... I don't know."
    "Buttercups? Must be a poor man."
    "I think it's rather pretty, don't you. Mother?"

    "Pretty?" Lady Swinley's hard eyes narrowed. "My girl, any man who was really interested in you would send something more than mere country flowers. He must know you will be besieged with offerings, and any man who wanted to fix your interest would try to dazzle you. Buttercups? Ha!"
    Frowning, Arabella considered her mother's words and reluctantly decided they held a great deal of sense. Should a man not be trying to impress her? Was that not the game men and women played, until each could single the other out from the crowd?
    Lady Swinley threw the basket down on the table and sailed away, calling over her shoulder, "Come, Arabella. We have much to do today, so no dawdling."
    But Arabella could not resist rescuing the small basket "Brock," she said to a footman passing, "could you have this taken up to my room, please? Have Annie set it on my bedside table."
    "Yes, miss," he said, taking the basket.
    For the rest of the day Arabella was on tenterhooks, wondering if he would visit. Gentlemen came and gentlemen went, but Westhaven did not make an appearance. Oh, well, she thought. She had mentioned that she was to attend the Tredwell musicale that evening; maybe he was invited, too, and she would see him there. She did not want to think why she was so intent on seeing him again. He was an infuriating man, alternately teasing and maddening and charming. And there could be no future. He had said himself he was poor enough that a couple of hundred pounds seemed like a lot of money to him.
    But he was not at the Tredwell musicale that evening, nor at the Silkertons' Venetian breakfast the next day, nor at the Smythe-Jones ball the next evening. But Bessemere was, and so was Lord Pelimore.
    Lady Swinley, impressed by the massive bouquet of white roses Bessemere had sent to Arabella, advised her to try for the younger, wealthier man, but if there was no definite sign within days that he was attempting to fix his interest with her, she was to transfer her attentions to Lord Pelimore, who was, after all, a baron and quite wealthy. She sat with Lord Pelimore, danced with Bessemere, and spent some time talking to both.
    With Lord Pelimore she merely listened while he retailed story after story of his youth and the high adventures he had had. By his own admission he had been a rascal, a bon vivant of the old king's time, when every gentleman still wore a wig, and men's clothing was silk and lace to rival a lady's. She could not help but let her mind wander to the memory of a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in sober black, so masculine as to make all other men in the room appear effeminate. Could she picture him rigged out in lace and satin, carrying the de rigeur gentleman’s accessory of the last century, a fian? No, she could not, but if he did he would somehow contrive to make it look manly, like the brilliant feathers of a peacock beside the dull plumage of a peahen.
    The next night at the Connolly ball, Eveleen sought her out in the withdrawing room while Arabella removed her shawl and left it with Annie, her maid. Lady Swinley had already hurried off to