Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter Page B

that, exactly. It’s just that the earl and Arabella—they seemed somehow to smother you with their vitality, their boundless energy. And both of them autocrats, no denying that. I could never quite feel Lady Ann’s personality in Evesham Abbey.”
    “They are terribly alike. Sometimes, Paul, I wonder what I did all those years, what I thought.” She frowned a moment and gazed almost unwillingly down at the huge Deverill family ring on her third finger. Somehow it did not seem to weigh so heavily as usual on her hand. She drew a deep breath and looked up with absolute trust into a face whose every expression she had memorized long ago. “Many times I have felt that I am the child and Arabella, the fond, yet dominating mother. I have felt sometimes very out of place with her, as if she regarded me with a sort of affectionate condescension. You know, of course, how the earl felt.” She found, surprisingly, that she spoke without bitterness.
    Dr. Branyon fought down the familiar surge of anger that had gnawed at his belly so many times during the past years. “Yes, I know.” She didn’t see his jaw tighten or his eyes darken, but he knew that even if she had, it wouldn’t have surprised or dismayed her.
    Lady Ann stopped in the middle of the entrance hall and looked dispassionately about her. There were grand Renaissance screens, with two archways divided by fluted pilasters and enriched with elaborate paneling of splendid craftsmanship. All the trappings of war were displayed on and about the walls—hand breastplates and morions, buff leather jerkins, matchlocks, and many other articles of equipment worn or used by the foemen of the civil wars. Faded Flemish tapestries depicting scenes of battle shimmered in soft glowing patterns. Ancient flambeaux sent spiraling threads of blue-black smoke upward to the blackened beamed ceiling.
    “It is really quite strange, you know,” she said aloud, “but I have always hated Evesham Abbey, though I cannot deny its incredible beauty.
    The history of England still lives in this hall, yet I have no pride in it, no flights of fancy over its grandeur. You said, dear friend, that I am drawing upon Arabella’s strength. I will tell you that if she were forced to leave Evesham Abbey, I would dread to think of what would happen to her.” Lady Ann waved her hand out about her. “Every panel, every armament, shield, every nook and cranny of this house is a part of her. Much of her indomitable will, as you call it, is tied up with this house. So, you see, I must be firm with her, try to make her understand that her father didn’t betray her, that he did what he could so that she would remain here.”
    “So you believe she should marry the new Earl of Strafford as her father demanded?”
    “Oh yes, Paul, she must marry Justin.”
    He hadn’t quite expected this. He looked down at her, wishing for just an instant that he could touch the soft blond hair over her ears. He cleared his throat instead and said, “Judging from the events of the day, I would say that you have your work cut out for you.”
    “Arabella cried,” Lady Ann said. “I could not believe it, but she did.
    Did her rage at Justin bring it out of her? Or were they finally tears for her father? She never cries, you know. I don’t know about this time, but it seems a good sign.”
    She turned then, nodded to the footman who held open the door, and walked into the Velvet Room.
    “Justin, Elsbeth,” she said, giving them both her smile, which was soft and warm and quite beautiful. “I trust we have not kept you waiting overlong.”
    “No, dear ma’am,” Elsbeth said. She walked to her stepmother and asked in her shy voice, “Is Arabella all right, ma’am?” Dr. Branyon said, “She was sound asleep by the time we left her bedchamber. On the morrow she will be quite restored to her usual self.”
    “That could be a pity,” the earl said to no one in particular. “Are you certain, sir? Could she not perhaps