Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady Page 5

  ‘Rest and a lack of anxiety should help.’ Elliott hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. What Arabella needed was some experienced female companionship, not an unknown husband whose knowledge of childbirth was entirely derived from the stud farm and the kennels.

  ‘A lack of anxiety?’ That expressive smile suggested that she was far from agreeing with his choice of words.

  ‘Now you know that your child will be secure,’ he temporised.

  ‘That is true.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘Elliott, are you quite sure about this? I lay awake thinking that you must be awake too. Awake and bitterly regretting what you had done.’

  ‘I thought you want what is best for your child.’

  ‘I do, but this is not your fault.’

  ‘It is, however, my responsibility.’ Damn it, he was beginning to sound like the prosy bore Rafe had accused him of becoming. ‘A gentleman does not go back on his word.’

  ‘No, Elliott. Of course not.’ Arabella seemed to withdraw into herself.

  So now he felt like a prosy bore who had kicked a kitten. He consulted his notebook. Might as well carry on behaving like a dull, domineering husband—at least that involved no messy, uncomfortable emotion.

  ‘We will call on my lawyer, Lewisham, this afternoon and he will draw up the settlement so that you and the child are protected. I will also organise your allowance and arrange to have it paid to you quarterly, if that is convenient.’

  ‘An allowance for housekeeping?’ Arabella queried. He could see her making herself pay attention and wondered if dragooning her into coming to Worcester had been a good idea. But the alternative was to leave her with Dorothy and there she would have to pretend all the time.

  ‘No, for your personal use. For gowns and whatever else you wish to spend it on. I thought fifty pounds, but you will let me know if it is not enough.’

  ‘A year?’ She was staring.

  ‘No, a quarter.’

  ‘Two hundred pounds? I can afford a maid.’ She looked more stunned than pleased. She was way out of her depth, he realised. That was another thing that had not occurred to him—he was going to have to show her how to go on at this level in Society.

  ‘I will pay for your maid, and later for the nurse and the nursery maid. And an allowance for the child. This is all for you, Arabella. We will discuss the housekeeping later, but you have Mrs Knight, who has been housekeeper for about ten years and she is very experienced. You will not have much to do in that department.’

  ‘I know all about housekeeping,’ she said with a touch of asperity. ‘This will just be a matter of scale. But what am I to spend all that money on?’ Then that unguarded smile reappeared. It was impossible not to smile back. ‘Books! I can join a subscription library and have them sent. And journals. And embroidery silks—I would like to do fine work and not just darning and knitting. And then patterns for baby clothes.’ Her hand came to rest, unconsciously, on her midriff and something twisted inside him that he could not identify. The baby was real, suddenly, not just an abstraction or a problem. Rafe’s child. Elliott felt a strange pang, almost apprehension. He shook his head to clear it.

  ‘And later you should have a dancing master. You will be called upon to dance very frequently, next Season. We will go up to London when you have recovered from the birth. Then you can have lessons, buy your ball gowns and court gown.’

  ‘Court. Balls. Oh, my.’ The smile faded. ‘Elliott, I fear I am well out of my depth.’

  ‘But I am not. I am used to the London Season, I have many friends in Town. You will soon find your feet and become an accomplished hostess.’ And by then she would not rely so much on him. Life could get back to normal. He would attend sporting events, Jackson’s Boxing Salon, his clubs. During the Season they would go to parties and to balls. And she would go shopping, make calls, look after the child. Out of Season they would pay visits and live in the country. It was all very simple. No mistresses, of course. And no flirting.

  ‘Thank you, you are very kind.’ She fell silent and he let his notebook drop on to the seat and instead studied her face.

  ‘You are quite easy to be kind to, Arabella.’ He found that was true. But what would she be like when she had recovered her confidence and found her feet? ‘Any husband would do as much.’ Husband. This time tomorrow, and we will be in church. Will I make a good husband? A good father? There was that odd pang again. ‘We are nearly there. Will you come with me to see the bishop?’

  ‘I think I should.’ She fiddled with her lank bonnet strings. ‘He is going to think me a dowdy match for a viscount.’

  ‘Would you like to buy a new bonnet first? And a new reticule? What you are wearing is perfectly acceptable, if plain.’ Actually it was downright dull, but it would not boost her confidence to have him say so. ‘But if it would make you more comfortable to have something new, we do have plenty of time. In fact, we could see to all your clothes shopping.’ He rather enjoyed shopping with women, even spoiled and petulant mistresses. This country mouse would be amusing, exposed to the modest sophistication of the county town.

  ‘Thank you.’ Arabella bit her lip, obviously not thinking about bonnets. It would be entertaining to spoil her a little, make clothes a source of pleasure for her, rather than a necessity. ‘I do not think we should mention who Papa is to the bishop, do you? I would rather he does not know where I have gone. Not yet.’

  ‘As you wish.’ She nodded and fell silent and there did not seem much more to say. He saw her wipe a tear surreptitiously from the comer of her eye. But there was a great deal to think about.

  ‘Here we are—Worcester. See, there is Fort Royal, just ahead on the right as we go down the hill.’

  Bella sat up straight and told herself to pay attention. Elliott appeared perfectly at his ease, businesslike even, with his notebook and his plans for her. The image she had begun to build of him last night, formed from the glimpses of rueful laughter, the decisive way he had dealt with her, the feeling that beneath the kindness was a man with a hint of danger about him, wavered. This was a rather solid, very responsible man. Just the sort one would wish for in a husband, she told herself.

  This was all so strange, and so dangerously comfortable—an allowance beyond her wildest dreams, a new bonnet, a comfortable carriage, talk of ball gowns and dancing lessons.

  Bella tried to look at Elliott objectively as he stared out of the window, his face a little turned from her. There was something about the way he held himself, something in the concentration with which he watched the passing scene that had her revising her opinion again. No, Elliott Calne was no stolid and indulgent benefactor, however kind and honourable he appeared.

  Seeing the set of his jaw, she thought that she would not want to cross him. There was a feeling of power and force about him that his brother had not possessed, a suppressed energy as though he was confined within the clothing and trapping of an aristocrat, but wanted to shed them, do something explosively physical. He was a man who had an aim in life, not one aimlessly filling time.

  Elliott sat back and took some papers from his pocket, bent over his notebook again and jotted what looked like calculations. Surely not her allowance still? He dropped a letter on the seat. Reading it upside down, she could see the words…your instructions, have sold the stocks at a most advantageous price and have invested in the company you mentioned to the extent of one thousand pounds…

  No. Not her allowance, but business. Her husband must be a rich man. You will be all right, Baby, she promised. You will grow up healthy and protected and you will never know your papa did not want you. I will love you and Elliott will be your papa instead and he will ensure your future. It was easy to be glad of his money and his title for the baby’s sake. But she felt uncomfortably mercenary to accept it for herself. She had sinned and now she was being rewarded. Yet without the marriage her child would not be legitimate, she reminded herself. Her own feelings and sensibilities must come second.

  The carriage
drew up and she looked out to find that they were in a busy street, lined with bow-fronted shops. ‘I am sorry to be such an expense to you,’ she said without thinking. ‘And should we not be in mourning?’

  ‘You are to be Lady Hadleigh and you must do the title credit. There is nothing to thank me for. And we have no family tradition of wearing mourning, certainly not in the country. Come.’ And he held out a hand.

  Bella stepped out of the carriage on to the flagstones. The sudden thought that this was the first step into her new life made her stumble. She was shopping to find a bonnet worthy of a bishop and the wardrobe of a countess. She would do it. And, somehow, she would learn to make this man a good wife.

  Elliott caught her elbow and steadied her. She managed to smile at him and he smiled back, probably with relief that she was not being ill or difficult. A pair of young ladies passed them and she saw them glance at Elliott, their casual gaze sharpening as they looked. He really was a very attractive man, she realised, her lips tightening as she caught him returning the scrutiny.

  He was taller and leaner—harder—than his brother. His smile was as ready, but no doubt far more genuine. Not as pattern-book good looking as Rafe, Bella thought critically, striving for detachment, but more overtly masculine. Dangerous in quite a different way to Rafe because it was less showy. This was a man who was utterly comfortable and confident in his masculinity. Elliott did not appear to feel the need to prove anything to anyone except himself. She felt a flutter of emotion that, for once, was neither apprehension nor nausea. Not, surely, attraction? No, not after what she had experienced with Rafe, she thought, hiding the shiver.

  ‘Here we are.’ Elliott had guided her along the pavement and into a milliner’s shop without her realising. Bella pulled herself together and stared round at the hats on display. She probably looked like a child inside a confectioners, but she could not help herself studying the delicious concoctions with longing.

  ‘Monsieur—but, no, I must say, my lord, is it not so?’ A tall woman of a certain age swept down on them, obviously very familiar with Elliott. Which was interesting. Bella slid a sideways glance at him, distracted from her preoccupations. Did he bring his mistresses in here?

  ‘Indeed, Madame Cynthie. And send all my accounts to Hadleigh Old Hall from now on, if you please. This lady, Miss Shelley, is to marry me tomorrow and she requires a bonnet for that occasion and one to meet the bishop this afternoon.’

  ‘Ah!’ Madame cast up her hands in delight before pouncing on Bella’s bedraggled bonnet strings. ‘And what colour is the wedding gown, Miss Shelley?’

  ‘Er…’ Elliott was no help, he merely lifted his brows at her in an infuriating manner. ‘Green. Pale leaf green.’ That was the gown she had dreamed about while she was waiting for Rafe: a dress the colour of spring.

  Half an hour later the perfect wedding bonnet, wreathed in veiling and tied with bunches of utterly frivolous green ribbon, was in its box and Bella was staring blankly at two more perfect hats. She was not used to choice. The one with the cherry-red ribbons made her rather mousy brown hair seem darker and shinier and was very dignified. But the one with the bunch of primroses tucked under the brim made her eyes look greener and was so pretty she wanted to smile just looking at it.

  ‘I cannot decide.’

  ‘Both, in that case.’ Elliott did not appear bored at having to lounge around a milliner’s shop while she dithered, nor annoyed that he was now buying three bonnets and not two. ‘The red ribbons for Bishop Huntingford, I think. Put it on now. And throw the old one away,’ he added to the milliner. ‘Now for that reticule.’ He waited until they were outside the shop before adding, ‘And a green wedding gown.’

  ‘I will never find anything to fit at such short notice.’ She wanted to say that it did not matter, but, of course, it did. Elliott would be displeased if she did not look the part. The urge to demand that her old bonnet was packed up and returned to her died.

  ‘Nonsense. Here we are.’ Another little jewel box of a shop, this time a dressmaker’s. And another shopkeeper delighted to see his lordship and obviously used to having him on her premises. Elliott met Bella’s questioning glance with a look of bland innocence. Was he keeping a mistress? Of course he was, she must just learn not to mind about it. It would be easier with her emotions not involved; it was not as though she would be a real wife.

  Mrs Sutton, could, of course, assist his lordship. She had just the gown and if Miss Shelley would only step into the fitting room to try it on, any alterations could be accomplished by mid-afternoon.

  ‘And anything else you have to hand that would do,’ Elliott called after them. ‘Morning dress, afternoon dress, walking dress. Miss Shelley’s luggage met with an accident.’

  Bella was almost speechless by the time she emerged, but Elliott was ruthless and took her firmly off to find more shops. Reticule, shoes and gloves were easily dealt with, but the lingerie shop was another matter altogether. ‘No.’ She found her voice and dug her heels in after one glance at the froth of lace and gauze in the window. There were no actual garments on display, but she could imagine them only too vividly. ‘I am not going in there with you.’

  ‘Very well. Will you be all right out here for one moment?’

  ‘Why, yes, but—’ Elliott walked calmly into the shop leaving her, and the laden footman, outside.

  ‘Right, in you go.’ He emerged after a few minutes. ‘Sanders, take the shopping back to the carriage and have it come round to collect Miss Shelley in half an hour. I will meet you at the Royal Oak.’ He tipped his hat to Bella and strolled off.

  It was impossible to vent one’s feelings in front of the footman. Bella knew that she must preserve the illusion that she knew Elliott very well and not protest about having a stranger buy such intimate garments. She managed to keep a smile firmly on her lips, nodded to Sanders and went in.

  It seemed Elliott had merely uttered a sentence containing the words bride, wedding, tomorrow, everything and left. After a few minutes Bella mentally added, outrageous, extravagant and indecent.

  ‘This is transparent,’ she protested, peering over the top of the garment being held up before her. ‘And what is it, anyway?’ She would look like the loose woman she now was.

  ‘A nightgown, madam. Here is the négligé and the slippers to match. I thought this set as well? And this. Oh, yes, and this would be enchanting with your colouring, if I might be so bold. Millie, only the best Indian muslin for Miss Shelley’s underthings, mind. Oh, and that Swiss embroidery, as well. Now, stays…’

  Whenever Bella tried to protest that there was enough the three assistants shook their heads and informed her that his lordship had been quite clear in his instructions and they would not dream of stopping until they had fulfilled them.

  ‘And handkerchiefs,’ the assistant said finally. ‘There. Now we will just pack them up, Miss Shelley, if you would like a cup of tea?’

  It was almost worth it to see Sanders’s face as he was loaded up with dainty packages and bandboxes, striped and beribboned. Almost.

  Elliott was lounging in a private parlour at the Royal Oak, the day’s newssheets spread out on the table, a jug of coffee by his side, but he got to his feet as she entered. ‘Coffee, Arabella?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ Her stomach revolted at the smell. ‘Tea, please.’

  She could almost pretend this was normal, sipping tea in a strange city, alone with a man she had known for less than twenty-four hours, wearing a fashionable bonnet and expecting to visit a bishop. This was the sort of thing—without the bishop, of course—that she had once dreamed of doing with Rafe. The room blurred and she swallowed, disciplining her thoughts.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Is everything all right, Arabella?’ Elliott enquired. ‘Have you finished your shopping?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’ Bella struggled between politeness and honesty. ‘I cannot help but feel that this has been an entirely too-extravagant morning.’

  ‘Did you not
enjoy it?’ Elliott watched her over the rim of his cup and she could not decide whether he was amused or displeased at her lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Of course not.’ I have a mind above such frivolity. But honesty won. ‘No…Yes, I did. Most of it. It was very pleasant to choose nice things.’ She felt herself colour up and his eyes crinkled at the corners in response. Elliott appeared to like her blushes, which was disconcerting. They had amused Rafe too, she reminded herself, sobering instantly.

  ‘It is the bare minimum, of course. But I thought that you would wish to have the modiste call privately at the Hall so you can discuss your requirements when…’ he waved a hand vaguely in front of himself ‘…your figure changes.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Something else to blush about. Perhaps it was better to abandon all pretence of modesty. ‘I think that will happen soon, but the current mode is helpful in disguising things.’

  There was a tap at the door and a waiter began to bring in food. Bread and butter, some cold meats and cheese, fruit cake. ‘You have to eat properly,’ Elliott observed, buttering bread for her when she sat and just looked at the table.

  ‘I know. I was thinking about something else.’ Bella added a little chicken to her plate and told herself that the baby needed the food and she needed her strength. So far, thank goodness, she had developed none of the cravings for strange foods that Polly the laundry maid had reported. Coal and honey had been one messy result.

  But men were not interested in such feminine things, she knew. Elliott was being very forbearing, even discussing her morning sickness. Years of subduing her own feelings and desires came to her rescue as she searched for acceptable conversation. ‘Who will be at the wedding?’ she asked.