Arabella gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. Cecilia knocked over her teacup, sending a brown stain spreading across the linen tablecloth. Lady Hawthorne stared at the silver tray as if it contained a live explosive. "He is here!" Lady Hawthorne hissed, her voice vibrating with a terrifying, sudden, manic energy. The political maneuvering theory vanished in an instant.
Survival instinct took over. "He realized his mistake. He has come for Arabella. Quickly, Arabella, bite your lips to bring out the color. Cecilia, go upstairs.
You are too young for morning callers of this magnitude. Higgins!" "Yes, my lady." "Tell his grace we will be down in exactly four minutes. Serve him the good sherry, the one we hid from my husband." "I beg your pardon, my lady," Higgins said, his voice terribly gentle.
He did not move. He looked past Lady Hawthorne, his eyes settling directly on Anna. "His grace was quite specific. He has requested an audience solely with Miss Anna." The room went entirely, violently still. Anna felt the blood drain from her face.
She looked at her mother. Lady Hawthorne's mouth was slightly open, a portrait of absolute uncomprehending shock. "That's a mistake," Lady Hawthorne managed to say. "Higgins, your hearing is failing." "My hearing is perfectly intact, my lady," Higgins replied evenly.
"He said, and I quote, 'Please inform Miss Anna that if she does not come down in five minutes, I will come up and fetch her myself, regardless of the scandal it will undoubtedly cause.'" Anna closed her eyes. Her chest tightened. It wasn't a joke. It wasn't a political maneuver. He was actually here.
She stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floorboards. She didn't look at her mother or her sisters. She smoothed her hands down the front of her plain brown dress, feeling the rough fabric against her palms, grounding herself. "I suppose," Anna said, her voice remarkably steady despite the frantic pounding of her heart, "I should not keep him waiting." She walked past her frozen family, out the door, and down the long hallway toward the drawing room.
Every step felt like walking to a scaffold. She paused at the double doors. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and pushed them open. Arthur was standing by the fireplace. He was not wearing the severe black and silver of the previous night.
He wore a perfectly tailored riding coat of deep charcoal, buff breeches, and tall boots that carried the faint scent of leather and dust. He looked entirely out of place in their frayed, heavily floral drawing room. He looked too large, too real. He turned as she entered. His eyes swept over her, taking in the severe bun at the nape of her neck, the lack of rouge on her cheeks, the thoroughly uninspiring brown dress.
He did not grimace. He smiled. It was a small thing, barely there, but it reached his eyes. "Miss Hawthorne," he said. "Your Grace." Anna stayed near the door.
"To what do I owe the honor of this unprecedented panic you have caused my household?" "I came to take you for a drive." "A drive?" Anna crossed her arms defensively.
"In a carriage, through the park?" "In my phaeton, and yes, through the park. It is a remarkably sunny day. I am told people do this sort of thing." "I do not do this sort of thing," she said flatly.
"I sit in the back of drawing rooms and tell gentlemen what my sister's favorite flowers are." Arthur took a few steps toward her. The casual distance between them vanished. "I know nothing about flowers, but I do know that my horses are growing restless, and I have a distinct desire to spend the next hour in your company. Will you come with me, Anna?
Or must I endure another lecture from your mother?" He used her Christian name.
It was entirely improper. It sent a jolt of electricity straight down her spine. She looked at him. Really looked at him. There was no mockery in his expression, only a quiet, immovable certainty.
"Let me fetch my pelisse," she whispered. The open carriage was a master class in intimidation. It was glossy black, perched precariously high on bright yellow wheels, pulled by a matching pair of terrifyingly large, restless black geldings. Arthur handed her up onto the leather seat with effortless strength. He did not bring a groom.
It was just the two of them, exposed to the world high above the cobblestones. As they entered the gates of Hyde Park, the effect was immediate. The fashionable hour was just beginning. Carriages lined the pathways, women twirled parasols, men tipped their hats, and the moment the Duke of Westford's distinctive yellow-wheeled phaeton appeared, every single head turned. Anna felt the physical weight of a hundred stares hitting her at once, it was suffocating.
She shrank back against the leather squabs, wishing she could dissolve into the upholstery. She could hear the whispers rising over the clatter of hooves like the buzzing of a disturbed hive. Who is she? Hawthorne's middle girl. The plain one.
Why is he with her? Arthur's hands were steady on the leather ribbons. He guided the massive horses through a tight turn, his profile sharp and unbothered. "They are staring," Anna said, her voice tight.
"Let them," Arthur replied, not looking away from the path.
"They are wondering why the most powerful man in England is driving through the park with a woman who looks like a governess." Arthur pulled back slightly on the reins, slowing the horses to a gentle walk. He turned his head to look at her. The midday sun caught the harsh angles of his face. "They are wondering," he corrected quietly.
"Why a man who has his pick of the glittering flock has chosen the only bird with the sense not to sing for her supper." Anna let out a harsh, involuntary breath.
"Do not romanticize me, your grace. I am not a rebel. I am just tired." "Arthur." "What?" "My name is Arthur.
If we are to be the subject of London's gossip for the next decade, you might as well use it." Anna stared at his gloved hands. "You are playing a very cruel game. I don't know the rules. I don't know what you want from me." He pulled the horses to a complete stop beneath the sprawling branches of a massive oak tree, ignoring a passing barouche entirely.