“The best of the situation,” she repeated, grinding her teeth as she thought about his letter. She had crumpled it and burned it immediately, along with any hope of ever seeing him again. After this, she couldn’t imagine ever looking him in the eye again without the overwhelming desire to slap him.
“Will you help me with the veil, Hanna?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Hanna, ever diligent, immediately set back to work.
Emma, who had been gazing out the window, turned, her expression anxious. “He is here,” she announced. “His carriage has arrived, and his uncle has just exited. Oh, he does not look pleased.”
“So, Sir Richard,” Arabella mused.
She had only met Harry’s uncle once, when he had accompanied Harry to finalize the terms of the jointure. He had struck her as a surly man, and it was apparent that he and Harry did not share a close connection. Indeed, she had never seen Harry truly at ease with anyone, except perhaps with his valet, an older man named Brandon.
What did that reveal about Harry? Arabella wondered. But then she chided herself for being hypocritical—she had few close friends aside from her sisters. Could it be that she and Harry were not so different, after all? Perhaps he too struggled under the burden of living with his uncle instead of his parents.
Indeed, she often reflected on the sorrow they both shared—losing their mothers at the tender age of five. While she had also lost her father, in many ways, she had been fortunate. Though she and her sisters often quarreled, they had been her companions all her life, and even her brother, despite their current estrangement, had been a part of her early years.
Harry, however, had grown up alone, without siblings. The thought of such solitude pained her heart.
She looked back at Hanna, her heart swelling with gratitude. “I am so grateful for you,” she said softly, clasping her sister’s hand. Then, turning to Emma, she added, “And for you, too.”
Emma, still at the window, appeared somewhat puzzled by the sudden shift in Arabella’s demeanor.
“I mean it,” Arabella continued. “I know it is a difficult situation, with me being the youngest and marrying first, but I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to help you both find happiness. Until then, please stay with me as often as you like.”
“As often as your husband will tolerate us,” Emma corrected with a wry smile.
“No,” Arabella said firmly. “Harry has assured me that you are welcome as often and for as long as you wish. He has made it clear that he will assist us—all of us. He is not blind to Father’s faults.”
She saw the way Emma’s face softened into a smile, and even Hanna’s eyes grew misty.
“He is a true prince, is he not?” Hanna murmured. “I am not being romantic—it just seems as though he is a wonderful man. You are so fortunate.”
“Fortunate…” Arabella trailed off.
Was she truly fortunate? She had not confided in her sisters, but Harry had made it abundantly clear that theirs would never be more than a marriage of convenience. Nor had she told them that the two of them had scarcely spoken in their last few meetings. It was not for lack of effort on his part; Harry had attempted to engage her in conversation more than once, but Arabella had found herself sinking into a mire of despair, one that seemed to tighten its grip on her with each passing day, drawing her deeper into its clutches as the wedding day loomed closer.
A dreadful fear of making a terrible mistake by proceeding with the wedding had settled upon her. For the first few days after their engagement, she had anxiously awaited her brother’s reply, hoping against hope that he would intervene and rescue her. But when his answer had come, and it was in the negative, she had relinquished all hope, allowing herself to fall into the abyss of despair.
She had kept this news to herself, unwilling to upset her sisters, who were eagerly anticipating a respite, however temporary. She had resigned herself to a life of misery, devoid of love.
“Oh, he is so handsome!” Emma suddenly exclaimed, pulling her out of her reverie.
“Yes, that he is,” Arabella agreed, unable to deny Harry’s striking appearance.
How odd it was that she now thought of him as Harry. On their first walk together, after he had collected her from church, hehad asked her to call him by his Christian name, and she had agreed, though they barely knew one another.
Rising, she made her way to the window. There he was, indeed. He wore tailored black pantaloons, a morning coat, and a crisp white cravat. He was handsome, undeniably so. If only he weren’t so secretive, so determined to keep their arrangement… an arrangement, nothing more.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and her father burst into the room. “There you are,” he said, his voice slurred slightly.
The way he staggered told Arabella that he had already indulged in the fine wine intended for the guests.
“His Grace is insufferable. Richard…” her father grumbled. “He is nitpicking everything we have arranged, wanting to change everything. He thinks he is better than us, but we will show him. You will be a duchess within the hour, and then I will?—”
“Father, please,” Arabella implored, “I do not want an argument to mar my wedding day.”
Her father glared at her. “Being lectured by a stranger in my own home…”
“He is not a stranger, is he?” Emma interjected. “He is soon to be your relation. And Sir Richard is very influential. It would be unwise to upset him.”
