“Have you always been afraid of the dark?” he asked, his tone gentler than he had intended.
She tilted her head slightly, absentmindedly playing with her earlobe, rubbing it between her fingers. “I believe it began when my mother passed away. When she died, the servants prepared the parlor, and she lay at rest there. I remember the windows were covered with black crepe, and the entire room was so dark. One night, I snuck down on my own because I couldn’t believe she was truly gone. She looked as though she were merely sleeping. I crept to the parlor, but the darkness was so overwhelming… I couldn’t even see my mother. It was as though she had been swallowed up,” she murmured, her speech quickening as the memory flashed through her mind.
On impulse, he placed a hand on her arm, his thumb grazing her skin as she spoke. It was a mistake, sending the wrong signal, but he couldn’t bear to sit there and hear her distress without attempting to comfort her.
“There was a gust of wind that howled around the house,” she continued, her voice trembling, “and it sounded like a wolf or a ghost. I remember crying, and I must have been screaming, for Alexander—who was only fifteen at the time—came barreling down the stairs. He picked me up and carried me back to my chamber. My father appeared from… I know not where and began shouting because of the commotion. I was so afraid. He didn’t see me or Alexander—I believe he was too deep in his cups to notice, but I recall the shouting, the howling wind, and the darkness. Ever since, I have been terrified of the dark…”
As her words trailed off, they both became acutely aware of his hand resting on her arm, a strange and fragile connection between them at that moment. He quickly withdrew his hand and shifted in his seat, putting more distance between them.
“What a dreadful experience,” he said, his voice strained.
He wanted to tell her of his own fear of water, born from the tragic drowning of his parents—how he couldn’t set foot on a ship without breaking into a cold sweat. But the words wouldn’t come. It would only close the distance between them, giving them something more in common.
And why did he long so much to confide in her? Why did he ache to share things he had hardly shared with anyone, not even Helen?
“Harry…” she began, but he had already risen from his seat. Whatever she intended to say remained unspoken as he turned and bowed.
“The hour is late, and your sisters will be waiting with the hot chocolate upstairs. If you will, I brought back a box of chocolates this morning. It is in the sideboard drawer. Please, take it upstairs and share it with your sisters.”
“Harry,” Arabella called, rising as she reached for his arm, but he stepped back, subtly shifting his body to the right, out of her reach.
“You must go to sleep. I have a meeting first thing in the morning. Good night, Arabella,” he said, slipping out of the room, loathing himself for leaving her standing there alone, likely feeling foolish at his rejection.
But he could not yield to these growing feelings. It wasn’t right for either of them. The more he stayed away, the better it would be for her.
She might not see it now, but he was doing her a kindness by distancing himself, he told himself as he made his way up to his bedchamber, once again alone.
CHAPTER 20
“Ican hardly believe it. What good fortune! Your husband truly is a wonderful man, Arabella,” Hanna gushed.
“Well, at least he’s practical,” Emma drawled.
“Of course, you would appreciate that in a man,” Hanna teased, sticking out her tongue.
The two sisters giggled while Arabella, seated on the windowsill, watched them, deep in thought. Yes, it was kind of Harry to arrange for London’s premier matchmaker to help her sisters find husbands and to manage their father, but it did not improve her situation.
He continued to keep his distance from her, and whenever she thought they were making progress, he withdrew again, just like tonight. She had shared something deeply personal with him, and he had seemed on the verge of reciprocating beforeclamming up and refusing to elaborate. More often than not, he left her to her own devices.
Could it be that he simply… did not like her?
“Bella,” Emma called, snapping her fingers, which instantly made Arabella’s hackles rise—she detested having her attention drawn in such a manner. “What is it? Were you woolgathering?”
“Thinking about Harry, I’m sure,” Hanna noted with a smirk.
“I was, but not for the reasons you think. I have a mind to ask him why he does not like me…”
“Why wouldn’t he like you?” Emma asked, raising her eyebrows. “What is this tomfoolery? I will confess, he hasn’t been the picture of affection, but he certainly seems to care about you. He didn’t have to engage Lady Morley to help us, after all. I believe it’s partly because he cares for you and knows it will make you happy if we are happy and can get out of Hayward Manor.”
Arabella shrugged. “He certainly does not wish to keep me company, that much I know. He avoids me, goes into town, and meets with who knows whom.”
Hanna looked at her as if she was befogged. “What do you mean? Surely he goes to meet his business partners, like he says. His uncle does have an estate in Brixton, doesn’t he? He would have to travel through town—it’s the quickest way.”
Arabella hesitated before admitting, “I’ve overheard some of the servants whisper that his visits are of a more personal nature.”
“A personal nature?” Emma repeated, tilting her head to the side. “What do you mean? Do you think he’s seeing another woman?”
Hanna gasped and shook her head. “Surely not! You’ve only been married a few weeks. It would be an outrage! And who are these servants? Haven’t they learned not to gossip?”
