“I understand that my father is difficult, but he is still my father, and I love him. I do not appreciate such talk.”
“I beg your pardon,” Sir Richard offered, though his tone was far from sincere.
Arabella had endured quite enough. She had spent only a few minutes in his company, but already the prospect of remaining any longer was unbearable. She looked at Harry, who, to her surprise, gave her an almost imperceptible nod, as if granting her permission to do what she knew she must—escape the room.
“Well, it was nice to see you, Sir Richard,” she said, doing her utmost to sound sincere. “I must prepare for Lady Morley’s ball.”
Their guest rose, seemingly unsurprised by this development, and gave her a curt nod.
“Very well, I shall see you next time. Enjoy your ball, and do let Lady Morley know that Sir Richard said she had better do right by your sisters if she wishes to be invited to my masquerade this year,” he said, chuckling once more.
Arabella noted the faint smile he directed at Harry, who looked miserably back, and then she slipped out of the room.
She lingered at the door a little longer, unsure what to do as silence descended on the room. She imagined the two men were engaged in a silent standoff and wondered how often such moments had occurred between them in the past.
“Richard, you must leave Arabella alone. She is my wife now. She did not desire this union any more than I did, but it is what it is. She cannot be blamed for who her father is.”
“Very well,” Sir Richard conceded with a wave of his hand. “But perhaps it is something you should discuss with Worcester. After all, he did call on me.”
“He called on you?” Harry repeated.
Arabella gasped, but she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. Her father had gone to see Sir Richard?
“Yes,” Sir Richard confirmed. “He was as drunk as a wheelbarrow, of course, but he complained that you were holding all three of his daughters hostage and were refusing to return them. Then he raged about the poor matches Lady Morley was making for them.”
Arabella heard a chair scrape across the floor, followed by a deep sigh. Peering through the crack in the door, she saw that Harry had sat down again, his head resting in his hands.
“And what did you say to him?”
“Why, I set him straight, of course,” Sir Richard replied with a dismissive chuckle. “I told him that he could not hope to do better than to have one duke in the family. Who has ever heard of a man marrying off three daughters to dukes? It is ludicrous! Given his reputation, I told him that he had better take whatever he could get, whether he liked it or not. Eventually, he left. I trust the older daughters have returned now?”
“They have,” Harry said with a nod. “He came here, and we talked. I made it quite clear that they are all under my protection.”
This declaration elicited another chuckle from Sir Richard.
“Under your protection? Have I never heard the like! You do have a penchant for taking care of young ladies, do you not?”
“Someone must,” Harry replied, bitterness seeping into his words.
“Judging by the way you speak of your new wife and the manner in which you look at her, I gather you have some affection for her,” Sir Richard observed.
“And so?” Harry said.
Arabella’s lips curled into a small smile at his reaction.
“And so nothing,” Sir Richard replied, his voice suddenly sharp. “Does she know of your undying love for that imbecile?”
Arabella’s eyes widened in shock. Of whom was he speaking?
“Do not speak of Helen in such a manner,” Harry retorted sharply.
Arabella’s heart stuttered as she heard the name. Helen. That name again. She remembered the letter that had arrived—the one about Helen. But who was she?
“I wish you were not quite so attached to her,” Sir Richard continued, his voice laced with disdain. “Everyone else has given up on that hopeless case long ago, but you cling to some misplaced affection for her. Why?”
“That does not concern you,” Harry replied curtly. “Perhaps if you opened your eyes and actually got to know her, you would see how lovable she is. How kind and sweet. She brings me nothing but joy when I see her.”
Arabella’s throat constricted as she heard her husband speak so fondly of another woman. Helen’s company brought him joy? What of her own? Had she been right all along? Was there indeed another woman? Not the one in the drawing she had seen—she had been wrong about that. But was there another?
