Blackwood's Lady. Gail Whitiker
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to laugh. ‘Oh, dear, yes, I think I most probably could…David.’
And so, in a spirit of mutual charity, and much pleased with the events of the last few minutes, Nicola accompanied her fiancé back to the ballroom to await the arrival of their guests.
It did not come as any surprise to David that the evening—and Nicola—were a complete success. Chatting easily as the seemingly endless flow of people made their way down the reception line, David watched his future bride smile and greet their guests, and knew that he had not been mistaken in his assessment of her abilities. The confidence and the poise with which Nicola carried herself would have made any man proud, and, indeed, a duchess could not have been more dignified.
‘Well, David, I am delighted to see you looking so settled,’ the regal Duchess of Basilworth said, breaking into his reveries. ‘And not before time either. I was beginning to wonder whether the fifth Marquis of Blackwood was not destined to become the last Marquis of Blackwood.’
‘I assure you, Your Grace, I had no intention of allowing anything of the kind to happen,’ David said, turning to offer her a warm smile. ‘I was simply waiting until the time was right. And, of course, for the right lady to come along.’
‘Yes, well, I am sure you aged most of the mothers in this room waiting for just the right time and the right lady,’ the Duchess chided him affectionately. ‘I know of at least five young ladies who turned down estimable proposals on the off chance that you might favour them with yours.’
‘Really? I cannot think why. I am hardly such a worthy catch as all that. And I am old enough to be a father to some of these girls.’
The Duchess tapped him lightly on the arm with her fan. ‘I assure you, there was nothing paternal in the way any of them viewed you. Still, I am glad that you have made your choice, and that you have chosen so wisely. Lady Nicola is a sensible young woman with the manners of a queen. Look at her dealing with that odious mushroom, Mrs Bonguard. One would never know that she was anything but delighted to be talking to her.’
‘Perhaps she is.’
‘Fustian, how could she be?’ the Duchess disclaimed. ‘The woman is married to a Cit and thinks that by virtue of her husband’s wealth she is entitled to an entrée to Society. I wonder that someone hasn’t put her in her place.’
David tactfully hid his amusement at the Duchess’s remark. ‘I am sure someone will, Your Grace.’
‘Perhaps, but I fear it will not be your future bride. Too nice for her own good. Speaking of which,’ the Duchess said, her sharp gaze returning to Blackwood’s face, ‘have you seen Arabella Braithwaite this evening?’
‘Only in the receiving line,’ David replied. ‘I intended to speak with her later, though.’
‘Yes, do that, David,’ the Duchess advised. ‘It would be wise for you to settle things between the two of you as quickly as possible.’
‘Settle things?’ David’s brows knit together in confusion. ‘I do not see that there is anything to settle, Your Grace. The day before the announcement appeared in The Times, I sent Arabella a note, personally informing her of my intention to marry so that she would be advised beforehand.’
‘And have you had word from her since?’
‘No, but—’
‘I thought not. I am going to give you a piece of advice, my boy, and you would do well to mind it.’ The Duchess leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Watch her carefully.’
David looked at the woman in surprise. ‘Nicola?’
‘Gudgeon! Arabella. She has enjoyed playing the part of the Marchioness of Blackwood, and she don’t like being displaced,’ the Duchess told him bluntly.
If he hadn’t been so surprised, David would have been tempted to laugh. ‘Nonsense! She can hardly be displaced from a position she never held.’
‘No, but you had her act as hostess at your dinner parties, did you not?’
‘A few, but—’
‘And she saw to the arranging of your receptions and to various other sporting functions, did she not?’
‘Again, yes, but—’
‘Then what would you call that, if not playing the part of your wife?’
‘I would call it lending assistance as a friend,’ David replied calmly. ‘And as a relation. Need I point out that Arabella is my cousin?’
‘Yes, and one ill-content to be so. Oh, come along, David, everyone knows that cousins marry, and pray do not attempt to appease my sensibilities by pretending they do not. I am telling you that Arabella had it in her mind to become the next Marchioness of Blackwood, and if you paid any mind to Society gossip at all you would have known that.’
Uncomfortably reminded of his uncle’s words, David frowned his displeasure. ‘I do not care for rumours and speculation, Your Grace, as I think you know. It is enough for me that Arabella helped me when I asked her to. I am sure she has no amorous intentions towards me, and I can assure you that I have none towards her. Our relationship has never strayed beyond the walls of the dining room, if you follow my meaning.’
‘I know precisely what you mean, Blackwood,’ the Duchess commented dryly, ‘and I am not trying to ascertain whether your conduct towards your cousin is, or was in any way lacking. All I am saying is that spurning an ambitious woman can sometimes lead to trouble. It is entirely up to you whether you heed the warning or not. Now, having said that, I must go and have a word with Lady Fayne. She still owes me fifty pounds from our game of whist the other evening. No doubt she has forgotten again, poor dear. Mind like a sieve. I shall see you at supper, David,’ the Duchess said, before moving away like a regal battleship at full sail.
David watched her go, surprised and not a little troubled that she could have misjudged his cousin so. Arabella jealous? Impossible. There had never been anything in her conduct to suggest that she was in the least interested in him romantically. In fact, David was sure that, when they had last ridden together, Arabella had expressed an interest in Lord Wickstead, a prominent peer with extensive holdings in Kent and a reputed income of some fifteen thousand a year.
‘You look very deep in thought, David. Thinking about your new lady love?’
Startled out of his deliberation, and by the very person he had been thinking about, David turned to see Arabella wearing a gown of dark maroon silk, and looking as beautiful at eight-and-twenty as she had as a bride of eighteen. As the widow of a wealthy man, she could hardly lay claim to the mannerisms of a blushing bride, but there was still a touch of coquetry in her ways that a number of gentlemen found attractive.
To David, however, she was just his cousin Arabella, and he smiled at her accordingly. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking about you, Belle. You are looking exceedingly lovely this evening.’
‘I thought it only fitting that I look my best for my favourite cousin’s betrothal ball,’ Arabella replied in a carefully nonchalant voice. ‘So, you have finally decided to settle down and marry. I am happy for you, David, and delighted that you have found someone with whom to share your life. After all, is that not what we all look for?’
‘It is, and I am pleased to hear you say so, Belle. I would not wish to offend you in any way.’
‘Offend me! My dear man, how could I possibly be offended?’ Arabella said, her laughter just a shade too bright. ‘You have always treated me with the utmost courtesy, and it has been a pleasure to preside over your various functions. But I am well aware that it was only a temporary measure until you found someone who could do it on a more…permanent basis. Which you now have. I just hope you won’t cut me from your life altogether.’
‘Of course I do not intend to cut you,’ David told her, wondering at her making such a remark. ‘We are family, after all. And as an old married man—’
‘You