Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

dropped, now two-legged, to the carpet. Suddenly she felt drained of all anger. She stared down at the stool blankly. What an incredibly stupid thing to do. She stared down at the crumpled envelope she held fisted in her hand.

Her father’s letter. He would explain that it was all a mistake. He would explain that everything that Brammersley had read he had changed. He loved her. He wouldn’t give her over to a stranger. She walked to her small writing desk, seated herself, and with steady fingers gently drew out a white sheet of paper. She felt a tightening in her throat at the sight of her father’s bold handwriting. She formed her letters in exactly the same economical manner, with the same flamboyant strokes, for he had taught her. So many years ago. A lifetime ago and now he was dead.

She shook her head and began to read.

My dearest child,

That you are reading this letter means that I am now gone from you. If I know my Arabella, you are in a rage. You believe I have betrayed you. No doubt your grief at my death is distorted by anger and misunderstanding of my instructions. As I pen this letter to you, you and your mother prepare to go to London for your first Season.

Arabella stared at the paper, suspended in surprise. Why, he had written his will but five or six months ago. She gazed back at the letter and read rapidly.

I myself prepare to leave for the Peninsula to assume the command of an area that is noted for the brutality and bloodiness of its conflicts. If I am fortunate enough to return from this assignment, you will not be reading this letter, for I will tell you of my wishes in person. I ramble. Forgive me, daughter. You have by now met your second cousin and my heir, Justin Deverill, or, more appropriately, I should write Captain Justin Deverill, for he is a brave and intelligent military man himself.

Either rightly or wrongly, I kept you from meeting him, indeed, even knowing of his existence, until you reached a marriageable age. Do not blame your mother for not telling you that there was a male heir to the earldom, for I forbade her expressly to do so. Evesham Abbey is your home and I could not bring myself to inform you that there was someone who could possibly usurp your position. Forgive me for what I believe to be a necessary deception.

As to your second cousin, I have been in close contact with him for some five years now, critically following his career, to determine in my own mind if he were indeed the man I wished to sire my grandsons. I assume that you have found the physical resemblance between you to be striking.

I conclude that you cannot think him ill-looking, for to do so would be to insult your own fine features. He is much like you and me, Arabella; fiercely loyal, proud, and possessed of the Deverill stubbornness, the Deverill strength. I beg you do as I have instructed. Evesham Abbey is your home. If you do not wed your second cousin, you will forfeit your birthright. I don’t want this to happen, but I know you, know that you will see my fondest wish as a command that is meant to crush you and deprive you of what is rightfully yours. It is a command, Arabella, but I do it for you and for myself.

You have much to think about. If you decide to follow my wishes, you will have given my life meaning. Never forget that as you struggle with your conscience. Never forget as well that I have loved you more than any other human being in the world.

Adieu, my dearest daughter.

Late-afternoon sunlight sent shafts of dazzling gold from between the low clouds to blend with the forty stalwart red brick gables, coloring them a deep titian. Arabella walked swiftly across the green lawn, unmindful of the gay parterre with its crisscrossed walks hedged by yew and holly, and the yellow daffodils that clustered about the middle in colorful profusion. Nor did she pay any attention to the great massive green cedar set in the middle of the west lawn, said to have been planted by Charles II.

She walked to the south of the old abbey ruins, where the ground rose gently. She turned off the wide path into the neatly plotted Deverill cemetery. She made her way through the straight rows of Deverills from generations past to the very center of the cemetery to where her father had erected his own Italian marble vault. The archangel Gabriel hovered overhead, his white stone wings spread protectively over the heavy oaked Gothic doors.

Arabella tugged open the wrought handles and slipped into the dimly lighted chamber. She sank wearily down to the cold stone floor beside the earl’s empty coffin. Her long slender fingers, with infinite sadness, slowly traced out each individual letter of his name.

Dusk was shadowing the season-faded names on the gravestones when the earl eased open the vault doors and stepped quietly inside. His eyes widened to adjust to the dim light, and he made out Arabella curled up like a small child, asleep, her feet tucked up beneath her skirts and her arm resting gently atop her father’s coffin. She looked vulnerable. She looked utterly helpless. He hated it, hated what he must do, hated now what he had promised to do five years before.

He moved to her side and dropped to his knees. His eyes followed the unremitting black of her gown to where it cut a severe line at her throat, casting a dark shadow over her pale cheeks. She whimpered in her sleep, her hand fisting for an instant, then easing again. Pins had worked themselves loose and her dark hair fell in thick waves over her forehead and across her shoulders, hair the blackness of his own. He saw that she didn’t have