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

Leaping off her horse as if she were a man. And look at the new earl—encouraging her, that’s what he’s doing. Laughing at her antics. It sickens me and it will sicken him. Men do not like women to be strong and outspoken. He will give her orders soon enough, once they are married.

And she will obey because she has no choice. Magdalaine had no choice. I know.”

Elsbeth wasn’t listening. She was thinking with a slight twinge of envy that she was older than Arabella, yet she felt so terribly—unfinished, as if God hadn’t cared enough to give her due consideration, to wonder perhaps if she could be prettier, even wittier in her wit, which, in her view, was nil. Well, she was wittier than poor old Josette.

Elsbeth drew her thoughts back to the present. Her hands were still poised motionlessly above her stitchery. It was quite ridiculous, she decided, to be jealous of Arabella. After all, it was she, Elsbeth, who had the ten thousand pounds. All free and clear. She didn’t have to do anything. It was hers, simply hers. If Arabella did not comply with her father’s instructions, she would have nothing. Arabella would have to marry the new earl. Elsbeth shivered. She found the new earl almost as terrifying as the huge bay stallion he rode. He was so large, so overwhelming. He seemed to fill the room when he walked into it. She felt a sudden fearful tremor that caused her small hand to tremble. It was a delicious sort of fear that somehow caused her breathing to quicken. Oh dear, that wasn’t right, was it? She grasped her needle firmly between her fingers and quickly set a stitch of bright yellow silk.

She did not look up until Lady Ann and Dr. Branyon came strolling into the Velvet Room, side by side, their heads close in quiet conversation.

She sensed something about them that was somehow different, something that she did not quite understand. Not that it mattered. They were old.

Perhaps they were talking about recipes for joint pains.

“Bravo, Elsbeth. You play Mozart beautifully.” Dr. Branyon cheered and clapped loudly.

The earl was frankly surprised. Wasn’t it unusual that such a painfully shy girl should play the pianoforte with such passion? Good God, what was Elsbeth? Underneath all that bland exterior was something wild and exciting.

Elsbeth rose from the piano stool and blushed pink with pleasure at the smiling faces. And they were smiling at her. Approving of her. It was true that she had played particularly well, losing herself upon several occasions in the thrilling tempo, the deep resounding chords. But had they really enjoyed it?

It was drawing near to ten o’clock in the evening and Lady Ann was on the point of excusing herself when the earl turned to Arabella and asked politely, “It is now your turn, ma’am. Won’t you play for us?” Arabella laughed until tears were swimming in her eyes. “Were I to play, sir, you would most certainly suffer for your gallantry. You would be praying for cotton to stuff in your ears. You would be praying that I would expire over the keys.”

“Now, Arabella, that is not quite true,” said Arabella’s loving mother, who tried desperately not to be biased. She thought of all the torturous hours she had stood behind Arabella at the pianoforte, loving her even as she had gritted her teeth. But she had tried. But just look at the woeful result she had achieved.

“Oh, Mother, isn’t it time to face up to the truth? Despite Mother’s heroic efforts,” she added over her shoulder to the earl, “I could never even execute a simple scale without falling over my fingers. I couldn’t have recognized the key of a tune if my life had depended on it. Mother, come on, admit it, it is a dark day in her family’s history. I am truly sorry, but there it is.”

“But, Arabella, you do everything so very well,” Elsbeth said, quite shocked that her perfect younger half-sister wasn’t perfect in everything. “No, I can’t believe that you do not play magnificently. You are being modest. Come, show his lordship how talented you are.”

“Dear little goose,” Arabella said fondly to her half-sister, “you have every scrap of talent in the Deverill family. I would much rather listen to you than have everyone howling at me with their hands over their ears.

And trust me on this, Elsbeth, the earl would not hesitate to howl.” Elsbeth said hopefully, “Perhaps you play the harp?”

“Not a chance.”

Lady Ann threw up her hands. “I am undone. All my efforts went to nothing. And the good Lord knows, I did try. Whatever is a mother to do now?”

“You’re to love me and praise me in every other endeavor,” Arabella said, as she rose quickly and hugged her mother. “Even if everyone else disagrees with you, you’re to hold steady. All right, dearest?”

“I will, my love,” Lady Ann said. “No matter how Justin complains about your win over him today in your horse race, I will tell him that you are perfect and there’s an end to it. I will tell him not to whine or cry foul. I will tell him that your playing any instrument at all is a treat for him to enjoy until he cocks up his toes. Is that all right?”

“Tell him all those things, Mama. It is perfect. You are the most perfect of mothers.”

After Lady Ann dispensed tea, Dr. Branyon asked the earl, “How did you find your first night spent at Evesham Abbey?” The earl sat forward in his chair and clasped his hands between his knees. “It is strange that you should ask, sir, for I did spend a somewhat unusual night.”

“You did that on purpose,” Arabella said, wagging a finger at him. “You wanted attention and you got it through a display of drama. It was rather good, I must admit. Look at you, just like an