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

here he was, far from the thick of things, saddled with a damned title and a huge estate. With a frustrated grunt the earl shook his head and returned his concentration to the page of entries. What he needed was Arabella. The one afternoon she had spent with him explaining such things as rents, market prices, crops, and the like, she had spoken concisely and knowledgeably, and he had achieved at least some rudimentary insights. Blackwater, his agent, had been far less helpful. The studious little man seemed to have difficulty in focusing his fading wits on the new century.

Arabella. During the past week, she had been practically as nonexistent as his ghostly visitors. He guessed that she was breakfasting very early in her room, to avoid him. She rode out alone on Lucifer, and on many days did not return until the sun was fading behind Charles II’s cedar in the front lawn.

Wisely, he left her alone. At least he thought he was acting wisely. On many occasions it was Arabella who maneuvered circumstances so as not to be alone with him. He would have felt totally at sea had he not several times felt her gray eyes upon him while he was speaking with someone else.

He started at a distant clap of thunder. Finally a diversion from his wretched task. He rose and walked to the windows. Dark, mottled rain clouds hung low and threateningly to the east. He hoped Arabella—rather, ma’am—wouldn’t be caught in the rain.

Layers of chill, heavy air swirled about Arabella. The storm was closing fast. Yet she did not move from her perch atop the highest outjutting gray stone in the old abbey ruins. How strange it was that her father had always hated the ruins. Even as a child, he had forbidden her to go near them. This was the only instance she could ever remember defying him.

She’d loved the ruins all her life. She smoothed her fingers over the stone, remembering childhood adventures in the ruins.

She was no longer a child, and the ruins were just ruins. She sighed as a raindrop landed on her cheek and dripped off her chin. What was she to do? Of course she knew there was really no choice, but she wanted a choice, a real choice that wouldn’t leave her feeling resentful and bitter.

She thought of Justin, picturing him in her mind. Her twin, she thought, except for that dimple in his chin. He had backed away, leaving her to herself, and she liked him for that. Actually, she liked him for a lot of things—his strength, his humor, his honor. She even liked him when he acted like an ass. She even liked him when he was mocking her or laughing at her or treating her like she was a twit. As husbands went, surely he wouldn’t be so bad. He would be a handful, but having lived with herself for eighteen years, she knew all about handfuls. She smiled this time and a fat raindrop fell right into her mouth. She laughed then, rising reluctantly. She looked toward Evesham Abbey, blurred now through the gathering darkness. It seemed unlikely that Lady Ann and Elsbeth would venture from Talgarth Hall with the storm brewing up so quickly. She had watched them climb into the Strafford carriage several hours before with only John Coachman in attendance. She wondered why the earl had not accompanied them. She was glad that he hadn’t. She was glad she would have him to herself. She shook out her skirts and began to run toward the abbey. She had made her choice. She would marry him.

The earl stood, hands on his hips, under the protection of the columned entrance. “Lady Arabella did not take Lucifer?” he asked James, the head groom. Heavy rain fell in sheets in front of them, and a chill wind billowed the sleeves of the earl’s white shirt.

“No, my lord.”

“Very well, thank you, James, for coming to the house. Fetch a cloak before you return to the stables. It’s going to get even colder.” Damnation. Did she find his company so damned distasteful that she preferred catching a chill? In a very short time his worry for her safety had worked its way to anger. God, he would throttle her for being such an idiot to remain out in such weather.

He was planning exactly how he would wring her neck when through the thick blanket of darkness and rain he made out the vague outline of someone running from the stables full tilt up the front lawn. The figure drew closer, and he saw it was Arabella, skirts held above her knees, racing toward him. She took the front steps two at a time and drew up panting in front of him.

She was a sodden mess. He looked her up and down and said in a voice of great disinterest, “Do you believe it wise to be out in such weather?”

“No, not at all. But these things happen, you know. It’s not important.” Then she had the gall to shrug.

“Just where the devil have you been?”

Arabella swept her soaked hair from her forehead, lifted a black arched eyebrow, and said, “I have been running in the rain. See, my hair and gown are wet. My slippers are soaked. Now, I believe I will go change my clothes.”

He looked at that neck of hers and pictured his fingers tightening about it.

“Really, sir, you shouldn’t be standing out here. It’s cold and you just might take a chill. Just feel the wind.” Give him a crisis and he was the calmest of men. Give him a new situation and he would quickly adapt and show his experience. Give him troops and he would never lost his self-control. She swept past him into the front entrance hall. He stared after her, then yelled at the top of his lungs,

“Ma’am, damn you, get back here! I have something to say to you. Damn you, don’t you shrug at