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

me that the earl is kind, not that I don’t know that for myself, but people are strange, don’t you think? Who can ever really know another person? What is in their hearts? In their thoughts? But don’t worry Arabella, he is certain to be kind. If he is not, why then, you can simply shoot him.”

Arabella burst into laughter. How could she not? Her father surely would have enjoyed his first daughter. Why had he kept her away? She said to the earl, “I wonder, sir. Will you be kind to me? Or maybe even you’re not yet certain? Do you think I should be prepared? Do you think I should clean my gun before the wedding? Have it handy just in case you suffer a lapse?”

“Give me a chance first, please, ma’am.”

“I will consider it. Now, I would like to go riding. The sun is out and I wish to take full advantage of it.”

The library doors opened, and Crupper, his back stiff with age and dignity, stepped into the room, cleared his throat, and announced, “My lord, Lady Ann, there is a young gentleman just arrived. A very foreign young gentleman. But he is a gentleman and not a merchant or a shop owner.”

“Thank God for that,” the earl said, the irony floating gently over Crupper’s ancient head. “Just how foreign is he, Crupper?”

“It is awfully early in the morning for visitors,” Lady Ann said, frowning toward the door.

“Who is this young gentleman, Crupper?” the earl asked again, standing now and walking behind the settee, lightly placing his hand on Arabella’s shoulder.

“He informed me his name is Gervaise de Trécassis, my lord, cousin to Miss Elsbeth. He is French, my lord. He is very foreign indeed. He calls himself the Comte de Trécassis.”

“Good heavens,” Lady Ann said, jumping up. “I had believed all of Magdalaine’s family dead in the revolution. Elsbeth, this gentleman must be your mama’s nephew.”

“A nephew, huh?” the earl said. “Then by all means, Crupper, show the comte in.”

A few moments later a strikingly handsome young man preceded Crupper into the library. He wasn’t a large man, barely of medium height and with a slender build, elegantly dressed in buff pantaloons and gleaming black hessians. His hair was black as night, his eyes nearly as dark. The earl found himself looking from the young man to Arabella, to judge her reaction to him.

She was smiling at the comte, but actually, she believed he was a fop—surely that jewel-encrusted watch fob was too pretentious and the several heavy rings he wore made his hands appear nearly feminine. As for his shirt points, they nearly touched his smooth-shaven chin. Then she met his eyes—black eyes filled with intelligence and humor and surely a hint of mystery, a pinch of wickedness—set beneath delicately arched black brows and stylishly disarrayed black locks. He looked both dashing and romantic. She wondered if Lord Byron looked something like Elsbeth’s cousin. Lucky man if he did.

“The Comte de Trécassis,” Crupper announced somewhat unnecessarily. The young gentleman, certainly not much older than Elsbeth, looked at everyone, his smile half apologetic, and yet, Arabella thought, he wasn’t at all apologetic, not really, he was as confident of himself and his acceptance as was the earl, the man she hadn’t known a week ago, the man who would be her husband within another week.

Lady Ann rose gracefully, shook out her skirts, and extended her hand.

“This is quite a surprise, my dear comte. I had no idea that any of Magdalaine’s family still lived. Needless to say I am also pleased.” To her surprise, the comte clasped her fingers and brushed his lips over her palm, in the French style, which, she supposed, should be expected, since he was, after all, French. “The pleasure is indeed mine, my lady. I pray you will forgive my intrusion in your period of mourning, but news of the earl’s death just reached me. I wished to express my condolences in person. I hope you do not mind?” He spoke with a soft, lilting accent that made the three females in the room most readily forgive any supposed intrusion.

“Not at all,” Lady Ann said easily.

“You are the Earl of Strafford, my lord?” the comte asked Justin when he had released Lady Ann’s hand. There was a brief moment of silent appraisal on the part of both gentlemen before the earl remarked with negligent politeness, “Yes, I am Strafford. Lady Ann informs us that you are nephew to the late earl’s first wife.” The comte bowed.

“Oh goodness,” Lady Ann said. “Where indeed are my manners? My dear comte, do allow me to present you to your cousin, Elsbeth, Magdalaine’s daughter, and to my own daughter, Arabella.” Lady Ann was not at all surprised that the charming young man was greeted even by her normally standoffish daughter with a smile that would charm the color off Ann’s roses. Elsbeth nodded, wordless. She drew back a moment, allowing Arabella to speak first.

“Although we are not related, comte,” Arabella said, gazing at him with that open frankness of hers, “I do not take it amiss that you have come.

I am pleased to meet you, sir.”

The comte gave her an engaging smile. He did not kiss her palm, merely bowed to her. Lady Ann believed him very well bred indeed. He then turned to Elsbeth. “Ah, my dear little cousin, I count it my good fortune to at last meet the only remaining member of our esteemed family. You are as beautiful as your mother, your smile as sweet, your eyes as gentle. My father has a painting of her, you see, and I have gazed upon it since I was a small boy.”

Instead of taking her hand, the comte gently placed his hands upon her shoulders and lightly kissed her on each cheek. Elsbeth flushed scarlet, but she didn’t draw back. She stared up at him with something akin to fascinated awe.

The comte stood back from Elsbeth, beamed at the assembled company, and