Under the light powdering, Arabella had gone white. “I do not recognize myself... you've done well. Thank you, Magdala.”
The housekeeper’s lip twitched, her veined hands fitting an arched silver comb into the tight coiffure. “There will be ladies near your age. I have seen several in town.” A heavily embroidered gold Indian silk wrap was placed around her lady's arms. “You might make a friend.”
“You are my friend.”
“Do not be so silly.” Serious, Magdala pressed a fan to Arabella’s gloved fingers. “These are simple people, with little society, quite separated from the rest of the country. Give them a chance to be dazzled by your title.”
Pressing a kiss to Magdala's thin cheek, Arabella swept past the startled housemaid, eager to get it over with.
Compared to riding Mamioro, traveling by coach, even with a team of four horses, was a painfully slow journey. Over the time it took Payne to convey his cargo to town, Arabella grew listless, bored of the soft velvet seat and stiff posture her attire forced her to maintain. It was almost a relief when the carriage rolled to a halt and Harding's Assembly Rooms waited outside.
The air outside the small hall was full of lively music. Not the sedate politeness Arabella had witnessed from society parties in the early days of her marriage. There was even the sound of laughter—a thing always stifled in the best London circles.
Hugh, doing his best to perform flawlessly, stood rigid in his new livery, having placed the step so the lady might emerge. She climbed from the carriage, servants in powdered wigs parted the Assembly Room’s doors, and before her nerves might ruin the moment, Arabella walked up the steps and into a new world.
The crowded public assembly was embraced by many ranks—wealthier tradespeople, a few splendidly dressed officers, and landed gentry all in attendance—each level of social strata keeping to their respective place careful of intermingling.
It was unusual, irredeemably country, and looked far more pleasant than any London party Arabella could remember attending. For one, not a soul glared at her. Instead those who noticed the newcomer’s quiet entrance looked intrigued.
If the public found her odd coloring unsettling, it was hidden behind the fact her manner of dress and title demanded certain courtesy. And, as she was the highest ranked woman in attendance, no one dared to approach.
Mamas measured her; young girls stared openly at such finery. And the men, even they glanced so long as decency would allow. Arabella attempted to appear aloof to the scrutiny, but something came over the air. Arabella’s practiced expression faltered, and for a brief moment she would have sworn her husband, the man who haunted her dreams, was whispering at her side that she’d been bad.
Near to ruining her composure, Arabella threw a glance over her shoulder. If she could just force herself to recognize that Benjamin Iliffe was long dead, that he was not watching her, and that his voice wasn’t real, everything would be fine. But there was a different man lurking in her shadow. Mr. Harrow had entered, a head taller than all around him, his fine clothes and stark white cravat doing little to diminish his diabolic nature.
With the distance between them Arabella did not know what he said, but the fullness of his lips moved and the crowd parted, the self-indulgent devil materializing completely.
Coming to a stop before her, he bowed gracefully, silently laughing at her proper clothing. “Lady Iliffe.”
“Mr. Harrow.” She offered the smallest of condescending nods.
Whispering low to prevent the nearest from overhearing, he teased, “Now where is the savage Imp? There is no dirt smeared on your cheek. If I did not know that fiery expression, I would think you were someone else entirely.”
Arabella smiled, all teeth and flowery threat. “Shouldn't you be at the Public House chewing on the bones of your people?”
He laughed, looking her over. “And miss your debut?”
Slowly palming her fan, Arabella ground her teeth.
Gregory Harrow was enjoying this too much. “Do not sulk. If you are going to play a proper lady then you must maintain an impassive expression at all times.”
The baroness sneered. “Any other advice you wish to impart, Mr. Harrow?”
Black eyes sparkled, Gregory satisfied. “Do my words offend you? Shall I flatter the Imp instead?”
“Oh, please do...” Arabella’s smile dared him to utter another word.
Words poured out, low and soft, making the praise disturbing. “You flush very prettily when your feathers are ruffled.”
Rouged lips parted, Arabella preparing a scathing reply. But before she could speak, a round woman dressed in green burst forward.
“Good evening, Mr. Harrow.”
“Mrs. Jenkins, it is a pleasure as always.” Narrowing his eyes at the interruption, Harrow turned toward the smiling matron and performed as expected. “Allow me to present Lady Iliffe.”
Delighted, Mrs. Jenkins began to talk all the faster. “Welcome to our humble assembly, your ladyship.”
Happy to see Mr. Harrow's jaw tick, Arabella smiled beautifully and curtsied, encouraging the woman to stay. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Jenkins.