Free Belle of the ball by Donna Lea Simpson Page A

card. "Ah, what luck." He took her little pencil and wrote in his name, with a flourish. "There. Walk with me, Miss Swinley."
    With a look of apology to Lord Pelimore, Arabella stood and put her arm through Westhaven's. In truth, she could think of nothing she would like more than to walk with him and talk with him—infuriating man though he was—but at what cost? She had been close to a proposal, she thought, even though she had been trying to avoid it. She must have been mad; she should have encouraged Pelimore, should have allowed him his say. Then she would now be engaged and could relax for the rest of the Season with the security of betrothal. What had she been about, discouraging the man she felt that inevitably she must marry? Lud, but she was so confused! It was almost as if her mind and her heart worked independently, battling over what she should do and what she wanted to do.
    Her mother would be furious if she heard that Lord Pelimore had been interrupted in the middle of an "interesting conversation," and by a nobody like Mr Marcus Westhaven. Well, Arabella rationalized, if Pelimore was close to a proposal, he would not give up merely because of this. It never hurt the gentlemen to have to chase a lady; it was all part of the sport, as much as her own flirtatious ways were. And her mother need never know, after all. All would be well. And in the meantime, she might as well enjoy this half-hour with Mr. West-haven.
    She walked away, gazing up at his stern profile, the hard line of his jaw jutting aggressively forward. From her angle she could see the silky sheen of his long hair and wondered if it felt like silk to the touch. Absurd thought, but still, her fingers twitched with longing. She tightened her hold on his arm.
    If only he were rich, she thought, with a deep sigh of regret. If only.
    Marcus stayed silent at first as he strolled the ballroom with Arabella Swinley on his arm, conquering the unreasoning anger he felt. For some reason it infuriated him to hear a bright, vivacious, intelligent girl like Arabella Swinley making up to that old relic. Lord Pelimore. He knew the truth, had heard the gossip. Pelimore was looking for a wife to bear him an heir because he couldn't stand his nephew, who stood to inherit the title and estate after the death of the baron's only son.
    But did he have to choose the best and the brightest of London belles for such a mundane chore as filling his nursery? Let him choose some other girl, not this flower, this blooming, lovely English rose! And speaking of flowers—He guided her to a private nook and released her arm. He gazed down at her. "Did you receive my flowers?"
    Stiffly, she said, "That little basket? Yes."
    Snob, he thought fiercely. He was wasting his time on her, and she did not deserve his consideration. "That 'little basket,' as you so slightingly call it, was handmade of birch bark by a native girl of seven, and given to me before I left as a precious gift! She is the daughter of my friend, George Two Feathers, and I cherish it" He heard die grating anger in his own voice, but didn't give a damn about how he sounded. What had possessed him to give Mary's sweet gift to someone who could not appreciate its value?
    She had the grace to look abashed and her cheeks flamed red. She glanced around their private alcove, avoiding his eyes. Her lips trembled, and she stuttered, "I d—do like it, Mr. Westhaven, I ... I p—p—put it on my b—bedside table."
    He swallowed hard. What was it about her that made him want to shake her and then kiss her? Why did he bother with her at all? And yet he could not seem to stay away; something about her drew him. He softened his voice, and said, "I picked the buttercups myself, you know. Their color reminded me of your hair, how it would look in the sunlight." He reached up and touched one ringlet, winding the glossy curl around his finger. Touching it to his lips, he inhaled the fragrance that drifted from her.
    Nervously she