Free The Ties That Bind by Kate Pearce

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    Grayson Hall
    Kent , 1814
     
     
    Lady Arabella Grayson studied her husband over the rim of her tea cup and quietly fumed. James sat at the opposite end of the vast dining table. A brassy woman, gossip insisted was his latest mistress, sat on his left. She was so close, her bountiful breasts overflowed her skimpy bodice and were almost propped up on James' forearm. His thick blond hair glinted gold in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows of their country house. To his right, another woman gazed at him adoringly.
    Arabella bit her lip as she remembered how it felt to have him look at her that way. Not that he had looked her way at all since their wedding day two years previously. Had it all been an elaborate ploy to force her into marriage, enjoy her fortune and get back to his dissolute life? It certainly seemed that way.
    She stared out of the window and tried to ignore the high pitched giggle of possible mistress number one. When had it all gone wrong? Their wedding night had been a disaster. He'd been drunk and she was terrified, having come to his bed a virgin expecting nothing. And, in truth, he'd given her nothing. He'd simply taken what he wanted from her, left her bed and never returned.
    A hand on her shoulder made her jump. She looked up to see Tom Lakeland, her husband's land agent smiling down at her.
    "Good morning, Bella. Did you sleep well?"
    "Not really." She tried to smile. "It was difficult knowing James was just next door."
    Tom's hand tightened for an instant on her shoulder and then he stepped back. Last night, she'd half expected to hear James cavorting with his mistress but his bedroom remained quiet. It had occurred to her, somewhere around two in the morning that he hadn't been considerate but had probably gone to his mistress' room instead.
    Over the past two years, she'd seen James on only one occasion after she'd informed him of her father's death. She'd known he would appear for the funeral. The reading of a will which conferred a considerable amount of her father's fortune to his only daughter, and thus to her husband, was the only thing interesting enough to force him home.
    She realized she'd lost her appetite and got abruptly to her feet.
    "My dear?"
    Arabella hesitated as her husband stood as well and moved around the table to stand at her side.
    "Do you have a moment?"
    She looked up at him. He was at least eight inches taller than her, his eyes the pale blue of an arctic winter sky. Once she had believed him to be the most beautiful man in the world and the kindest. Now she could barely stand to be in the same room as him. She didn't attempt to hide her dislike.
    "What do you want?"
    His smile didn't reach his eyes. "There are certain matters pertaining to your father's death I would like to discuss with you."
    She sighed. "Of course."
    He led the way through the maze of corridors until they reached the study. He held the door open for her. As she stepped past him she inhaled the sharp well-remembered scent of his sandalwood soap. Within the study, all was serene. Two of the dogs slept in front of the fire on the faded rug. A portrait of her father dominated the room.
    James stared at it and frowned. "That is coming down today. This is my house and your father has been dead for six months. If you want to build a shrine to the old monster, do with it as you will, as long as it's out of my sight."
    Arabella curtsied. "That suits me perfectly, sir. I'll put it in my bedroom. There's no chance of you seeing it there."
    He glanced at her as he seated himself behind the imposing desk.
    "You seem a little annoyed with me, my dear."
    Arabella stared at him and tried hard to control her breathing. "Why on earth would you think that?" She imitated the high girlish laugh of his mistress and he winced.
    "Arabella, sit down."
    She clenched her hands into fists.    "I am not your dog, sir. If you wish me to respond to you, please treat me with respect."
    He got to his