A Dangerous Kind of Lady

by Vincy, Mia

  When he heard the sounds of the front door opening and the sole servant murmuring, Guy’s roaming had brought him to the writing desk. He set down his glass, arranged the green silk banyan over his shirt, and leaned back against the wall to await Clare’s entrance.

  A light knock sounded. The door opened silently. A person glided in and shut the door without a sound.

  The person was not Clare. A shapeless cloak disguised the intruder’s figure, its hood shadowing the face, but Guy did not need to see the face. Clare was smaller and rounder, with a bounce in her step. This figure moved like water and was tall enough to be a man.

  Well, well, well. It seemed Clare was still playing games, and Guy had walked into a trap.

  He eased a letter opener off the desk, as the figure turned her—his?—head. In a bound, Guy had the blade pressed to the intruder’s chest.

  “You seem to be lost, my friend,” he said. “What are you: assassin or thief?”

  “Worse.”

  The figure threw back the hood. It was indeed worse.

  It was Arabella.

  She was without adornment, without expression, regarding him as coolly as if they were in a daytime crowd. As if it were not unacceptable—indeed, unthinkable—for an unaccompanied lady to call on a gentleman at any time, let alone at night.

  “Good grief, Guy,” she drawled. “I had no idea you had such a penchant for drama.”

  “What the deuce are you doing here? I might have stabbed you.”

  “Which would have been awkward for us both, I agree.”

  She lowered her eyes pointedly to the blade still aimed at her breastbone. Guy stepped back. He thought he had faced everything during his adventures, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Arabella, in his house alone at night, calmly removing her gloves and whisking off her cloak to reveal a dowdy gray gown better suited to a governess.

  “Is this another of your schemes, some attempt to trap me into marriage?” He waved the letter opener at the door. “Will your mother come bursting in and scream about honor and ruin?”

  “I sincerely hope not. But if she does, please refrain from stabbing her. I’m very fond of my mother.”

  Guy had to laugh, though from absurdity or horror he could not say. He tossed the letter opener onto the desk and reclaimed his wineglass. It seemed he might need it.

  “What have you done with Clare? I recognized her handwriting. Was it hers, or have you added forgery to your accomplishments?”

  “Not yet, but that’s an excellent suggestion.” Arabella swept across the room like a diva taking center stage. “Miss Ivory penned the note at my request.”

  “How do you even know her?”

  “I know everyone.”

  She poured herself some wine and gulped it down in an incongruously unladylike manner.

  “I am here,” she announced to the room at large, “because I have something for you.”

  “You have nothing I want.”

  “An opportunity for revenge.”

  “Against whom?”

  “Lord Sculthorpe, of course.”

  Her glass hit the table with a thud. Guy waited but she only aligned the glass with the carafe. She straightened a fork. Nudged a cup.

  “Revenge against Sculthorpe for what?” he finally prompted.

  She frowned at him. “You have to ask?”

  “Certainly, he beat me up years ago, but…” Guy shrugged. “He was a trained soldier, and I didn’t know how to fight. The past is the past. I have no interest in revenge.” He carried his wineglass back to the fire and flung himself into his chair. “Now get out before I throw you over my shoulder and hurl you into the mews.”

  “You’re not much of a strategist, are you?” She moved only to perch on the chair opposite him. “You intended to marry Clare Ivory, but Sculthorpe seduced her. Now Sculthorpe intends to marry me, but you can seduce me first.”

  Guy spluttered, sending his mouthful of wine up his nose and into other places wine had no business being. He coughed, eyes watering, glass slamming onto the table. Unperturbed, Arabella handed him a serviette.

  “I can what?” he managed to say.

  “Revenge,” she repeated impatiently. “Doesn’t that sound like something you might want to do?”

  “No. It sounds like something Sculthorpe might want to do, but I’m not Sculthorpe.” He wiped away his last tears and tossed the serviette onto the table. “Have you completely lost your reason?”

  She appeared to consider this. “No.”

  “If you don’t want to marry Sculthorpe, don’t. None of this involves me.”

  “Oh, I’ll definitely marry Sculthorpe. You may calm yourself on that point. Now, shall we repair to the bedroom? I haven’t much time.”

  She stood and looked down at him, her face unreadable in the golden candlelight. Even unadorned, in that plain dress and her dark hair in a simple knot, she made a compelling sight. Guy couldn’t help running his eyes over the promising, intriguing curves and shadows of her figure. His daft body stirred. If they were strangers… If it were a different time and place… If—

  Too many ifs. This was Arabella, and if she didn’t leave immediately, he’d toss her out the window.

  He lurched to his feet. A mistake: Now their faces were close. Her hand drifted up, hovered perilously close to his chest, which was shielded only by a linen shirt.

  He caught her fingers. “What is this madness?” he murmured.

  Her head jerked up, and in a single move, she yanked her hand from his, spun around, and glided away. Finally, she was leaving! But no— As though dancing with herself, she whirled back around.

  “The fact is, I have not had enough adventures in my life.” Her words came out unusually loud and fast. “I am sure neither you nor Sculthorpe are virgins. Why shouldn’t I, too, have a chance to sow my wild oats?”

  What a load of nonsense! But Arabella clearly had no intention of explaining, so Guy didn’t waste his breath pressing for more.

  Instead, he said, “Women don’t have oats to sow. Women are the field, so to speak, in which the oats are sown.”

  She did not sigh, but she gave the impression of having sighed. “Let us not debate metaphors. You understand my point. But speaking of that, you will take care to avoid sowing any oats in this field.”

  “There will be no oats.”

  “If you say so. So long as the plow enters the field, I am unconcerned as to whether there are any oats. Only that if there are oats, they do not, in fact, enter the field.”

  Guy hardly knew whether to laugh or groan. “Arabella, you and I have never been friends, but I have always respected your abilities. So please understand that I speak with the utmost respect when I say: You are dreadful at seduction.”

  “Then it is as well that I am not seducing you, but rather demanding that you seduce me, which is an entirely different matter.”

  “You’re serious about this.”

  “I would hardly risk my future for a joke.”

  He wandered over to her, carefully keeping his eyes off the long, intriguing lines of her body. “You seriously think that we should take off all our clothes and pretend to like each other long enough for me to bed you, and then you’ll merrily go on your way.”

  “That sounds right. Although we needn’t take off all our clothes. Or pretend to like each other.”

  “This is absurd. Get out.”

  She turned her head away, but her jaw clenched. He studied her profile as she pressed her lips together, the column of her throat as she swallowed nothing, the rise of her breasts as she took a deep breath.

  “I will go through with this,” she whispered to the wall.

  Unsettled, Guy reached a hand to her straight back, let it drop. “What is going on? If you need help…”

  She said nothing. None of this made sense. Arabella had never been a model of feminine sweetness and docility, but her conduct had always been beyond reproach. That a young woman might succumb to lust o
r seek to explore her sensual side was something he could understand. But that Arabella might? She avoided his touch and barely looked at him, let alone betrayed any sign of actual desire. The only rational explanation was that this was a scheme to trap him into marriage, following her failure at the costume party, but her approach was decidedly odd.

  “You’ll ruin your reputation if anyone learns you were here,” he said.

  “I have been very careful, and your discretion is assured, is it not?”

  Guy snorted. “Of course. If anyone knew you were here, they’d either shoot me or march me to the altar. The last thing I want is to wind up married to you.” He considered. “Being shot doesn’t appeal much either.”

  “No one need ever know.”

  “Not even Sculthorpe?”

  “Especially not Sculthorpe.”

  “But won’t he—”

  “I did not come here to discuss Sculthorpe. Now, if you have dispensed with your maidenly sensibilities?” Her eyebrows raised. “Given the amount of effort that men expend trying to gain access to women’s bodies, and the corresponding effort women expend trying to deny them, you should be grateful I am making it so easy for you.”

  Her expression remained imperious, but her gaze flickered and veered away. A tiny tell. Guy considered his options. He could carry her out and dump her on the street. Pull on his clothes and leave the house. Simply ignore her, or lock himself in his bedroom. She held no power over him, not physical, not financial, not social—and definitely not sexual, whatever her passing, puzzling allure.

  Arabella could not make him do anything he did not want to do.

  And, quite frankly, Guy wanted her to admit that. To explicitly concede defeat. The nerve of the woman: to conspire with Clare, to lie her way into his house, disturb his evening, and jeopardize his future. Sending her away would be easy—but too easy. How much more satisfying to make her give in, just as he had at the costume party. And Guy knew exactly how to win: Mockery had always been her downfall.

  “Well, well, well. Flawless, frosty Arabella Larke, turned adventuress. This might have seemed like a grand idea inside that head of yours, but the reality…” He inhaled with a hiss, making an exaggerated grimace. “Naked bodies. Skin on skin. Limbs getting in the way. Me touching you in places you probably cannot even name. And the bodily fluids! Ugh.”

  “Thank you for the warning. Shall we proceed?”

  Somehow, the gap between them had shrunk, yet still she refused to yield an inch. She had no idea. She might know the facts—Arabella always knew the facts—but as for the actual experience of tupping? The awkwardness alone would horrify her. Not to mention the mess.

  “Proceed?” he scoffed. “You would not even have the courage to kiss me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think this is a game?”

  “It is now.”

  * * *

  Years before, Guy had witnessed Arabella practicing archery. From the moment she nocked the arrow, she might have been alone in the world. Every inch of her body had been directed toward the target, her limbs steady as she drew back the bowstring. Her eyes had flicked to consider the wind, then returned to aim. To loose the arrow. To hit that target at its center and coolly claim the prize.

  He felt like that target now.

  Arabella hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, before lowering her gaze to examine his mouth. Her curved lips twitched; Guy tore his eyes away. He would not think about kissing her.

  Yet clearly her focus was on kissing him. He tried to laugh at her, but his laughter choked under the intensity of her gaze. An intensity that was growing perilously erotic.

  Would she peck his cheek? Firm, brisk, cold? No, he decided. Arabella would kiss him to win. No hesitation, no half measures.

  And if he were to kiss her—he wouldn’t, of course—but if he did… How would proud, poised Arabella react to the intimate brush of cheek against cheek, to the mingling of breaths, to the sensual slide of fingertips over her skin?

  First, he would soften her: run his thumb over her mouth, wait for the catch of her breath, part her lips, and then—

  And then he realized she was closing the space between them, her long lashes lowered as she targeted his mouth. She pursed her lips slightly, her tongue darting out; Guy’s own mouth was a little dry.

  Don’t disappoint me, a voice whispered in his head, his last coherent thought before her hand drifted onto his jaw and cheek, a delicate touch that brushed his skin like smoke and coiled hotly in his stomach.

  She leaned into him, and for one baffling heartbeat, he was looking into her eyes, then her lids fluttered closed, and her scent engulfed his brain, and his own eyelids lowered as her lips captured his.

  Soft. Warm. Open mouthed. Lingering.

  Sweet-hot desire shot to his groin like an arrow. She persisted with the kiss, infused it with a beguiling mix of hunger and tenderness. As if intoxicated, Guy cupped her neck, to hold her in place as he touched his tongue to hers. She flinched under his hand, tried to retreat, but he deepened the kiss, and back she came; a heartbeat later, her tongue stroked against his, and heat washed over him like steam.

  Bloody hell. He released her and staggered back. What the devil was he doing? Giving her lessons? His aim was to chase her away! But perhaps he was succeeding, for her posture had grown stiff, her face turned aside, her hands balled into fists.

  Here was his advantage: his experience with desire. He knew how to control it and when to unleash it. Arabella did not. She was proud, and desire and pride could not coexist. Desire was the great leveler, turning emperors into beggars and paupers into kings.

  Arabella in the grip of desire would be easy to overcome.

  “That’s done,” she said, in a fine semblance of composure. “Now, if we can stop dithering?”

  “What? No flowers? No poetry?” He managed a light tone, hoping she did not notice the rasp in his voice. “How to make a man feel cheap! You’ll steal a kiss and offer nothing in return?”

  She glared at him. “I weary of your games, Guy.”

  “Unfortunately for you, we’ve barely begun.” He knuckled her chin; her breath caught. “You are too direct, sweetheart. A man wants to be wooed. Seduction succeeds when you entice your companion to want it too. Whisper sweet nothings, flatter and coax, feather them with light touches and kisses until you set their desire ablaze.”

  “Surely you have enough imagination to pretend I’ve flattered and coaxed? The end result is the same.”

  “That won’t do at all, I’m afraid. If you want me, earn me.”

  With an exasperated sigh, she marched across the room, yanked the bunch of flowers from their vase, and marched back to shove them into his hands. Their stems were slimy, and cold water trickled down his wrists.

  “There. Flowers.” She wiped her hands on a serviette. “And poetry. Ah… Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Your eyes are nothing like the sun. All coaxed and flattered? May we begin?”

  Her briskness betrayed her. Whatever her true objective, she did not seek intimacy. Then—aha! Intimacy would scare her away. That kiss had not been his best idea. Time for a new approach.

  “No, no, no. You need to make me feel special.” He separated a small red zinnia from the bouquet, pinched off its wet end, and dried his hands. “Like this.” He brushed the petals over her cheek and tucked the flower behind her ear. “Oh yes, very pretty. Suits you.”

  “You are making fun of me.”

  “Not at all. I am generously tutoring you in the finer points of seduction. If you don’t wish to know, well, you might as well leave.”

  With daggers in her eyes, she went to remove the flower. Catching her hand, he tutted. “Leave that pretty flower in your hair, while I charm you with poetry.”

  “No need for charm or poetry.”

  Yet she shifted, betraying discomfort.

  Encouraged, Guy entwined his fingers with hers. Desire continued to coil inside him. Ignoring it, he recited softly: “She walks
in beauty, like the night, Of cloudless climes and starry skies.”

  Uncertainty danced across her face. She looked young, vulnerable. This closeness unsettled her. Good.

  “And all that’s best of dark and bright, Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”

  Guy had an image, suddenly, of the desert of Anatolia, where the night sky stretched forever and the stars were bright and fat, as if he was that much closer to heaven. Under that fathomless blanket of stars, he had melted into insignificance yet expanded to become part of something magnificent, the splendor of the heavens filling him with both peace and awe.

  He blinked away the image and focused on Arabella, her eyes dark and unsure. This was a dangerous game he was playing. He would never become intimate with her—of course he wouldn’t—but for all her flaws, Arabella was a compelling woman, standing very close, and he was a man who responded to compelling women who stood very close.

  He had to teach her not to make demands of him.

  “That poem goes on,” he added. He caught one of the silken dark curls tumbling about her face and ran it through his fingers. “Something about raven tresses and sweet thoughts and winning smiles. Why, Byron might have written it for you. The raven tresses part, anyway. Certainly not the sweet thoughts or winning smiles.”

  She spun away, yanked the flower from her ear, and flung it to the floor. “Have you quite finished?” she snapped. “Let’s dispense with this tedium, pretend we’ve whispered nonsense at each other, and get on with it, shall we?”

  Her confidence was a façade; it had to be. Arabella and her famous pride, refusing to admit when she was out of her depth. It would be interesting to see what made that façade crumble.

  “You really think I’m going to do this,” he said.

  “I never start things that I do not intend to finish.”

  “Very well, then. Take off your clothes. All of them.”

  She stiffened, turned to marble. Oh, she would not hold up at all! Soon she would concede that she hadn’t the courage for this outrageous scheme, whatever it was, and she would leave him in peace. He would defeat her, as he had when they were children.