by Mia Vincy
There: Surely that reminder would prime Guy for revenge and make him listen to her proposition.
But he only shrugged and went back to fiddling with the knot. “Any young man who reaches his majority without embarrassing himself over drink, cards, or a woman is a disgrace to young men everywhere. Doing foolish things in public is the whole point of being a young man. An exciting youth serves as our only redeeming feature when we turn into crashing old bores.” He flicked her a glance. “A word of advice, Arabella: This is not the way to get a man to marry you.”
“Do pay attention. I never said a word about marrying you.”
He kept picking at the ribbons. “You said—”
“I said an engagement would benefit us both. If you tell my father you mean to marry me and—”
“No.”
“We announce our betrothal—”
“No.”
“After sufficient time has elapsed—”
“No, Arabella.” Once more, he let their arms drop, his expression hard. “No, no, no.”
“If you would just listen. If not, I must—”
“No. I have spent my entire life being ordered to marry you, if only because my father was determined to make me obey. Whatever your schemes and ambitions, leave me out of it. After your behavior tonight, I am more certain than ever that you are the last woman I would marry.”
Curse him. He was set against her so stubbornly that he would not even listen to her proposition, let alone consider it. Her solution to her marriage problem was so obvious she had berated herself for not thinking of it sooner: a marriage of convenience with her neighbor’s heir, Hadrian Bell. She had written to him, but Hadrian held a diplomatic post in Prussia and would not return for months. All she needed Guy to do was act as a placeholder until then—and he would not even listen!
What must she do next? Beg? If only she knew how! Tell him about Papa’s ultimatum and how Sculthorpe repelled her? Most likely, he would mock her fear, say she and Sculthorpe were well matched. If she didn’t salvage her pride now, for the rest of their lives Guy would regard her with scorn.
He must be getting desperate to escape her: He raised their hands to his mouth and tore at the knot with his teeth. His lips brushed her skin, sending warm shivers up her arm.
“Take care, Guy.” Her tone was sharper than usual. “Your slobber would not go with my costume.”
“If only my costume came with a sword,” he muttered. “Or if I could use that sharp tongue of yours to cut this ribbon.”
It was useless. He would never understand her precarious situation. He would never understand this gnawing hollow in her gut, this sick feeling of dread at her looming fate.
But she still had her pride and a lifetime’s practice in hiding her feelings. She arranged her expression into disdain.
“That sounds almost lewd,” she drawled. “At any rate, scissors would be more effective.”
“A dagger, a sword, an army—all would be more effective.”
“Yes, but I don’t have any of those in my reticule, do I?”
His eyes dropped to the shield-shaped bag dangling from her free wrist and bounced back up again.
“This whole time, you had scissors in your reticule?”
She raised an eyebrow coolly. “You don’t imagine I would submit to being tied to you if I did not have an escape plan?”
“You are diabolical.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a compliment.”
“Hm.”
He reached across her for the reticule. She tried to whisk her arm behind her back, but he moved like lightning; his fingers wrapped around her wrist, warm and implacable. She held herself steady, even as the studded leather strips over his skirt knocked her thighs, even as his throat loomed before her. His scent of leather and spice warred with her own orange blossom, and she ran her gaze up the length of his neck, over his jaw and cheek, to meet his eyes, unamused and hard. They were close enough now to kiss, after all.
“Guy, first, hear me out.”
“No.”
He looked down, and those long fingers deftly loosened the tie of her reticule. When she let the little bag slide from her wrist, he clasped it like a prize.
“I’ll cut myself free of you, Arabella, and I’ll not hear another word.”
The lady’s scissors were so tiny that Guy feared his fingers would get stuck. The blades were designed for nothing more arduous than snipping threads—because heaven forbid perfect Arabella might have a loose thread—and he felt he was sawing away at the ribbon clumsily. He tried to focus on the ribbon, but he could not ignore Arabella’s pale skin, with its network of blue veins and scent of orange blossom, the memory of its heady silkiness lingering on his lips.
“We are attracting interest,” Arabella said softly.
“I’m trying not to hurt you,” he muttered.
“Do you think me so delicate?”
“You, no. Your skin, yes.”
Finally, the last of the ribbon fell away and he returned the scissors. Guy rolled his wrist, his skin tingling with her absence. Pink indents crisscrossed her forearm; Guy brushed them with his thumb, as if to soothe them, though heaven knew she did not deserve soothing.
He hastily stepped away, but she made no comment, as she sheathed the scissors and slipped them into her reticule. The fading light accentuated her sharp cheekbones, her aristocratic jaw. She had grown into her angles and height; her face would only become more interesting with age.
“You’ve grown up,” he said irrelevantly.
Her eyelids flickered. “As have you.”
“It’s curious, really. Through no fault of your own, you have been a presence shaping my life, but in the end, we are strangers.”
“If I were a stranger, you would listen to my request.”
“If you were a stranger, you would not ask.”
They would never be strangers. They would exist forever on the edges of each other’s lives, moving in the same circles, passing each other at dinner parties and balls. They would be polite and remote, starting now.
“Thank you for this exciting adventure,” he said. “And now I bid you good evening.”
Her eyes narrowed. “We have not finished talking.”
“As flattering as it is to receive your marriage proposal—”
“That was not a proposal—”
“—I have more important things on my mind than your marital status. Pray, excuse me, Miss Larke.”
He turned away.
“Winning custody of your sisters, I suppose,” she said from behind him. “Although Freddie doesn’t seem bothered by it, one way or another.”
Guy turned back. “You’ve spoken to Freddie?”
“She is here tonight.”
“As are three thousand other people, and I daresay she’s changed in eight years.”
“Do you mean to say you have not seen Freddie since your return?” She drew her head back. “Have you even met Ursula?”
Ah, the mysterious infant Ursula. Guy had not even known Ursula existed until his return, when he learned that his widowed father had married Caroline Treadgold, who had borne him a daughter before passing away.
Now, little Ursula was in the care of Sir Walter and Lady Treadgold. They were her uncle and aunt, but Guy was her brother; it was only right that he become her guardian, regardless of his father’s will. Father must have gone to his grave crowing at having thwarted Guy, but no longer would Guy allow the old man to dictate his life. He would marry a pleasant, amiable lady, bring both Freddie and Ursula into their loving home, and rebuild the family he and his father had destroyed. Then he would feel at peace and know he had come home.
“Once I solve the tricky little puzzle of where Sir Walter Treadgold stashes my sisters, I shall see them both,” Guy said.
Arabella raised her eyebrows in a silent question.
“Sir Walter has a cunning talent for always leaving a place hours before I arrive,” he explained. “I was hopi
ng to see Freddie here tonight, but the party organizers have not made it easy for me.”
“I imagine not. Come along, then.”
Arabella pivoted and glided away, with the graceful fluidity to which all ladies aspired, but only some actually attained. Beneath the mane of red feathers from her helmet, he glimpsed a trio of glossy dark ringlets.
After a few steps, she twisted and shot him an expectant look.
“Arabella, I am not a dog that you take for a walk.”
“Do you want to see Freddie or not?”
Without waiting for a response, she resumed walking along the lawn, the white silk of her gown swaying around her long, hidden legs. Immediately, other people began to press forward. Cursing under his breath, Guy fell into step with her. His would-be audience subsided.
“I hear your father’s will left Freddie and Ursula wealthier than you,” Arabella remarked as they cut through the crowd. “One can only hope they still have that wealth when they come of age. Sir Walter Treadgold has bought himself a fancy new coach-and-four, but of course your father left him a generous bequest, too.”
“How the deuce do you know all this?” he asked.
“I keep abreast of all that happens in society. Including your stated intention to marry as soon as possible. An engagement may bolster your case in Chancery, and an heiress would remedy your financial situation.”
Guy chuckled. She was relentless! But her wealth would never sway him, not given the evidence of how unscrupulous she would be in chasing her ambition to become a marchioness. He knew exactly what he wanted in a wife, having spent years daydreaming of his ideal bride, as he wandered the world in his self-imposed exile.
“My income is still sufficient that I need not consider wealth a criterion for a suitable bride.”
“Ah yes, a suitable bride for Guy Roth. What would she be like?”
“Whomever I marry will have a talent for making a peaceful, comfortable home for our family. She will be gentle, pleasant, and…” Guy caught Arabella’s arch, sideways look. “And,” he repeated emphatically, “she would never plot or scheme or even consider offering bribes.”
“But of course.” She waved one hand regally. “Someone eternally cheerful and undemanding, who will engage you in diverting conversation and never bother you with what she is truly thinking. As a result, you will assume that her thoughts are the same as your own, and you will congratulate yourself on choosing a bride who is so well matched. She will be agreeable, amenable, and amiable, and when you find yourself thinking that your wife is a little dull, you will assume that is her fault and never realize it is your own.”
“You have a low opinion of your sex.”
“I have an extremely high opinion of my sex. My low opinion is reserved for men who see only what they want to see and then blame women for being the lack.” She shot him a look. “I have never met anyone who relished a challenge as much as you do. You’ll bore yourself with a bride like that, and make the poor girl miserable too.”
Guy stopped short, Arabella pausing at his side.
“Ah, so you would nobly rescue me from a lifetime of boredom by offering yourself instead,” he said, his tone mocking. “A lady too clever for her own good, a lady who pays bribes and makes demands and seeks to embroil me in some scheme to satisfy her own ambitions.” He stepped closer, but she did not yield an inch, her stance rigid, her glare fierce. “For both our sakes, Arabella, find someone else to command and leave me be. No doubt other men grovel wherever you go, but you’re wasting your time if you think you’ll ever make me fall to my knees.”
Those eyebrows lifted. “Good grief, Guy, what use would you be on your knees? No— I should put a ring through your nose like a bull. I’ll tie a ribbon to it and use it to lead you around.”
Her voice dripped with scorn, yet a lost look flashed across her face—a startling, naked vulnerability, come and gone like lightning. But perhaps it was a trick of the light, for the next moment, she was giving him her aloof profile. A mole graced her high cheekbone and a single dark curl caressed her ear.
She jerked her chin. “There,” she said.
Guy followed her gaze, which led him to a three-tiered fountain. On the low stone wall encircling the fountain sat a pair of matching shepherdesses; one had reddish-blonde ringlets and a blue dress, and the other was a brunette in pink.
“Freddie is the shepherdess in blue,” Arabella went on. “She is something of a wallflower, if only because of her indifference to others’ opinions and her marvelously original views. The pink shepherdess is Miss Matilda Treadgold, Sir Walter Treadgold’s niece. She has been his ward since she was a small child. She is not a wallflower, by any means. The fact that she is with Freddie now, rather than surrounded by besotted gentlemen, suggests that Freddie is the bait and you are the prey.”
“Do you think all women are schemers like you?”
“Only the admirable ones, and I admire Miss Treadgold immensely. She has little in the way of wealth or connections, but as you don’t require those, she fits your notion of an ideal wife very nicely.”
Even from afar, Guy could not deny Miss Treadgold’s appeal, but he kept his eyes on his sister. The ringlets and profusion of blue flounces and ribbons did not suit her, but he’d know that face anywhere: the slightly upturned nose and wide mouth, big eyes and fierce brows, a face that could appear mischievous and elfin one moment, and sullen and mutinous the next.
On his visits home from school and, later, university, she used to run from the schoolroom to throw herself into his arms, and he’d swing her around while she squealed. She would have to marry soon, but perhaps not for another year; they’d have time to get to know each other as adults, rebuild their family first.
He glanced back at Arabella. “I would never have found her myself. Thank you.”
“In terms of an engagement, I’m only talking—”
“No talking. No engagement. Enough.”
She inhaled through her nose, audibly, and flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Freddie needs your protection. I suspect that Sir Walter may be scheming—”
“Of course he is. Arabella. Desist.”
He closed the gap between them. Again she did not budge, as yielding as a marble pillar.
“You are not part of my family, and never will be,” he said. “Do not tell me whom to marry, or how to manage Sir Walter, or what my sisters or I need.”
“I’m saying this for Freddie’s sake, not for yours.”
“You are meddling.”
“Don’t be absurd. I never meddle. I simply fix other people’s problems for them.”
“I do not need you to fix my problems.”
He did not need her at all. Their fathers’ agreement was not her fault, any more than it was his, but damned if he would sacrifice himself for anything, whether his dead father’s persistent tyranny or Arabella’s persistent ambitions.
Besides, they were not children playing war games on the lake. They were adults, both unmarried, and matters had a way of getting confused. Their entire relationship had been characterized by mutual resentment and the desire to defeat each other; that, at least, had not changed.
Time for their final farewell, though Guy felt an urge to make a truce first. “I truly regret that you have spent these years awaiting my return, only to be disappointed now.”
“Disappointed,” she repeated dryly.
“But you are an accomplished, attractive lady with excellent connections, breeding, and wealth. You will have no trouble finding a husband.”
Unexpectedly, amusement glimmered over her face. “You have no idea,” she murmured.
“Good night, Arabella.”
Guy spun around and strode toward Freddie. He fancied he felt Arabella’s gaze searing into his back, and he quashed his impulse to retrace his steps and ask her what she meant.
Chapter 3
Arabella watched Guy stride off toward Freddie and Miss Treadgold, his red cape swirling around his booted legs. On
ce he had reached them, she turned around to consider her next move.
No need: Her next move was already decided. For there stood Lord Sculthorpe, black tricorne tilted back, studying her with a faint smile. Society called him handsome, though surely a wealthy, heroic peer could never be called anything else. Certainly, all his features were present and correct and arranged in the usual way. The overall effect might be described as strong and square: quite unobjectionable. But then, Arabella’s objections had never been about his face.
As their eyes met, his smile broadened and he headed toward her.
“No trouble finding a husband,” she murmured ruefully to herself. “It seems my husband has found me.”
Her sole gambit had failed. Now Sculthorpe would propose, and if Arabella refused, her father would cut her off and cast her out.
Proud and haughty, they called her. The lady who had everything, they said. Well, the lady who had everything would lose the lot in the next ten minutes if she did not take care.
Lord Sculthorpe was still smiling as he reached her. “Good evening, Miss Larke, or should I say Minerva? You make a fitting goddess.”
“And you, my lord, make a dashing outlaw.”
“Ridiculous costume, is it not?” Chuckling amiably, he flipped one lacy cuff. “I always wonder whether other people are sending a message with their costumes or if, like me, they simply put on whatever their valet laid out. I am terrified of upsetting my valet, in case I find myself one day dressed as the back end of a horse.”
Ah, that self-deprecating wit. How charming he was. And how commanding and courteous, for he had summoned a footman, bearing drinks. Sculthorpe swept up two glasses of wine and handed her one. Between his fingers was one of his thin cigars, a habit he had picked up while fighting in Spain during the Peninsular Wars and which he never allowed etiquette to restrain. Another servant appeared at his side, proffering a flame. With a wave of his lit cigar, the servants disappeared.
“And, if you do not mind my saying so,” he added, in a more intimate tone, smoke puffing out the side of his mouth, “you will also make an excellent baroness.”
