A Dangerous Kind of Lady

by Mia Vincy

  Not once had he questioned Clare’s feelings for him. He had loved her; therefore, by the logic of a young man born to wealth and privilege, she must naturally love him. She had been a beacon of hope, his promise of freedom, his escape.

  “Regret nothing,” he said. “I am grateful now that you turned me down. I enjoyed my adventures and my years of freedom. They enabled me to become the man I am.”

  He straightened, ready to leave her behind, along with his past, when she said, “I hear you are having troubles with Sir Walter Treadgold.”

  “Bloody hell. Does everyone know everything?”

  “We talk. We listen. One of the York sisters has plans for Sir Walter’s son. Humphrey Treadgold was always extremely generous with us courtesans, but we lost him when he took a position in Ireland. Apparently his father has called him back.”

  “Why should I care about Treadgold’s son?”

  “You could use such information against him.”

  A little blackmail here, a touch of extortion there. Bribes and favors and whispers in the dark. That was how Guy’s father had operated, how he had expected Guy to operate.

  He shook his head. “No wonder you get along with Arabella. You are each as unprincipled as the other.”

  “Just because someone does not share your principles does not mean they are without them.” Again, she laughed. “I take it you are not invited to her wedding.”

  “I wouldn’t attend even if I were invited. If you see either her or Sculthorpe, be sure to wish them every joy of each other.”

  “Perhaps your sister can relay your message at the wedding.”

  “Freddie? At Arabella’s wedding?”

  “I presume so. Sir Walter and his whole family are already at Vindale Court, ahead of Miss Larke’s betrothal ball.” Her head drew back. “Did you not know?”

  Guy laughed, a loud, mirthless sound that flew out into the thick night air. He’d been interrogating people across the south of England, and the whole time, Clare knew. And Arabella was three steps ahead of him again.

  Guy was still shaking his head as he rejoined the duke. Well played, Sir Walter, to hide in the one place in England where Guy was most emphatically not welcome. And well played, Arabella, to redouble her efforts to trap him into marriage by using Freddie and Ursula as bait.

  Let Arabella scheme in vain. Guy would not go to Vindale Court.

  Chapter 8

  The victory was more complicated and costly than Arabella had anticipated, but it was a victory nonetheless.

  “A nice haul, my clever virgin,” Lord Sculthorpe murmured, indicating Arabella’s basket of freshly picked nuts with a wave of a cigar-laden hand, as their party tramped through the woods.

  And Arabella felt nothing but smug satisfaction and serene superiority.

  Indeed, in the week since Lord Sculthorpe had joined the house party at Vindale Court, ahead of their betrothal ball and wedding, not one word or act from him had bothered her in the slightest.

  With her desperate, dangerous, immoral deed, she had claimed herself first. She had calmed that unknown part of herself. She had won.

  And if thoughts of Guy whirled inside her like a howling gale, that hardly signified. During the day, the multitude of guests kept her busy, and at night, when the memories crowded her— Well, it concerned no one but herself, what she did alone in her bed.

  “Yet I fear Miss Treadgold has outdone you,” he added.

  Matilda Treadgold had outdone everyone. Arabella was impressed, not because Miss Treadgold’s basket held so many nuts, but because she had not picked a single one herself. The quartet of visiting gentlemen who had joined their nutting expedition—a pair of German ornithologists, a botany student from Sierra Leone, and someone’s distant cousin—had all dedicated themselves to her service. Petite Miss Treadgold had only to gaze longingly at a nut for them to rush to pick it. Throughout it all, she remained unfailingly amiable and warm-hearted, the kind of lady who brightened a room with her presence and whom everyone enjoyed having near.

  Exactly what Guy would seek in his bride.

  Freddie’s basket was full too, but her treasures included stones, a feather, and an orange mushroom. Arabella’s neighbors and friends, Mrs. Cassandra DeWitt and Miss Juno Bell, had apparently abandoned nutting in favor of blackberries. Both were caught in the brambles, helpless with laughter as they tried to free each other, only to get further ensnared.

  Past them, little Ursula’s nanny stayed busy trying to stop the toddler from putting things in her mouth, and Miss Norton, the efficient young governess supervising three children from other visiting families, did an admirable job of keeping her charges entertained.

  “Miss Treadgold is welcome to the prize,” Arabella said to Sculthorpe.

  “You do not compete?”

  “Why should I compete when I have already won?”

  He preened because he thought she meant him. Now she no longer feared him, he was even easier to manage than she had hoped.

  Then a squeal came from Miss Treadgold.

  “Oh, it’s dead! How horrific!” she cried, poking a dead squirrel with a stick.

  Belatedly, she dropped the stick and jumped backward, mouth covered, eyes wide. Her retinue nobly gathered close.

  “You poor girl, how do you tolerate staying in Vindale Court?” asked one of the ornithologists. “Mr. Larke’s stuffed birds are mounted everywhere.”

  “Oh, they are hideous, those dead birds! They give me such nightmares.” Miss Treadgold shuddered dramatically, and the men soothed her with meaningless words.

  Freddie had drifted over to peer at the dead squirrel. The children clamored to get near, but their governess held them back.

  At Arabella’s side, Sculthorpe laughed indulgently. She studied him carefully, but there was nothing untoward in his expression when he looked at Freddie and Miss Treadgold, so no call to protect them from him; only Arabella merited his secret smiles and leers.

  But as she watched, his gaze shifted. That repellent light entered his eyes, and his lips twisted in a scornful but hungry curl. Arabella followed his gaze.

  He was looking at the governess.

  His nostrils flared slightly, and he audibly blew out a spiral of smoke. Then he glanced at the sky, sucked on his cigar, and, avuncular smile back in place, returned his attention to the group.

  It was over in a few heartbeats; Arabella was thankful to have witnessed it.

  “I must say,” she said casually, “Miss Norton excels at managing those young tearaways.”

  “Who?” He glanced at the governess, looked away. “Oh, the governess.”

  Arabella adopted a light tone as she continued her secret interrogation. “I imagine you must have been such a young tearaway yourself once. A torment to your governess.”

  Something flashed in his eyes but he laughed in his charmingly self-deprecating manner. “I’ll own she was a torment to me. My sister’s governess, that is.”

  “Was she very terrible?”

  “On the contrary. She was sheer perfection and I was infatuated.” He shook his head. “I daresay I am not the first boy to decide I am madly in love with a governess, pining over her prim dress and bossy manner.”

  “I suppose if you were to meet her now, you’d see she is merely another woman and the shine would come off her.”

  He made a derisive sound. “The shine came off long ago, when I learned the truth about her. I— You will forgive me for speaking plainly.”

  “Always, my lord.”

  “Indeed. We understand each other. The truth is, my elder brother seduced her. I saw them in the act in her bedroom.”

  Sculthorpe did not explain why he had been spying on the governess in her bedroom, and Arabella did not waste her breath asking.

  “But that was Kenneth for you,” he went on. “The heir, the eldest, who already had everything. He knew about my infatuation but he took her anyway. She was mine and he took her. He never cared how much that hurt me.” His expre
ssion hardened, followed by another self-mocking laugh. “Such are the foolish, futile passions of a boy. But we never do forget our first.” He glanced at her. “It is inappropriate to tell you such things, but you are a practical lady and we are shortly to be wed.”

  “I am glad you tell me these things,” Arabella said honestly. “Very, very glad.”

  Because now she was prepared to protect her future employees too. When the time came to hire a governess, she must select one who had been widowed three times, could chop wood with her bare hands, and would help Arabella hide a corpse.

  Sculthorpe’s look was lingering. “You still don’t smile. On our wedding night, you will smile for me.”

  “Of course I shall.”

  Hopefully, she would remember to do so at the appropriate point. Perhaps she should practice smiling, the way she practiced producing a smear of blood for her second deflowering.

  Freddie’s voice intruded. “We should burn it,” she said, her eyes on the dead squirrel.

  Sculthorpe moved away. “Your wish is my command, Lady Frederica.”

  Using the side of his boot, Sculthorpe piled dead leaves over the little cadaver and dropped the smoldering end of his cigar onto them. A wisp of smoke curled over the leaves.

  Arabella took the opportunity to walk on alone. How she loved these woods in autumn. In spring, winter, summer. How she would miss the seasons and the people who had been the fabric of her life.

  No need to be maudlin, she scolded herself. One day, she would live here again. In the meantime, her marital home sounded perfectly pleasant. The Sculthorpe seat was in Norfolk, by the sea. Arabella thought she might enjoy living by the sea. All those cliffs for her husband to fall off.

  Before long, the sun-dappled path left her at the edge of the roadway, across from a field that was half gold with stubble, half brown from the plow. She lingered, breathing in the crisp autumn air, the smell of freshly turned soil.

  Until a movement drew her eyes along the road, to where a lone horse and rider approached.

  The rider’s features were obscured, but she knew who it was. She knew from the confident ease of his posture, from his greatcoat and hat, from the hot electricity jolting through her limbs.

  Guy had come. She had been sure he would not. But he had.

  She stood her ground throughout his approach, until he reined in his horse and stared down at her from his great mounted height. Despite herself, her eyes tracked over his shoulders, his thighs, along his arms to his gloved hands expertly holding the reins. Every inch of their skin was covered except their faces, but she warmed as if they were naked again.

  And in his eyes… She dared herself to meet their challenging, amused stare and saw—nothing. Nothing in his look made her recoil. He knew things about her that she had not even known herself, yet he betrayed no sign of gloating or possession, no superiority or scorn.

  “I am joining your house party,” Guy announced cheerfully. “Perhaps I’ll even stay for your betrothal ball. You’ll save me a dance, I hope. I promise not to step on your feet more than twice.”

  She glared at him. She had been so sure he would not come. “You weren’t invited.”

  “Oh, I think we both know that you invited me when you invited my sisters.”

  “At least I was able to locate them. You seemed to be having a little trouble with that.”

  “After which you used them to lure me here. Very Machiavellian of you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not a compliment.”

  “Hm.” She ran her fingers through the nuts in her basket, letting them soothe her. “Be warned: Papa has declared that you are not welcome in his house.”

  “I don’t care what your father says. And you, surely, are not surprised to see me. In the circumstances.”

  Her heart leaped with— What? Hope? Joy? That he had wanted to see her and… Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. He despised her, and it was better that way. He made her feel weak, but her pride kept her strong.

  “Which circumstances might those be?” she made herself ask.

  Before he could speak, a twig snapped and leaves crunched. The hardening of Guy’s features told her who had emerged from the woods.

  “My sisters being here,” Guy said coolly. He inclined his head. “Sculthorpe.”

  Lord Sculthorpe planted himself at Arabella’s side and pressed his fingers to the small of her back. She didn’t cringe or shudder. She supposed she should feel embarrassed, for this was the most awkward situation she had ever been in, but she didn’t feel that either. All she felt was that smug relief at taking back control from Sculthorpe, and her lingering, confused regret over Guy.

  “Hardbury. Didn’t know you were invited.”

  Guy didn’t answer, as Miss Treadgold came darting out of the woods, her followers crowding in her wake. A warm smile lit Guy’s face. Everyone smiled warmly when they looked at Miss Treadgold, as though the mere sight of her made them happy.

  No one ever smiled at Arabella like that. She had never even known she wanted them to. But now it struck her as the most marvelous thing in the world.

  “Lord Hardbury!” Miss Treadgold bobbed a curtsy. “What a splendid surprise!”

  “The country air agrees with you, Miss Treadgold.” Guy made no effort to hide his admiration. “You make a pleasant sight for a weary traveler.”

  “You are too kind, my lord. Lady Frederica is here. You must be longing to talk to her.”

  “Of course.” Guy’s smile broadened. “I trust I shall have an opportunity to talk to you too.”

  “Oh.” She lowered her lashes and blushed.

  So. That was how the wind blew. Again, Arabella ran her fingers through the nuts. Perhaps she should pelt them at him.

  Guy had seen; his expression suggested he had guessed her thoughts. Then he dug in a pocket and flipped something at her: a coin that glinted in the sunlight as it tumbled through the air.

  Arabella caught it neatly.

  “What is that?” Sculthorpe asked.

  She turned the coin in her fingers. She didn’t need to look at it to know it was a shilling. Perhaps the exact same shilling she had flipped to Guy that night in London.

  “Miss Larke,” Sculthorpe said sharply. “Why did Lord Hardbury toss you a shilling?”

  Arabella kept her eyes on Guy. “Oh, just a token from some silly moment in our past. Something silly and foolish that meant nothing at all.”

  The horse tossed its head and danced sideways. Guy half laughed, dug in his heels, and rode on.

  Guy had vowed to avoid Arabella during his stay at her family’s house, but watching her with Sculthorpe in the drawing room after dinner that first night, he itched to make trouble.

  He had already received several subtle admonitions to behave, from Lady Belinda (“I trust you will enjoy a harmonious stay with us, my lord”), Mr. Larke (“That girl will marry Sculthorpe, so don’t you foul that up, Hardbury”), and Sir Walter (“How excessively delightful that we can be friends—nay, family!—my lord.”).

  But Guy was growing restless, and of course—of course—Arabella was the cause, so provokingly poised and haughty, from the top of her flawlessly coiled hair to the hem of her glacier-blue gown.

  It was her manner toward Sculthorpe that irked Guy. She displayed the sort of familiar forbearance one would expect in a woman two decades after her wedding, not a month before. Sculthorpe chatted freely and did not seem to notice that Arabella did nothing more animated than nod.

  How wrong it was that Arabella, vibrant, vexing Arabella, was muted. No wonder Guy wanted to stir her up. Bloody hell. What was this compulsion to tease her? It was proving as dangerous as the obsession that summoned other men back to the tables even after their last penny had been gambled away.

  Yet when Sculthorpe brandished his silver cigar case and excused himself to step outside, and Arabella crossed to show Miss Treadgold the sheet music, Guy wandered toward the pianoforte too, only for Arabella to drift
away. Guy helped Miss Treadgold choose some music and relinquished the right to turn pages to another man, by which point Arabella was conversing with Freddie. Guy sauntered that way, yet by the time he reached his sister’s side, Arabella was with her mother. Guy sidled toward Lady Belinda…as Arabella glided to the tea tray.

  Better he stop now, before anyone noticed that he was chasing Arabella around the drawing room. But when she lifted the teapot, he crossed to her side, creating a small world where they stood apart from the others.

  Arabella glanced about, apparently saw no escape, and resigned herself to pouring him a cup of tea he didn’t want. The square bodice of her gown revealed her sharp collarbones. Guy could still feel those collarbones under his fingers, still see his hand splayed over her chest. He tore his eyes away.

  “Are you avoiding me, Arabella?” he asked in low tones, so no one overheard.

  “Don’t be absurd. I never avoid anyone. I’m merely discerning in my choice of company.”

  She turned the teacup’s handle to align its pattern with the saucer, and passed it to him with steady hands.

  “What are you up to, Arabella? What do you want from me?”

  One eyebrow lifted. “What on earth could I possibly want from you? You have already served your purpose. Or had you forgotten so soon?”

  Her bold gaze was like a whirlpool, sucking him in. Memories swarmed between them: their bodies, their mouths, their exhilarating passion, and this infernal longing for more.

  If only he could whisk them both away to the desert and lay her down under the endless night sky. But they were in a drawing room, amidst chatter, candles, music, tea. He despised her. He wanted her. She was dangerous. He was mad.

  “I am not here for you,” he managed to say through gritted teeth, and plunked down his teacup before he crushed it in his rough, hungry hands.

  She nudged the abandoned cup on its saucer to align their patterns, but she overshot.

  “I am not here for you,” he repeated, as again and again she tried and failed to align that saucer and cup.

  Finally, scowling at the recalcitrant china, she clasped her hands in front of her and opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. Another attempt, and still she had no words. Her eyes darted around the room, landing on Freddie.