A Dangerous Kind of Lady

by Mia Vincy

  “Simple,” Larke said. “The vicar will read the first of the three banns in church tomorrow. Two more Sundays, and the wedding will be the day after that.”

  “I’ll tell you what is simple,” Guy said. “Arabella is my betrothed, so I decide when and where the wedding will take place. We would prefer to wed in London in spring.”

  The parrot muttered something incomprehensible and Larke squinted suspiciously. “Why the delay? You already know each other. We can settle the paperwork now. You’ll get her dowry and your second son will inherit my estate, if that’s your concern.”

  “That isn’t my concern,” Guy said. “A London wedding will be witnessed by all society.”

  “Bah, because you’re in love.” Larke shook his head. “All the more reason to marry her quickly. She won’t keep your attention for long, judging by her history with other men.”

  Beside him, Arabella stood as still and straight as a soldier, her expression impassive, while her father openly declared that she could not be loved.

  Guy was not amused anymore.

  The night before, he had realized how poorly he understood her. Now, suddenly, he wondered if she even understood herself: this proud woman who insisted on fighting her battles alone, but smiled as radiantly as an angel when someone took her side. She fought for her inheritance, she had claimed, but Guy suspected the fight was actually for her father’s affection.

  He took her hand. She twitched, then settled. He longed to pull her close and push her far away, this impossible woman whose hand felt so right in his. This was not his fight, but he could not leave her to fight alone in a battle he wasn’t sure even she fully understood.

  Larke was talking about their unborn children. “I’ve waited years for another boy. If you two marry now, I could have a grandson by spring.”

  “Summer,” Guy corrected absently.

  Lady Belinda pressed two fingers to her forehead, as if she had a headache coming on.

  Larke frowned. “Is there a problem with that?”

  “Regardless of the wedding date, there can be no son before early summer,” Guy said. “Arabella is highly accomplished, but even she cannot produce a child in less than the usual time. Not that I would object if we started early, but even—”

  Guy’s words were interrupted by a well-timed coughing fit from Lady Belinda.

  Beside him, Arabella smoothed out her frown and adopted an expression of reason. “Papa, I fear a wedding so soon cannot be convenient for his lordship. He has important lordship business in London. He was just now telling me that the Prince Regent wishes to see him,” she lied.

  Guy squeezed her hand, willing her not to quarrel.

  “The Prince Regent can wait another three weeks,” Larke said. “Or invite him to the wedding.”

  “But Papa—”

  “Curse you, girl! You’ll not argue with me on this.” Larke looked from one to the other, squinting with suspicion. “Why are you two so set on dragging your feet?”

  Arabella fought because she was used to fighting. It was simply her nature to command, but she was an unmarried woman, so the world refused to obey. Still she kept fighting, battling on alone.

  “Papa—”

  “Your father makes a good point, Arabella.”

  Guy squeezed her hand, harder this time. She dug her nails into his palm.

  “He does?” she said.

  “It would not do for the Prince Regent to think I am at his beck and call.”

  “You are at his beck and call. He is the ruler of the land.”

  “And you are the ruler of my heart.”

  “Oh, good grief.”

  Guy grinned. “Besides, you are prettier than he is, and only slightly more tyrannical.”

  This bit of nonsense made Lady Belinda smile and Larke chuckle, and Guy chuckled too as Arabella looked around in uncharacteristic confusion, as if someone had redesigned the world when she wasn’t looking.

  Between them, he and Arabella could make this work, to ensure she did not lose everything, while also avoiding a marriage that neither of them wanted. Guy had no solution yet, but Arabella would surely think of something.

  “Let us discuss the paperwork shortly, Larke,” Guy said. “For now, my betrothed and I shall take a turn by the lake to discuss our future.”

  That seemed to satisfy her parents, but while Arabella left to dress for the outdoors, someone entered who was definitely not satisfied: Sir Walter, looking cross.

  He’d be even more cross when he learned of the letter Guy had sent that morning.

  “What are you all so happy about?” Sir Walter asked.

  Mr. Larke released another broad grin. “More celebration, for my daughter’s wedding will take place in sixteen days.”

  Sir Walter’s mouth pinched sourly. “You were here to court our Matilda, my lord.”

  “I’m afraid I got distracted.”

  “After the care I have taken of your sisters, this is the thanks I get?”

  “Oh my dear, dear Sir Walter,” Guy said. “I promise, you will shortly get all the thanks you deserve.”

  “Easy now, Sir Walter.” Mr. Larke slapped that man’s shoulder. The movement upset his parrot, who muttered her complaint. “Lord Hardbury was promised to my daughter when he was still in petticoats. Your Matilda is a fine girl, but she doesn’t offer what we can. Put that aside and join us in celebration.”

  Sir Walter wriggled away from his host’s arm. “I shall seek my refreshments at the village inn,” he grizzled. “The company is better there.”

  Chapter 14

  Ten thousand times Arabella had walked the path toward the lake, but this was the time she’d remember: when her life unraveled, when her half-baked plan crumbled.

  Beside her, Guy was restless, like a horse on a windy day. He shoved his gloves into his pockets and, with his bare hands, tore a branch from a tree, stripped off its twigs and leaves, and whacked at things as they walked.

  “You wanted me to be silent,” she said.

  “It’s clear you and your father don’t get along, and arguing only makes matters worse. You were trying to take control and for you that means starting a quarrel.”

  Arabella had no response to that. Guy knew things about her now that he had not known before.

  “Do you always attempt everything on your own?” he asked. “You’re really not used to having someone on your side, are you?”

  She had a sudden memory of herself and Oliver hiding from their tutor, smothering their giggles as they huddled together under Papa’s desk. As soon as the chance came, they had burst out into the garden and run away—only to run right into Papa. But he hadn’t been cross. When they confessed their naughtiness, he had laughed, then taken them each by the hand and guided them through the garden to show them an owl’s nest.

  Papa laughing and taking her by the hand? Impossible. That memory must be fabricated too.

  Guy did not seem to expect an answer, and he did not speak again until they turned onto the white gravel path that circled the lake.

  Well?” he demanded. “What is your clever scheme?”

  “What makes you think I have a scheme?”

  “You always have a scheme.”

  “I always have a plan, which is an entirely different matter.”

  He whacked a shrub and kept walking. He would have to end this now. If only they could suspend the decision and simply take a stroll together as two people without a history, not as two people with decades of being forced together against their will.

  “But I suppose my plans don’t matter,” she said. “As we shall have to end the engagement.”

  He said nothing.

  “If that’s what you want,” she added.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I asked if that’s what you want.”

  “And I asked if that’s what you want.”

  “What I want is to…”

  Alongside them, the lake’s surface was choppy. A leaf tumbled through
the air, tossed and turned by the wind, which dropped it onto the lake to be tossed and turned by the water.

  “To stop feeling like that,” Arabella finished, pointing at the leaf.

  Guy reached out his stick to snare it, but the wind rippled along the surface and the leaf skittered away.

  Walking on, they turned onto a straight stretch of path, sheltered by a towering hedge and lined with statues of Greek gods.

  “This is not what you agreed to,” she said, as they passed Poseidon with his beard and trident. “It was kind of you to step in, but this is hardly fair.”

  “You said you are no martyr.”

  “No, but I imagine you are not one either. No need for us both to be miserable.”

  He huffed out air. “Arabella, speak directly. I haven’t your subtlety or complexity of thought.”

  “It seems you have become a rare beast: You hold noble principles and you live by them. That is something to be honored, not exploited. It is time I faced the fact that Papa will never accept me on my own terms. You never meant it to go this far, did you?”

  “No.” He trailed the stick in the gravel. “And you’ll— What? Simply walk away?”

  “Perhaps I should have done so years ago.”

  “Your father will cut you off. You’ll lose everything.”

  Perhaps it had never been hers to lose, and her biggest mistake was thinking it could be.

  “I’ll figure something out,” she said. “I always do. It is my problem, not yours.”

  There: She had released him. But he did not answer. Instead, he pulled off his hat and balanced it on the end of his stick as they walked, spinning it, throwing it into the air, and catching it again.

  Good grief. The man was a marquess, yet he behaved like a playful child. And she— Oh, be honest. She was as much a child. She could gather her skirts and leap for that hat. Knock it off the stick and grab it and run. He’d catch her easily, and they’d tumble onto the grass and—

  Not like children, then.

  Finally, Guy threw his hat into the air, jumped to seize it in his free hand before the wind stole it, and stopped beside the next statue. Apollo, with sculpted muscles, long curls, and a lyre.

  “I refuse to surrender until we have exhausted all options,” he said. “We have a whole sixteen days to fix this. I cannot believe you are giving in.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I never give in. I am merely changing my strategy.”

  Finally her brain caught up with her ears. She stared at him. A smile hovered over his lips.

  “I don’t need you to rescue me,” said her pride, which did not know how to thank him.

  “Don’t be absurd. I’m not rescuing you,” he said, mimicking her. “I’m helping you rescue yourself.”

  The look she gave him should have sliced him like the wind, but he only grinned and turned to study Apollo.

  “I’ll not be forced to marry you, Arabella,” he said to the statue. “But I find it despicable, the way your father uses the promise of your inheritance to control you. Do you have any idea how thoroughly my father controlled me? I could not even choose how the tailor cut my coat, or how my valet cut my hair. Duty and one’s place in society are all very well, but to deny our personal choices is to erode our very selves. So we must secure your inheritance without your choices being taken away.”

  Guy finished this speech by placing his hat on Apollo’s head. He tilted it to a rakish angle and stepped back to admire the effect.

  Arabella stared at the statue too, yet while her eyes saw the weathered stone, she was aware only of Guy. Strong, powerful Guy, who owed her nothing, who despised her, who would help her anyway.

  And all was right in the world.

  Except—

  She stepped forward and straightened Apollo’s hat, so it sat evenly on his head. There. Now all was right in the world. Nodding with satisfaction, she prepared to walk on when Guy brushed past her, touched his fingers to the brim, and set the hat crooked again.

  His face was the picture of innocence. She glared at him, but when he did not rectify his error, she used both hands to once more straighten the hat.

  He waited until she had stepped back, and then, with a lazy tap of his knuckles, tipped it again.

  Again, Arabella straightened it.

  Again, Guy set it askew.

  She curled her fingers into her palms. She was not going to play his games. And look! One thing he knew about her—one harmless foible—and he used it to torment her. This was what happened when people knew you cared about something.

  With a haughty toss of her head, she continued along the path. He fell into step beside her.

  One step. Two steps. Three. Four.

  Curse it.

  She dashed back and straightened the hat, and he laughed, looking carefree and rumpled, with the smile in his eyes and the wind in his hair.

  When he extended his elbow, she returned to him and slipped her fingers into the crook. They walked on, like a typical engaged couple, shoulders bumping, her wine-red pelisse flirting with his greatcoat.

  “Are you already married?” she asked, oddly breathless for such a short dash.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Using a false name?”

  “No.”

  “Underage?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Insane?”

  “Only around you.”

  “Impotent?”

  He whirled about. Her hand slipped from his arm. His eyes glinted with that heated intensity so familiar from that night in London.

  “What do you think?” His growl was rough with promise. “You have some experience in the matter of my…potency.”

  “Things might have changed.”

  “Would you like a demonstration? To check everything still works as it ought?”

  He lowered his gaze to her mouth, and then over her body, his look inflaming her skin, as though his hands were touching her again. In his eyes, amusement mingled with that heat, an infectious mix that rippled through her blood in delicious ways and, that, oh yes, she remembered that from London too.

  That night when she had ruined everything, with her fears and pride and carelessness, long before it had occurred to her that there might be anything precious to ruin. All those years of despising him, only to learn too late there was nothing to despise. Caring nothing for his good opinion of her, until that good opinion was irrevocably lost. And what heartrending cruelty, to discover this longing for him, after all she had done to ensure he would never want her.

  Maybe it was not too late. Maybe she could grab his head and make him listen. Make him understand that sometimes she got frightened, and fear turned her stupid, and her pride concealed it so no one would know. Even then, what was the point? Perhaps he would understand, perhaps even forgive. But it would not make him want her.

  He thought her unscrupulous and arrogant and power-hungry, and a good, honorable man did not want a woman like that. She had made enough mistakes already; she would not mistake his fleeting desire and essential decency for anything other than what they were.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” she managed to say.

  His eyes held hers a moment longer, then he turned back to the path, his boots crunching on the gravel, and he trailed his stick in the water as though nothing had happened.

  Because nothing had.

  “Those questions relate to marriage, I take it?” he asked.

  “Legal impediments. There are none. The other option is to delay the wedding.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I daresay you have some ideas.”

  “For the marriage to be valid, the vicar must read the banns three Sundays in a row, in the parish church in which the wedding is to take place,” she recited. “If there are no objections, the ceremony must take place within three months of the third banns, witnessed by at least two people. If there is any disruption or delay, it must start all over again from the first banns.”

  “How do you know
all this?”

  “I like knowing things. It makes me feel…”

  “Less like a leaf on the lake.”

  Curse it. Another thing she had revealed.

  She pressed on. “Therefore, to delay or prevent the wedding, we simply remove one or more of the essential elements, namely: the vicar, the church, the witnesses, the bride, or the groom.”

  “I’m sure you have a suggestion.”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? We kidnap the vicar.”

  Guy whirled to a stop. Kidnap the vicar? This was her solution? Bloody hell. Why did he keep forgetting this about her? When would he learn that she was—

  Joking. Of course she was. Laughter danced in her eyes, along with a touch of defiance as if she knew his first thought.

  “We should do it immediately before the third banns,” she continued. “Perhaps the Saturday night, so there is no time for the curate to stand in.”

  Guy tried to look stern. “Arabella, we are not kidnapping the vicar.”

  “We wouldn’t hurt him. He might even enjoy it.” Her face brightened. “We could take him to the seaside.”

  “No,” he said, but he was laughing.

  “I suppose you won’t let me burn down the church either.”

  “Not if we can avoid it.”

  She sighed dramatically. “You never let me do what I want.”

  “You’re just trying to make me laugh.”

  “I like it when you laugh. You become appealing.”

  “And the rest of the time I am not?”

  “The rest of the time you have that furrow.”

  She touched her thumb to the spot between his brows, and he wasn’t laughing now. Her gloved hand was a blur before his eyes, the caress of soft, cool leather like a benediction that made him want to drop to his knees and—

  He flung the stick aside, shoved his fists into his pockets, and when she lowered her hand, he was seeing her again, her smiling eyes, her mocking brows, her temptingly parted lips.

  “As though you are always annoyed at the world generally,” she added.

  “Not always. Sometimes I am annoyed at the world specifically.”

  “But when you smile and laugh, you get these deep furrows here, beside your mouth, as if your smile is so important that everything else must make way for it.”