by Mia Vincy
Then she was touching him again, both hands cupping his face. The pale sunlight caressed every enticing detail of her dark brows, her thick lashes, her soft skin, her curved lips. If only she had removed her gloves; he craved her naked touch.
“I cannot decide if you are handsome or not,” she went on. “Your features are too bold, and you let your complexion become weathered, and you have these faint lines, under your eyes, here, from squinting at the wind and sun.”
“Did you not notice that I’m brown on my torso too?” he said without thinking. “This summer, I stopped on my way back to England to work in an orchard in Valencia, and when it was hot, we took off our shirts.”
“I suppose the señoritas did not object.”
“Their grandmothers did not either.”
She laughed, the breathless sound carried by the wind, and he wanted to capture her sudden bright beauty. When she dropped her hands, the cold wind rushed through him. He did not move away. Neither did she.
“But it will all fade,” she said. “Disappear like those calluses on your hand.”
“Indeed. I shall become soft and pink, and fit for nothing but eating roast beef and lecturing on topics I know nothing about.”
“Your hair will darken too, once you wear a hat and stay only in the English sun.” She caught a few strands of his windblown hair, then set them free. “Juno Bell used to wash her hair in lemon juice to make it golden like this.”
“I shall suggest it to my valet.”
Again she laughed. And before he knew what he was doing, his hands were out of his pockets and tugging at the bow of her bonnet.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked, as the untied ribbons fluttered wildly.
“I have not seen your hair in the sunlight.”
“It is only hair. It looks the same at any time.”
He slipped off her bonnet and she grabbed it from him, but made no attempt to hide. Within the glossy, dark mass, a tiny comb winked at him. He tugged at it, claiming it—
“Don’t!” she cried. “It will get messy.”
—and a thick lock of hair tumbled alongside her face, then rose and waved in the wind. He tucked the comb into his pocket and curled her hair around his fingers, letting the silken strands slide over his skin.
“You are appealing when you smile too,” he added softly.
“I’m not smiling now.”
“You smile with your eyes. It is enough. Besides, your lips are always slightly curved, in the promise of a smile.”
He touched his thumbs to each corner of her mouth. It occurred to him, suddenly, that they had never kissed merely for the sake of kissing. They had kissed as a dare, a dangerous game between nemeses, after which they had been naked and in the middle of their—whatever that was. They had it all upside down and back to front. Even if he kissed her now, they could never start again, because everything between them would always be wrong.
The thought gave him the strength to drop his hands, to pivot, to put several yards between them. Keep walking, he told himself. Walk away, walk away! But his body disobeyed; he needed to see her again.
She stood motionless by the lake’s edge, worshiped by a weak beam of sunlight, while the wind tormented her wine-red skirts and her bonnet danced at the end of its ribbons. The loose hair whipped about her face, and Guy fancied he saw her as she truly was: magnificently proud, heartbreakingly vulnerable, standing in defiance of the elements themselves.
He had to walk away. Walk away from the temptation to kiss her, from this risk to his plans. Walk away from her unexpected charm and her secret nobility, and her strength, that splendid strength that rendered him weak.
“Walk away,” Guy said out loud, but the wind swallowed his words and spun him around and pushed him back toward her.
Chapter 15
Arabella was staring at Guy’s back, but then it was not his back. He spun on his heel. He strode back toward her. A thrill pulsed through her with every step of those long, powerful legs.
His greatcoat streamed out behind him, as he charged at her, eyes fierce, face scowling, heated, furious, intent.
She could not move. There was nowhere to go, nothing but him and his approach, shrinking the world and thinning the air and heating her blood, so that it rushed through her veins and swirled and pooled and throbbed.
He hardly slowed even when he reached her. Still moving, he caught her face in one hand, her waist in the other. Their bodies slammed into each other, and she was reaching into him, gripping him, her hungry mouth meeting his. His lips were hot and demanding, and she answered with demands of her own. She twisted one hand in his hair and the other in his waistcoat, and she must have dropped her bonnet, but who cared, she had a million bonnets and only one chance to kiss him. Only one chance to own his lips, to claim his mouth, to taste, to explore, but—curse him!—his tongue was in the way, and she had to battle it with her own, until he made a noise in his throat— Was that laughter? Did he dare laugh while he kissed her?
But oh, so help her, she needed more.
As if sharing her urgency, his hand curved under her buttocks and hauled her against him, the whole hard hot length of him, their chests, their hips, and there, yes, there, she could almost feel him. If she could just press closer, deepen this kiss—
He was feverish too, his hands roaming, finding her waist, her breasts, as their tongues tangled, and her hands roamed too, under his coat, hunting his heat and promise, and he kissed her so she was full of him, his taste, his scent, his touch, and yet not full enough, never enough. She needed more. Why did he not touch her more?
Oh, she wanted to laugh too, from the sheer exhilaration! This was everything she remembered. The fever in her blood and under her skin, spreading through her like wildfire, smashing everything open, everything she had learned to keep locked away, and all these feelings—these feelings she had buried so deep—once more they burst free.
Splendid, he had said. Splendid.
They broke off the kiss to gulp at air, but still his arms clutched her, and his lips burned a trail along her jaw, her cheek, her ear. Every inch of her yearned for those lips. Her lips yearned for every inch of him.
“Oh Arabella, you annihilate me,” he muttered. “I can’t not… I can’t not touch you. Oh hell. I don’t care. Whatever the consequences, I don’t care.”
Arabella froze. She heard herself breathing, hard and heavy like a winded horse.
“The consequences?” she repeated.
He released her so abruptly she staggered. He spun away, laughing mirthlessly, his hands raking his hair, as if he had so much energy coursing through him the only way to dispel it was to move.
Arabella did not move. She stood very, very still.
“I’ll end up married to you after all. How Father must be laughing in his grave right now! All these years I insisted I would not do his bidding.” His back was still to her, as he shook his head. “Your reputation.”
“By all means, let us consider my reputation.”
Still he did not turn. “I do not owe you for what happened in London. But if anyone reported seeing that, I would definitely have to marry you. Honor would demand it.”
His face was hidden, but his bitter tone told her everything she needed to know.
Thankfully, her pride was the one part of her not obliterated by his kiss.
“How inconvenient it must be to have honor,” she drawled. “I am eternally grateful I do not suffer from that particular flaw.”
He nodded, as though she had confirmed what he already suspected. Then he threw up his hands and started to pace.
“That night in London. I still don’t understand why you came to me that night. And Sculthorpe. What happened with Sculthorpe?”
Memories and thoughts and possibilities pounded through her, as if she had a dozen hearts and every one of them was working double time.
She could tell him everything. Tell him about her fear and loathing, about Sculthorpe’s obsession. Admit
why she had misused Guy.
He had tried to outdo her that night in London, but in the end he had done her bidding. That made him hate himself, and hate her, and that—well, she understood that. She understood that he could kiss her and laugh with her and stand by her side, while hating a part of her too. That was the trouble with feelings; they were complex and messy and contradictory, and, oh, if only she could pack them neatly into boxes, tied with colorful ribbons.
If she told him what Sculthorpe had done? Mama had started whispers at the ball. Over time, the news would circulate, and by springtime everyone would know. But for now…
If she pulled back her sleeves to reveal her fading bruises? How that would offend Guy’s blessed principles! Honorable and impulsive, he would hare off to challenge Sculthorpe. If any blood were shed, Arabella would always know it was her fault, because she had known the power of her words, because she understood Guy’s character and how his principles would make him wade into a fight.
“Once more, I apologize for how I treated you in London,” she said, sounding stiff to her own ears.
“I sought an explanation, not another apology.”
“There is nothing to tell. I have said I will release you.”
For long moments, he stared out over the lake. She picked up her bonnet and tried to smooth out its crumpled ribbons, as if she could smooth out all the wrinkles in her past, all her missteps and mistakes.
“Tell me honestly, Arabella,” he finally said, as though he truly believed that every other word she spoke was a lie. “What is your scheme? I confess I haven’t the wits to keep up with you. I have only my principles to guide me, and my desire for you so addles my mind I hardly know what to think.” He pinned her with his direct, honest stare. “Speak plainly. Do you mean for us to marry in the end?”
What a thing for him to admit! How easily he revealed his weaknesses, so sure of his strength that it diminished him not at all to reveal his flaws. How marvelous it must feel, to live like that. How freeing.
Yet she could use his weaknesses against him. If she chose the right words, in a few weeks, she would be a marchioness, and her position in society, future, and inheritance would be secure.
She could have it all—including a husband who despised her. Guy deserved better than that. He deserved better than to spend the rest of his life trapped with a woman he loathed. Just imagine: a lifetime tied to Guy, craving his good opinion, but receiving only resentment.
“Honestly, no,” she said. “That would be the worst thing in the world.”
He nodded in agreement, and added, “For your father to disinherit you in these circumstances would be an injustice. I abhor lying to everyone, but allowing that injustice would be worse. Let us make a plan. I wish to play this out. It need only be until spring.”
Papa would say the injustice was that Oliver had died, that his wife had not borne him more sons, that his daughter was a hoyden and a scold. Arabella would say the injustice was that she did not have the same rights as men, that her brother’s death hung over her like a curse.
“I promise I shall never try to make you do something you don’t want to do,” she said.
It was meant as a sincere promise, but this, too, made him laugh, and she wondered what she had misunderstood. He turned, their eyes met, and it seemed they would both break ranks, close the space, start kissing again.
But instead, he spoke. “How do you plan to find a husband? You have a plan, of course.”
“Of course.” She turned to watch the waterfowl surfing the choppy waters of the lake. “I am corresponding with Hadrian Bell. Sir Gordon’s son. You remember him?”
“I hear he’s at the embassy in Potsdam.” He stilled. “You mean to marry Hadrian?”
“He is interested in discussing it. Their estate neighbors ours, so our marriage would combine our estates. That will ensure Papa’s agreement.” Turning back, she lifted her chin. “So you see, all I ever needed was time.”
“Because you have a plan.” He nodded and nodded and kept on nodding. “Right. Yes. Hadrian Bell. Good match for him. He always was ambitious. Well played.”
Ambitious. Because, of course, no one would want to marry her for any other reason.
“You must go away, to delay the wedding,” she made herself say. “We cannot remove the vicar, the church, or the witnesses. And I cannot go anywhere, so that leaves you.” She shoved back her loose hair, pulled on her bonnet, and briskly set about tying the ribbons. “If we are not married within three months of the third banns, it has to start again. Tell Papa you have urgent business and will return for the wedding. But you get caught up in business and stay away for three months, writing frequently…” She dropped her hands. “It’s a lot of trouble for you. You didn’t ask for this.”
“I have to go to London anyway, deal with this matter in Chancery.” He shoved his hands back into his pockets. “If others make demands on my time, an invitation from a peer, perhaps an order from the Crown, the weather could turn. Staying away is not unreasonable. We’ll call your father’s bluff. He cannot truly mean to will his estate away from his direct line, when there’s still a chance of a grandson.”
Side by side, they watched the waterfowl.
“We shall proceed like this,” Guy said. “Over the next week or so, we do whatever is necessary to make everyone believe this engagement is real, and that we are indeed in love, and if that sometimes means…” He glanced at her mouth, shook his head with a rueful smile, and looked away. “We are sensible adults, in full control of ourselves.”
“Indeed.”
She thought of Mama, caught in this decades-long struggle between Arabella and her father. She thought of herself being cast out. “I wish I didn’t have to do this,” she said.
“No, but I cannot stand by and allow an injustice, when I might help put it right. I’ve come through trickier situations.”
In silence, they walked back along the path. Guy retrieved his hat from the statue’s head and pulled his gloves back on.
As they neared the lawn, a quartet of workers’ boys dashed past, yelling greetings, clutching little boats.
Guy paused to watch them run. “I remember Oliver designed the fastest boats. He was something of a prodigy.”
“Yes, I suppose he was.”
“Do you ever think about him?”
“We were very young and it was all so long ago.”
“I still think of my brother sometimes, though of course he was older than Oliver when we lost him.”
How easily he spoke of loss and love, and he didn’t collapse in a heap or cause the sky to fall on their heads. Perhaps she should try it.
“I think of Oliver sometimes, I suppose,” she ventured.
He nodded. “They never quite go away, though, do they?”
No. Oliver would never leave her, always an empty space at her side, a palpable void in their house.
By the water, the boys finished negotiating the rules of racing and lowered their boats.
“The tall boy is John, grandson of our head gardener,” Arabella said. “John won a purse in the midsummer footraces this year, and he gave it to his sister Eliza, so she could marry the baker’s boy and set up house. His little brother there, Paul, he adores dogs, but the head gardener has been feuding with the kennel master since last century, so I must help him sneak into the kennels in secret.”
“They matter to you.” His words came out like an accusation. “It’s not simply about besting your father or getting an inheritance. The people here matter.”
The wind devoured her rueful laugh. “You have a very poor opinion of me, don’t you?”
“Honestly, Arabella, I have no idea what to think of you. You hide behind that aloof façade, and make outrageously arrogant statements that you do not mean, and you never defend yourself from accusations, yet your schemes are as undeniable as your ruthlessness in carrying them out.” He stepped closer, his eyes intent, as he brushed a hand over her jaw, to rest on her shoulder
as lightly as a bird. “Yet you fight for others’ well-being, and use your cleverness to help and protect them, and your splendor… Your splendor cannot be denied.”
Her heart leaped at his words, at his light, reassuring touch as his fingers skimmed down her arm to catch her hand.
Voices carried toward them on the wind. Papa and the ornithologists were crossing the lawn.
“You’re standing very close.” She didn’t move away.
“I am only holding your hand. We’ll do nothing to harm your reputation, while convincing everyone we like each other.” He flashed one of his smiles. She wondered if his cheer served to conceal his true thoughts. “I’ll flirt with you madly, pay lavish compliments, and every chance I get, I shall…” His eyes dropped, lingered on her lips. “I shall make you blush.”
“I don’t blush.”
“We’ll see about that.”
His gaze was warm and intent, a lover’s bold gaze, to go with his flattery and easy smiles. They were only pretending, for the sake of the witnesses, but it unsettled her nonetheless.
“You’re very good at it,” she managed to say. “But I don’t know how to flirt.”
“Then heaven help me if you ever learn.”
With a shake of his head, he released her hand and turned aside.
You could teach me, she wanted to say.
But her mouth was dry and her throat was tight, and besides, he had already strolled away.
Chapter 16
Sunday being fine, several of the remaining guests decided to walk the mile to church. The small party was mingling on the front steps when Arabella emerged, bonnet in hand, unfamiliar tightness in her chest.
Today, in church, the vicar would call the first banns.
Her eyes went straight to Guy, towering over a chatty, bright-eyed Miss Treadgold. The sun lit the tips of his hair under his hat, and the brass buttons on his blue coat, and the shiny pink ribbons on Miss Treadgold’s bonnet.
