A Dangerous Kind of Lady

by Mia Vincy

  Lady Treadgold stepped forward. “Don’t you believe her?”

  “Of course I believe her. It happens all the time.” Mama smiled. “Perhaps this excitement has made you sleepy.”

  “Yes, come along, Matilda,” Lady Treadgold said and ushered her niece out.

  Arabella folded her hands and waited for her scolding.

  “Are you heading for bed, Arabella?”

  “I thought I might sit a little longer. In the quiet. Alone. Reading my book. And…drinking my brandy.”

  Mama shook her head. “Take care, my dear.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Take very good care.”

  And the door clicked shut behind her.

  Chapter 19

  Arabella counted out two minutes on the ticking clock before she opened the door connecting the Reading Room to the library.

  “Guy?” she whispered.

  A shadow detached itself from a nearby chair. Guy sauntered back in and leaned against the door to study her. In another world, she would have the courage to go to him. In this world, she did not move.

  “You never touched the girl?” he repeated.

  She laughed. “That whole situation was ludicrous. And you owe me a thousand pounds.”

  “I owe you something.” He peered at his nearly empty glass. “I hear you have a drinking problem.”

  “Mama was covering for you. Ladies don’t drink brandy. Besides, it’s vile.”

  “Have a drink with me anyway, to celebrate my near escape from a life of Sir Walter Treadgold.”

  “Not escape Matilda?”

  Shooting her a glance, he went to pour drinks. “I like Matilda. A man could do worse. Her main drawback is her dreadful family.”

  “Hm.”

  Enough said. She would not embarrass herself with another outburst he might misinterpret as jealousy.

  She should leave. But it was warm here in the Reading Room. And intimate, when the house was asleep and the firelight was bright. Guy was in a good mood, and that escapade had left Arabella enlivened.

  She lowered herself to the settee.

  “So that was Sir Walter’s scheme,” Guy mused, with a rattle of the brandy decanter. “Why he was so pleased with himself.”

  “It wasn’t a very good scheme,” Arabella said. “It is risky, hackneyed, and difficult to execute.”

  “Tried and true.”

  Guy didn’t seem bothered. But then he was not a schemer, so he had no talent for spotting others’ schemes, or the flaws in their schemes.

  Neither did he admire clever schemers, such as herself.

  “Sir Walter could be in serious trouble when you reveal his intentions for Freddie,” Arabella explained. “Yet all he was banking on was a pretty girl in a nightgown? And what about Freddie? I cannot believe he would so easily abandon his attempts to take advantage of his guardianship.”

  Guy shrugged. “If I had to marry Matilda, he would be safe, as I wouldn’t press charges against my wife’s nearest relative. Or maybe he thinks I would agree to marry Freddie off to his son.”

  “Either way, it was poorly planned and executed. I am disappointed in them. This charade would be more stimulating if we had worthier adversaries.”

  “We have each other.” Handing her a brandy, which she took without thinking, he dropped onto the cushions beside her. “If you were any worthier or more adversarial, I’m not sure I’d survive the experience.”

  “I’m not sure I can survive such flattery.” She laughed, but something still niggled. “I thought he would be more sophisticated than that.”

  “You give the man too much credit. He is nothing more than a rank opportunist. Not a mastermind like you.”

  He sprawled back and studied her thoughtfully over his drink. Avoiding his gaze, she ran her finger around the rim of the cut-crystal glass, achingly aware of his legs, long and strong and close. They might never have a moment like this again. What if she… No, she would not attempt to seduce him again, not after her embarrassingly clumsy effort in the crypt.

  “And so you rescued me from her,” he said. “Are you determined that I do not marry anyone else?”

  “Didn’t you wish to be completely free to choose your own bride? By all means, if Matilda Treadgold is your choice, I’ll merrily plan the wedding myself.”

  “She’s very pleasant. Easy.”

  Arabella studied the reflected firelight dueling in her glass. He was after another reaction. Not a chance.

  “Exactly what you claimed to want,” she said.

  “And you claimed to have a high opinion of her.”

  “I do.” She cast him a cool look. “In particular, I admire the way she makes you men fall over yourselves to do her bidding.”

  “You would like that. But at least she only makes us pick up ribbons. If we were to do your bidding, the streets would be running with blood.”

  It was only a jest, of course, the sort she had never minded before, but now it stung. Guy had said he wanted to know her; odds were, he wouldn’t like what he saw. What a strange turn! People often didn’t like her; it had never bothered her before. Soon, he would be gone, still thinking poorly of her.

  “Guy, I have to tell you… That I…”

  “That you?”

  “That I’m really rather harmless.”

  He fired off a rough round of laughter. Frustrated, she rapped her fingernail against her glass, as if its hollow ring might embolden her like a war drum.

  “You persist in thinking the worst of me,” she said. “But you see I… I never…”

  I never meant to hurt anyone. But sometimes I get frightened and my pride takes over and I say things I do not mean.

  “You never what?”

  “I’ve never stabbed anyone. Or poisoned them. Or shot them,” she said.

  “How very restrained of you.”

  “I’ve never tried to trap anyone into marriage by running around in my nightgown. I know you think I did, but I didn’t. And I’ve never…”

  His glass hovered at his lips, but his eyes did not leave hers. Nervousness—that was this unfamiliar sensation! How horrid it felt, to want someone’s good opinion, to care so much what another person thought that she had to say these things. How did people live like this?

  “Go on,” he said softly.

  Again, she tried to shoot out the words, but all she said was, “And I’ve never dropped a ribbon in my life.”

  Guy sipped his brandy, not taking his eyes off Arabella. She perched on the edge of the settee like a hawk about to take flight, gripping her glass so tightly it might crack.

  Her words were nonsense, but Arabella never talked nonsense.

  For all his flippancy, Guy was fascinated by her keen intelligence, bright and sharp and multifaceted like a diamond. He admired her gift for seeing several moves ahead, whereas he could only react to the now.

  If she was talking about dropping ribbons, the topic must have some meaning for her.

  She was trusting him, after all. With something she could not express but that mattered so much she betrayed her nervousness. He simply had to listen.

  “But I suppose that’s why you like Matilda Treadgold,” Arabella went on. “Because she makes men feel strong and important and necessary.”

  “Men are strong and important and necessary.”

  “Well, good. Who wants a man who is weak and insignificant and useless? But I don’t see why a man cannot feel strong and important and necessary all by himself, without running around picking up a lady’s ribbons.”

  Arabella scowled at her brandy, as though something had gone terribly wrong and it was all the spirit’s fault.

  Guy had picked up Miss Treadgold’s ribbon that evening with no illusions about why that ribbon had fallen at his feet, but he had done it to tease Arabella. It seemed his every action concerned Arabella these days, driven by this intemperate longing that simmered beneath his skin.

  “So Matilda…” he prompted.

  “Exac
tly. Matilda.” Arabella’s hands twitched as if she meant to hurl her glass. “She’s so very good at dropping ribbons. But whereas I am good at most things I attempt, dropping ribbons is one thing I simply cannot do.”

  This conversation was fast reminding him of a youthful effort to cross the Yorkshire moors in the middle of a fog, when he had to take great care where he put his feet, to avoid being sucked into a bog. Well, he always had enjoyed a challenge.

  “Why would you even want to drop a ribbon?” he ventured.

  “So that a man would pick it up.”

  “But you can pick up your own ribbons.”

  “Of course I jolly well can.”

  “And you would never drop one in the first place.”

  “Precisely! Which is why men like Matilda Treadgold.”

  “Because she makes them feel strong and important and necessary.”

  “Just because a man wants to feel strong and important and necessary does not mean I cannot be those things too.” She sipped her brandy and recoiled. “Good grief, that is vile.”

  And Guy understood.

  Arabella was unapologetically strong-willed and independent—traits rarely admired in ladies. But that same proud independence was isolating too; she realized that, perhaps, but did not know how to change.

  Now, she wanted something from him, and she didn’t know how to ask for it, and so he could only guess what it was. But Arabella was asking. Not demanding or bribing or coercing—asking. She was doing a very poor job of it, but then, as she said, she didn’t know how.

  Arabella, who knew everything, did not know how to ask for affection or help.

  His heart ached for her, this woman so accustomed to raising her walls that she had forgotten how lonely it could be behind them, so determined not to seem helpless that she refused to make any requests.

  “You are strong and important and necessary, whether you drop ribbons or not,” he said, hoping those were the right words. “And sometimes to get what you want, you have to take a risk and ask for it.”

  “But it—you—I— When it matters— Oh.”

  She dumped her glass on the table, folded her arms, and frowned at the wall. Not the right words, then. What the devil was going on in that complex mind of hers? He could spend a thousand evenings with her—a hundred thousand—and still not fully know her, but enjoy every minute of trying.

  “You could start by asking for something small, and work your way up,” he suggested.

  She glanced at him, thoughtful now.

  Ah, that was encouraging. “You may improve with practice,” he went on. “Why don’t we try it now? Drop a ribbon and we’ll see if I pick it up.”

  “I haven’t any ribbons.”

  “You have a gown. Why don’t you try dropping that? Although, I confess, I would not make the slightest effort to pick it up.”

  Something flashed in her eyes—Desire? Fury?—then she looked away. Damn. His flippancy was misplaced. In a moment, she would call him absurd and stalk out.

  Well, good.

  If he got any closer to her, he feared he would not be able to disentangle himself, until she cut him loose and he’d fall. And how very unwise to provoke her when they were alone in a warm room at night. So—good! It was good that he said the wrong thing. Good if she walked away.

  He leaped to his feet and carried their glasses back to the sideboard, where, he vowed, he would remain until she left.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her move. But she did not leave. She sighed. Not a delicate, romantic sigh, of course. More an exasperated, impatient one.

  Impatient for what?

  He stilled, his hands on the glasses, his attention on her. Seeing her, not quite seeing her.

  Again her arms moved. Again that sigh.

  He turned to look.

  Her glare told him she wished him dead and gone. He did not understand, until he saw what she had done.

  She had removed two hairpins and dropped them onto the carpet. Her careful coiffure was coming loose.

  Guy’s fingers fumbled to grip the carved wood of the sideboard behind him.

  Again, she tugged out a pin and dropped it on the floor. More hair tumbled free, and from her eyes came another killing look.

  That glare! A lesser man would quail and quiver, and hide under the furniture like a dog in a thunderstorm. Guy was not a lesser man. Guy was a man who wanted to see Arabella Larke’s hair, and would weather any number of storms to do so.

  “A few more,” he said, his voice rough and raw, “and it might be worth my while to get down on my knees to pick them up.”

  Not a glare this time, but something…inviting? He yearned to touch her for his own pleasure, because he was selfish and greedy that way. But he also yearned to give her whatever she wanted, to show her that she could ask and someone would give.

  He wanted her to know that she could ask him, and he would give.

  So he gripped the sideboard and waited. He could wait. At least three more heartbeats he could wait, but his heart was racing, so three heartbeats came too fast, and another pin dropped. Then another and another and the last.

  Arabella kept her eyes on him as she ran her fingers over her scalp, lifting her hair, shaking it out, letting it tumble haphazardly over her shoulders and past her ribs. Her features looked softer when framed by all that hair, or maybe she just seemed softer, in the firelight, with that uncertainty in her expression and her lips parted. Her hair would be silken and fragrant, and he would bury his face in it and let it pour over his naked skin…

  Their eyes held. His heart pounded. His hands released the wood. His legs carried him across the room. His knees buckled and landed on the rug. The hairpins hid amid the patterns and evaded his suddenly clumsy fingers. He did not mind. He made them both wait, while he gathered up those pins, one by one, and dropped them on the table with a little clatter, one by one. With each pin, he shot her a look; with each look, her eyes grew heavier.

  When there were no more pins, he swiveled to where she perched over him, gripping the cushions at her sides. He planted his hands on her knees. Her gaze did not waver. She did not resist when he parted her legs as much as her skirts would allow, and rose as close and tall as he could with his knees still on the rug. Her face was above his, her palms on his shoulders, and he boldly buried his hands in her hair. The scent of orange blossom floated over him, and he raked his fingers through that heavy, silken mass, catching on tangles and sliding on again, bumping carelessly, exquisitely, over her shoulders and breasts.

  Her lips were already parted when he touched them with his own.

  The tenderness of the caress was startling: the first honest kiss they had shared.

  Their mouths touched, parted, hovered a hair’s width apart. Her knuckles were sharp as she twisted her fingers in his dressing gown, and his own hands formed fists in her hair, but by tacit agreement they kept their fury at bay, as they breathed each other in. She pressed her open lips to his and touched his tongue with her own; a sound leaped in his throat. He tugged her bottom lip between his teeth; she answered in kind.

  Pulling away, Guy pressed his impatient hands into the top of her thighs. Here, her leg muscles were firm and strong, but her inner thighs would be soft, and how beguiling it was, her mix of strong and soft.

  How could she look both uncertain and fierce? How could he feel both tender and rough?

  “What is it you want?” he murmured.

  “I want… I mean, we can’t, we mustn’t… But I…” She made a sound of frustration at her own intractable mouth.

  “We won’t do anything you don’t want to,” he said. “You can leave. Or tell me to leave. We could read a book, or play whist, or simply sit here until we burst into flames. We can do whatever you want, no more, no less. Tell me what you want.”

  She said nothing. She pursed her lips. She blinked too fast.

  “Arabella? Tell me.”

  “I don’t know how to.”

  A pained confessio
n, frightened and lost. Oh, Arabella, so commanding and clever, who understood everything except her own self. She terrified men, she had said. The notion seemed to puzzle her, as if she genuinely did not realize that she glared and hissed, which was why men turned tail and ran. Sensible men, anyway.

  That confession had cost her something; her demeanor turned cool. If she hid behind her pride, he would lose her as surely as if he walked out the door.

  “I remember how you liked to be touched,” he murmured.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Guy clenched his fists so tightly his fingers ached.

  “Yes.” She released the word on a sigh. “Yes.” Her eyes snapped open, stormy with longing and fear, passion and hope. “But the risks of… We can’t…”

  “We won’t.”

  He waited. She said nothing.

  “Talk to me, Arabella,” he urged. “Tell me what you would like.”

  When finally she spoke, her soft words flickered between them like a flame.

  “I would like to be touched.”

  Chapter 20

  Arabella had no idea what to do next, but Guy seemed to know.

  Without another word, he led her to the hearth, where he stoked up the fire, then he slipped off his banyan and spread it over the carpet.

  “That’s silk and velvet,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “The rug might burn your skin.”

  He is taking care of me, she thought, and let him strip off her clothes. He took his time, slowly releasing buttons, sensuously sliding the fabric off her limbs, skimming his fingers over her with taunting carelessness.

  Those fingers stilled at her side. “What the devil happened to you here?”

  She froze, belatedly remembering the tea-colored bruise. The marks on her arms were faint yellow smudges, invisible in the firelight.

  “A horse,” she said. “It’s nothing. Don’t stop.”

  He tugged her to her knees and knelt behind her, bracketing her hips, his scent engulfing her. Arabella fixed her gaze on the flames, every inch of her suddenly sensitive to the air on her skin, the heavy silk of her hair caressing her bare back. She had never given her hair much thought before, but now it was the center of her world. No—he was, burying his hands in it, lifting its weight, letting it tumble back down like a waterfall.