A Dangerous Kind of Lady

by Vincy, Mia

  He sat up slowly. “Impossible. As my wife, she’d have received a lot more than three hundred pounds.”

  “Oh, Guy. You lack sense at times, but one could never accuse you of lacking a heart.”

  His eyes were shadowed and unreadable. Her own heart whispered again, begged her to stop fighting, to negotiate a truce. Once more, tears began to choke her. How he would taunt her if he knew!

  He must never know. This ended here. From now on, they would be Lord Hardbury and Lady Sculthorpe, haunted by a lifetime of petty squabbles and an hour of furious sex. He would always know her secret, and she would always hate him for that. It was preferable that he despised her, for anything was better than his pity.

  “What did you truly hope to achieve tonight?” he asked. “Your first time…”

  “Was quite satisfactory.”

  And then, because that didn’t feel like enough, she turned a shilling in her fingers and flipped it to him. He caught it one-handed.

  “For services rendered,” she said, and swept out before he could reply.

  Then she used every last shred of discipline to get herself home, without anyone seeing her, without shedding a single tear.

  Chapter 7

  The best thing about the approaching wedding was that Arabella always had something to blame.

  Shadows under her eyes? Wedding. Fidgeting the entire two-day journey from London to Warwickshire? Wedding. Snappy and short-tempered? Why, blame the wedding.

  And if her body tingled and throbbed with the memory of Guy’s touch, if her heart keened for what it had lost, if Mama had to recall her attention several times, because she was staring at the passing scenery and seeing nothing but Guy’s anger and scorn? Just blame the blasted wedding.

  Her first measure of peace came when they arrived at their parish of Longhope Abbey, as the road turned at the ancient, twisted oak and there— Perched on a hill, golden in the afternoon sun, were the famous ruins of the abbey, run centuries earlier by the Abbess Avicia, who had ruled over this part of Mercia like a queen. How Arabella longed to ride up there, give her horse its head while the wind whipped her face and the beauty of her home soothed her.

  Surely that would dispel these emotions roiling inside her, unfamiliar, unwelcome, uncontrolled. It was as though she had always believed herself to be a mountain, only to discover she was instead a volcano, full of fire and molten rock that she had not known existed until Guy’s stirring touch. Now, ugly, messy emotions were pouring out of her like so much hot, stinking mud, and it took all her willpower to keep them tamped down.

  By the time they climbed out of the carriage, it was all Arabella could do not to run for the stables, now that she was home.

  Not for long. Soon, this would not be her home anymore.

  As they entered the front door of Vindale Court—hardly cozy, this massive pile of white arches and spires, but then, neither was she—Ramsay welcomed them.

  “Your father wishes to see you,” Ramsay added in his glum manner, as if bearing bad news. Glumness was his way of achieving the solemnity fit for a butler. At heart he was as boisterous as ever—everyone had overheard him flirting with Mrs. Ramsay when they thought no one was listening—but that was beneath his dignity now.

  There, another sharp pang of wretched emotion: When Arabella married Sculthorpe, she would leave Ramsay and all the staff, who tended to stay for years out of devoted loyalty to Mama. Ramsay had been a boisterous footman when Arabella was a child. She had a memory of him pulling her and Oliver in a little yellow wagon. The twins had been tucked side by side, holding hands, grinning at each other, cheering while Ramsay spun them around the yard.

  She had no idea, now, why a footman had been pulling the children in a wagon. Perhaps the memory wasn’t even real. She wasn’t sure how many, if any, of her memories of Oliver were real.

  Still in her carriage dress, she went to Papa’s study, where Queenie announced her arrival in the usual way, by flapping her huge green wings and crying “What a day! What a day!”

  Papa hauled himself out of his armchair and took the few steps to the parrot’s perch. Pleasingly, he had regained weight while she and Mama were in London, though his coat was still loose on his tall frame. He soothed Queenie and ignored Arabella, though she could feel all the other eyes on her. Forty-seven other eyes, belonging to the twenty-four stuffed birds that perched throughout the room, an unforgiving jury that heard and judged her many failings. She knew them all: the green woodpecker, the cockatoo, the jay of Bengal. The falcon on the center table had only one eye. She called it Pirate. They got along quite well.

  Forty-nine eyes, if she counted the portrait of Oliver dominating one wall, that perpetual eight-year-old angel with his rosy cheeks and fine dark curls.

  What is it this time? she silently asked the little boy, who smirked at her. Smug little worm. If you’d lived long enough, you would have disappointed him too.

  Finally, Papa deigned to acknowledge her, studying her with eyes so like her own.

  “Congratulations. You have managed to stay engaged to Lord Sculthorpe for more than one day. I should have let him have you back in the spring. But oh no, you insisted on waiting for Guy Roth. You misjudged that one, my girl.” Papa lifted one thin hand; Queenie rubbed her beak against his finger and made that little purring sound in her throat. “But you’ve done well this time. With that illness last winter, I truly feared I would die without a grandson. I’m nicely recovered now, but I refuse to let you waste more time.” He shot her a sharp look. “I daresay marrying you off would have been easier had you grown up to be sweet and demure.”

  Arabella clasped her hands. “I am exceedingly sweet and demure. And if anyone says otherwise, I shall strike them with my crop.”

  “You and your jokes.” Papa shook his head wearily. “This betrothal to Sculthorpe had better not be a joke.”

  The door opened and shut with a swish of skirts and air of fragrant calm. Papa continued as though Mama had not arrived.

  “Sculthorpe arrives here tomorrow, I understand, and will stay until the betrothal ball. The sooner you marry, the sooner you’ll have sons. Your second boy will come here to live with us.”

  Well. She had not yet birthed any children, and already they were being taken from her. Up on the wall, Oliver sang, At least you’ll be useful for something!

  Oh go jump off a cloud, you tiresome cherub, she snapped at him. My only crime was to live when you did not.

  “And let me tell you, my girl, if you don’t get Sculthorpe to the altar, I will cut you off and give the whole lot to Archibald Larke. You will not botch this. No excuses.”

  “The wedding will take place, Papa.”

  He lowered himself into his chair. His winter illness had worried them all. There were so many things Arabella still wanted to say to her father, so many words she still wanted to hear. In a month, she would leave this home for her loveless marriage.

  Yet her parents had cooperated well together for a quarter century in their appropriate, cordial arrangement: wealthy Mr. Larke, cousin to a duke and renowned ornithologist, and Lady Belinda Misson, beautiful, unflappable daughter of the Earl of Keyworth.

  “Papa, Mama, perhaps…”

  Two faces turned toward her expectantly. Arabella’s heart lurched in her chest. Wretched, stinking emotions.

  “Why don’t we spend some time together? The three of us. We could perhaps—”

  “What for?” Papa looked truly baffled. “I already have many demands on my time, as do you both.”

  “You have not yet seen my work on The Illustrated Guide to the Vindale Aviaries.”

  “That can wait. More important that you plan the wedding and prepare for your new home.”

  High on the wall, Oliver was gloating. Next time, just ask for a slap in the face, he chirped.

  Shut up, you pestilent putto. I hope the angels molt their feathers into your tea.

  “I understand you invited Sir Walter Treadgold and his family,” Papa sai
d. “Which means the Roth girls will be here. I don’t want Guy Roth—Lord Hardbury, I mean. He had better not show his face. He broke his father’s promise that he’d marry you, and that’s not something I can forgive or forget.”

  No, Papa never did forget. Arabella touched Pirate’s beak so she wouldn’t look at Oliver.

  “It is highly unlikely that Lord Hardbury will even learn they are here,” she said. “Even if he does, he will surely stay away, given all the bad blood. He has feuds not only with you, but also with Sir Walter, Lord Sculthorpe, and me.”

  “Lord Hardbury is a marquess now,” Mama broke in gently. “If he does show up, I can hardly turn him away, but must offer him every hospitality.”

  Mama met Arabella’s look serenely. How odd. The Russian Tsar could show up with an army and if Mama didn’t want him here, she’d find a way to make him leave.

  Papa waved a hand irritably. “Yes, yes, I suppose so. But I’ll allow him only the barest of civilities should he choose to stay under my roof.”

  “He won’t show up,” Arabella repeated, and yet another pang stabbed her, at the punishing memory of Guy’s gentle, generous hands, of the loathing and disgust in his eyes. Guy would never come near Arabella again.

  * * *

  Guy’s vague restlessness had intensified into a desperate inability to sit still by the time he arrived at Swann’s to meet his old schoolfriend Leo Halton, now the Duke of Dammerton.

  He had little wish to revisit the upscale St. James gaming house. Swann’s had been his primary haunt in his youth, but by default, not choice: It was one of the few London establishments that had merited his father’s approval, which made it one of the few that would let Guy in.

  The gaming house appeared to be prospering, though it had changed little in the past eight years: the same soft-spoken doorman murmuring the same bland greeting, the same elegant rooms hung with gold-colored satin and furnished with comfortable chairs. In the hushed intensity of the gaming room, where a faro bank was in full swing, Guy’s arrival turned heads, but he swung directly into the livelier adjoining saloon.

  Dammerton was already there in one of his colorfully embroidered waistcoats, sprawled in an oversized armchair and nursing a snifter of brandy. Guy envied the duke’s apparent ease; days after that encounter with Arabella, he still felt as rumpled as his bed after a particularly poor night’s sleep.

  Guy dropped into the chair beside Dammerton and was served within a minute. Still the best service and refreshments, hence Father’s approval. Guy had not minded Swann’s particularly; what he minded was the humiliation of being turned away from most London establishments like a blacklisted scoundrel, because everyone was too scared to disobey his father. Friends had suggested Guy offer bribes or attempt a disguise, but he refused to deploy such tricks.

  “Well, Hardbury? How was my information?” Dammerton asked lazily, looking half asleep. Guy wasn’t fooled; lions usually looked half asleep too. “Did it lead you to Sir Walter?”

  “Almost. I missed him by an hour and have no idea which road he took. He could be anywhere in England by now.” Guy stretched out his horse-weary legs and groaned. “The man’s like a bloody rabbit in a warren, diving down one hole and popping up somewhere else.”

  “How does he even know to hop away? Surely your solicitors didn’t tell him of your investigations.”

  “It was me,” Guy confessed. “I told him.”

  Dammerton chuckled. “Ah, Guy the Impulsive. You never were any good at diplomacy.”

  Guy had also confessed this to his solicitor, whose mouth had tightened before he said, “No doubt the right thing to do, my lord.”

  Ah, what blather. No one dared tell a marquess he had erred. Once upon a time, Guy would have taken those words at face value, assured that he was right. Such were the benefits of maturity: All his life he had been a fool, but now he had the dubious wisdom of knowing it.

  As proven by that whole debacle with Arabella.

  What the devil had he been thinking? Well, he hadn’t been thinking, had he? Every step had seemed like a grand idea at the time; stars above, the lies he had told himself! She had stated directly what she wanted, then made a supremely inept attempt at getting it. How easy it would have been for him to kick her out! But no— He had to be an arrogant, deluded fool and turn it into a game, a game in which he was hopelessly outmatched.

  Bloody hell. Guy was hardly a rake, but neither was he an innocent. Yet look at him: seduced like a naive virgin. Seduced by a naive virgin.

  Virgin, at least; Arabella was about as naive as Mephistopheles.

  “Ah,” Dammerton said, his tone suddenly alert. He gestured with his glass as if toasting someone across the room. Before Guy even turned, he knew what he would see: a fair-haired woman in a gown as blue as sapphires, disappearing through the French doors. A scandal sheet had mentioned that Clare Ivory always wore jewel colors; it was her signature, much as her fellow courtesan Harriette Wilson was known for wearing only white.

  He twisted back. “Seriously, Dammerton? You knew she’d be here?”

  “She never comes here. That’s why I suggested this place.”

  Guy sat back, but a moment later, he was cursing and standing and striding toward the terrace, his friend’s chuckle floating in his wake.

  Out on the balcony, Clare was in conversation with a man and woman. All three fell silent as he joined them, but he had eyes only for Clare. Ah, that angel’s face of hers, that had so tormented his youthful body and heart.

  “Leave us,” Guy said to the couple.

  “We are in the midst of a negotiation, my lord,” Clare said. “Perhaps—”

  “Leave us.”

  The two left.

  Clare slapped her fan into one bejeweled hand. “I am a businesswoman and I will make a substantial commission from facilitating their contract. If you wanted to talk to me, you should have made an appointment.”

  He lounged back against the balustrade. “I thought we had an appointment the other night, but instead I found myself entertaining Arabella Larke.”

  Entertaining? That was one word for it. Days later, he could not dispel the image of her gripping the table, face turned up as if pleading with the heavens. In that moment, compassion had conquered him, so he was ready to do anything to protect her—until she revealed it was a manipulative, cold-blooded scheme.

  Honor be damned. He owed her nothing. But the very idea that Arabella Larke, of all people, had slipped under his skin!

  Damn near literally.

  Every time he undressed, he twisted before the mirror to inspect the scratches she had left. Over and over he’d relive her passion like a fever dream, and was sorry to watch those scratches fade.

  He forced his attention back to Clare. “You will tell no one I met her,” he added.

  She laughed, a melodious sound that had once delighted him, and now meant nothing. “Of course not, though for her sake, not yours. Miss Larke is my newest ally. Besides, no one would believe it; her reputation is impeccable.” Clare shook her head. “For my part, I thought you’d never agree to the proposed meeting, but she said you like to solve puzzles and play risky games. It seems she was right, and she knows you better than I ever did.”

  Heat prickled under his suddenly too-tight cravat. He already knew that Arabella made observations, considered matters from every angle, drew shrewd conclusions. Everyone knew of her flawless appearance, her proud manner, her sharp wit, but did others guess at the vast expanses behind those eyes?

  “What a curious pair you and Miss Larke make,” Clare mused. “You both seek me out to talk about each other.”

  “I didn’t seek you out to discuss Arabella.”

  “How interesting. She said much the same thing about you.”

  Guy studied her, that angel’s face, those knowing eyes. He had feared that meeting Clare again would transform him back into the besotted clown he’d been at twenty and lead once more to a broken heart. No such fear. All that remained was
a vague sorrow for his younger self, for having squandered his innocent, fervent love.

  “Explain why you chose to become a courtesan,” he said. It had shocked him, Arabella’s revelation about Clare. “You knew I wanted to marry you. I even gave you my mother’s jewels as proof of my sincerity, and you sold them.”

  A faint flush stained her cheeks. “They were mine to do with as I wished.”

  “You could have had more than jewels, had you married me. You could have had everything.”

  “Like you did?” Her tone was dry, her smile kind. “You had everything: title, status, and a father who controlled your every move like he controlled most of London. As I see it, you had nothing but what he let you have. Had I had married you, I’d have become a prisoner in a gilded cage.”

  “And your life as a courtesan— Is that not a cage?”

  She spread her hands. “If so, then it is a cage whose door is always open. I make my own choices, am beholden to no one, and have secured enough lucrative contracts that I never need work again.”

  Past her, the bright rooms seemed as distant as his youthful self. Father’s arrangements had allowed Guy to gamble here, but only on an account; he could never walk away with so much as a coin. Every avenue to earning his own income had been barred; even the Army and Navy had refused to take him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this at the time?”

  “Oh Guy, I tried, but you did not listen.” She touched his shoulder. “You were so preoccupied with breaking free from your father. I wondered if you even saw me, or if I had simply become a symbol of your freedom from him, the way Miss Larke became a symbol of his control.”

  Guy spread his hands over the smooth stone of the balustrade, stared into the shadowy garden below, recalling that final bitter fight with his father, over Clare Ivory and Arabella Larke and Guy’s determination to choose his own life.

  “I loved you,” he said.