A Dangerous Kind of Lady

by Vincy, Mia

  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.

  “You…” She cleared her throat. “You are here for your sisters, no doubt. And you seem to be friends with Sir Walter suddenly.”

  Sweet relief: She had mercifully salvaged the conversation.

  “Have you discovered the power of subterfuge?” she went on.

  “Diplomacy,” he corrected. “I am exercising admirable restraint. I even refrained from calling him a brazen and corrupt hypocrite to his face.”

  It was not to his taste, pretending to like someone he despised. When Sir Walter casually inquired as to the purpose of his lordship’s visit, Guy had murmured something vague about Vindale Court having multiple attractions and let his eyes rest on Matilda Treadgold. That set Sir Walter’s face aglow, and he had promptly arranged for his niece to lead Guy to little Ursula. His infant sister turned out to be a delightful doll-like creature, with feathery blonde curls, a sweet smile, and a stream of incomprehensible babble.

  “Congratulations,” Arabella said dryly. “But I do wish you would listen to me about Freddie. You must find out—”

  “No.” He raised one hand. “You do not tell me what I must or must not do. Let that be the first rule.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, are we to have rules? How adorable. Next you will expect me to obey them.”

  “I’m not such a fool as that. But I do not need your help to gain custody of my sisters and rebuild my family.”

  “If you care so much, I wonder you let something as trivial as a broken heart drive you away.”

  “I didn’t leave because Clare Ivory broke my heart.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  Leaving had been the only possible end to a decade of struggle for control—over Guy. That struggle culminated in that final, bitter fight, when Guy insisted on marrying Clare, at which his father, using his bulk to loom over him, threatened to lock him in the cellar until he agreed to marry Arabella.

  “You cannot make me!” Guy had yelled, with the fervor of youth. “I will never be your puppet.”

  Father had been scornful. “You’ve not enough sense to make your own decisions. You’ll do as I say, until you learn to be the man you should be.”

  “A corrupt tyrant like you?”

  “This is my country,” Father had replied coldly. “And you will do as you are told as long as you breathe my country’s air.”

  So they had divided up the world: Father had won tyranny in Britain, and Guy had won freedom everywhere else.

  Arabella was eyeing him expectantly.

  “It was about principles,” he finally said.

  “Principles?”

  “Yes. Have you heard of them?”

  She shrugged. “My governess might have mentioned them, but then she told tales of fairies, unicorns, and honorable gentlemen, so I never paid her much mind.”

  He laughed despite himself. “My father was certainly not honorable. His favorite game was finding ways to milk money and power from his position, and he expected me to do the same. His explanations for his unethical behavior always sounded so reasonable. I was a terrible disappointment to him, what with my ethics and all.”

  “Terrible affliction, ethics. Rather like a rash, I imagine.”

  “I can see why he approved of you. In every letter I wrote, I promised to return if I could earn an income and marry as I wished, to which he declared I would behave as he saw fit and marry you.”

  Finally, he had shocked her enough for it to show. “You cannot mean you spent all those years arguing over me? That’s preposterous. Britain has other heiresses, and our fathers were never that devoted.”

  “You became the symbol of my obedience.”

  “No wonder you were so adamant against marrying me.”

  He shrugged. “Your ruthless, quarrelsome nature was a factor too.”

  “Oh dear. And here I thought that was my chief charm.”

  The world tilted. Was Arabella laughing at herself? Impossible.

  “And so you seek your perfect bride,” she continued, cynical to the bone. “She’ll gaze at you with wide, adoring eyes and once more the great man will tumble headlong into love.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” he said cheerfully, refusing to be riled. “I enjoyed being in love. It makes one feel more alive, not unlike drinking and gambling, but better for one’s health. And when I meet a lady both adoring and adorable, pleasant and pleasing— Believe me, Arabella, I shall fall so fast I get a concussion.”

  Something flickered in her expression, like a soft wistfulness, chased away by the sardonic hoist of a perfectly arched brow.

  “Can it be thus arranged? Does one order one’s sweetheart like a new coat, specially tailored and cut to size? Who knew love was so convenient?” Her gaze traveled pointedly to Miss Treadgold, finishing up at the pianoforte. “But of course, what his lordship orders, his lordship gets. Sir Walter informed me at dinner that you are here to court his niece.”

  “Any man would happily choose Miss Treadgold over every other lady in the room.”

  Her eyes widened. “Even over me? Good grief. I cannot imagine why.”

  “Ha! Because men prefer a woman who nurtures her young to one who eats them.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I haven’t eaten any babies in years.”

  Surprised laughter burst out of him. No mistaking it this time: Arabella was definitely making fun of herself. Another revelation: Her lips might not curve, but her eyes smiled and laughed.

  Stars above, had she always been laughing at herself? Were her outrageously arrogant declarations in fact jokes at her own expense?

  Once more, Arabella was rendered new and strange, like the night sky on the other side of the world, where the stars were arranged differently, fascinatingly familiar yet forever changed.

  He had to remember where they were. Who she was. What she had done.

  To remind them both, he said, “Sculthorpe must be pleased about that.”

  Her eyelids barely flickered in response. “Was it he who broke your nose?”

  “No. That happened when I was away. I was this big brash Englishman, expecting everyone to leap to my command. My face practically invited other men to hit it.”

  “Because in England, everyone always let you win.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. He had only discovered that upon venturing into the world without the protection of his name. Yet Arabella, years younger than he, had noticed. But then, when he was a boy, she was the only person who ever challenged him.

  “Let you win what, Hardbury?”

  It was Sculthorpe, come back inside, awash in tobacco smoke.

  Arabella’s face went blank. “Lord Hardbury was telling me about his travels,” she said smoothly, pitching her voice to carry across the room. “Italy, among other places.”

  How easily she lied. And how steady her hands, when she poured tea for her cuckolded betrothed.

  The fine china cup and saucer looked delicate in Sculthorpe’s big hands. His eyes met Guy’s. Perhaps they were both remembering that day when Guy issued his challenge and Sculthorpe’s big hands had formed big fists, and beaten twenty-year-old Guy for his insolence.

  “I spent some time in Italy during the war,” Sculthorpe said. “What were you doing there?”

  Lady Treadgold’s voice sailed across the room. “Oh, Lord Hardbury, Matilda and I are simply dying to hear more of your travels in Italy. Aren’t we, Matilda?”

  Miss Treadgold did seem bright-eyed. “I hear one can see dead bodies left by an ancient volcano.”

  “Matilda,” Lady Treadgold admonished softly.

/>   Her face fell with becoming distress. “But Aunt Frances, it sounds so horrible. Those poor people.”

  “Your tender heart does you credit. Doesn’t it, Lord Hardbury?”

  “Indeed.”

  Guy looked back at Arabella and Sculthorpe. Stars above, this whole situation was too absurd for words. Why the devil had he changed his mind and come here?

  Shaking his head, he crossed to Lady Treadgold, who said, “Tell us about Venice. They do such wonderful things with glass.”

  And Miss Treadgold, sweet, pretty, unchallenging, smiled shyly. Guy set about making himself agreeable, and not once did he look back across the room to where Arabella calmly conversed with Lord Sculthorpe and the botany student as though nothing untoward had ever passed at all.

  Chapter 9

  The wind seemed to blow right through Arabella as she climbed the hill to the abbey ruins. Normally, she would ride, but if she had taken a horse, Lord Sculthorpe could have learned that she was gone.

  Not that she was hiding from Sculthorpe, of course. She simply chose to be out of the house while he was in it.

  What a nuisance. Every other day, Sculthorpe had occupied himself with shooting or fishing, yet on this sunny, windy afternoon—ideal weather for a man to be outside killing things—he had declared his intention to haunt the house.

  So Arabella had fabricated an errand and stepped outside, and kept on stepping until she ended up here.

  The abbey ruins looked philosophical in the autumn light, the remaining arches and ivy-clad walls indifferent to time. Odd how some walls stood for centuries, while others crumbled and fell. She had always admired the persistence of Longhope Abbey, which had stood so long it gave the parish its name. You’ll not get rid of me, it said.

  She stripped off her gloves and trailed her fingers over the stone. She and Oliver used to play here, clambering over the rocks and daring each other to visit the crypt. And picking blackberries, of course, grinning at each other with purple mouths.

  One autumn, the year after they lost Oliver, the visiting children had competed to see who could pick the most. Arabella had won, but at a cost: stained fingers, messy hair, torn dress. Mama had sent her to tidy herself, sternly reminding her she was a lady, saying Papa must not see her like that. But Papa had seen her. His lip had curled with disgust, as he looked her over and said, “Call yourself my daughter. Unnatural child. What a disgrace.”

  So she had perfected the art of picking blackberries without getting snagged or scratched or stained. She did not harvest very many, but moderation was prized in a lady, whereas winning was not.

  And here was a blackberry bush that still held fruit, plump, purple, and glossy in the sun. They would all have to be picked by Michaelmas. According to lore, that was the day the Archangel Michael had cast Lucifer from heaven, and Lucifer landed on a thorny blackberry bush, spat on it, and cursed.

  Identifying a suitable berry—one not quite ripe, to spare her the messy juice—Arabella snaked her hand through the brambles and tugged off the fruit. Closing her eyes, she popped the berry into her mouth. Its early sweetness pleased her tongue, even as its tartness radiated along her jaw.

  She swallowed. Savored the moment. Opened her eyes.

  Guy.

  He was watching her, impervious to the wind whipping his greatcoat around his boots. The sunlight hit him sideways, and thrushes fluttered in the orange leaves behind his head.

  In the days since his arrival, they had not spoken again; she had not so much as looked at him directly. Now, she could not look away. Nor could she move, not with every inch of her skin feeling more than it ought, as if the wind and sun themselves were stealing under her clothes and into her blood.

  No matter: He would walk away. He would hasten to avoid her, as he had every other day of the past week.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he advanced, stopping too close.

  “Poaching blackberries?” he said.

  She swallowed away the dryness in her mouth, the lingering taste of sour and sweet. “You?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  He held up a hand, his fingers stained purple. Then that hand seized hers, his fingers warm despite the wind. He took her other hand and examined them both.

  “Remarkable,” he said. “I witnessed you picking and eating a berry, yet your skin carries nary a mark. Unless you only eat unripe blackberries. You prefer the sour ones?”

  “I am already sufficiently sweet.”

  He laughed, the sound reminiscent of his hands skimming over her body: fearless, playful, and with an exhilarating edge.

  “I could think of a thousand words to describe you, Arabella, and ‘sweet’ would not be one of them.”

  “And you prefer the sweet ones.”

  “The sweet, amiable ones,” he agreed.

  “The ones who flatter you with their adoration and warm you with their smiles.”

  “The ones who do not scheme and manipulate and play games.”

  Their hands were still linked; they seemed to realize it at the same time. He did not resist when she turned his hands over to examine his palms. She pressed a thumb into the muscle. The calluses were fraying, and the blackberry-stained fingers bore fresh scratches, not enough to draw blood, just to chafe the skin. The hands of a man who lived boldly, an adventurer, sensual and sure.

  How had these hands so transformed her? How had they reached inside her, to rouse those messy emotions that she had not even known were there?

  “Your calluses are peeling away.” She ran a thumb over them. “Soon your hands will not be so rough.”

  “I’ve yet to receive any complaints.”

  A shiver rippled over her, as surely as if he had trailed one of those fingers down her spine.

  She had to look at him then. Had to hold his summer-green gaze, had to bear the roiling emotions and sensual memories, until he tugged his hands free and shoved them in his pockets.

  “I still do not understand what happened that night in London,” he said. “I had vowed never to speak of it, to never speak to you at all, but that night, it…”

  Beyond him lay the autumn patchwork of orange woodlands and fields in green, gold, and brown. “It doesn’t matter,” she said to the landscape. “It is over and finished now.”

  “Is it?”

  She had no reply. Silence fell but for the wind in the leaves, the fluty song of a mistle thrush. From the corner of her eye, she saw him slide a hand from his pocket. As if called, she turned back to him. He raised that hand and brushed her lips.

  “Do you ever think about that night?” he asked. “The way we touched each other? What we did?”

  It was a pointless question with only one conceivable answer.

  “No,” Arabella lied. “Never.”

  He edged closer. If she stepped away, she would be in the brambles. She did not mind. His closeness thrilled her. How easy it would be, to twine her arms around his neck. Lower his mouth to hers, crush her aching chest to his. She could imagine it as easily as if she had done it a thousand times.

  In her mind, she already had.

  “You must think of it occasionally,” he murmured, so close a strong gust of wind could push them into each other’s arms. “Not even alone in your bed at night, remembering how your body felt against mine? Reliving my touch, perhaps?”

  Heat coursed through her, stirring up that now familiar pulse between her thighs, that molten pressure in her belly. He could not know what she did alone in her bed at night.

  “You’re giving yourself away, Hardbury,” she managed to drawl. “You might spend your nights dreaming of me, but I can hardly remember it.”

  “You’re right, I confess. I do remember it.” His voice was lower now, its rough edge plucking at her. She let her body remember as his words caressed her, his eyes holding hers fast. “I remember every curve and angle of your body. I remember the taste of your skin. I remember how you responded to my touch, so wild, so furious, so demanding. It was splen
did. You were splendid.”

  Her breath caught. “Do not mock me.”

  “I don’t.” The words were simple, sincere. “It was like standing in the middle of a storm. It’s thrilling and dangerous and leaves one feeling intensely alive. I cannot stop wondering what else lies behind those eyes.”

  No response to that: She herself no longer knew. But he did not wait for a reply.

  Lazily, he looked sideways and lifted one arm away from her. The movement swept his coat against her legs, and even that touch of fabric beguiled her sensitive skin. She watched—as if in a dream, as if this were a lazy summer afternoon and not a fresh day in autumn, as if they were only a man and a woman and not Guy and Arabella—as he extended one long arm toward the blackberry bush, toward a plump, ripe berry she could never touch, for fear of its messy juice.

  Mesmerized, she watched him catch that berry between two fingers. It tumbled eagerly into his embrace and he carried it back between them. But then his hand drew too close to see, so she looked at his face instead. His eyes were on her mouth, his lowered lashes thick and dark, his expression mesmerized too, as she felt the press of that soft fruit against her lips. She parted her lips, and he pushed the berry between them. She took it into her mouth, let her tongue dart forward to claim it, let her tongue linger on his finger, which lingered in her mouth, desire a bittersweet jolt in her loins. His finger slid away. She closed her mouth and bit down on the blackberry, reveled in the sweet juice flooding over her tongue and filling her mouth and conquering her senses. Never had a berry tasted so good, or been so perfect and so dissatisfying. She swallowed and licked her lips, inviting another look from his heated, hooded eyes.

  He was going to kiss her.

  How she wanted him to. How she wanted to kiss him.

  She touched his face. A mistake: It broke the spell.

  He stepped back with a “No,” and pivoted and strode away, greatcoat flapping, head shaking, while she stood there, foolishly poised for their forbidden kiss.

  * * *

  Arabella heard voices carrying on the wind, and shook herself out of her reverie.