A Dangerous Kind of Lady

by Mia Vincy

  “I will choose my own spouse. As will you.”

  “What if I never get married?”

  “Of course you’ll get married. But you choose to whom.” He shifted Ursula to his other arm, as the groom finished his task and stood back. “I want a home, a proper home and family, such as we never had. My wife will be someone pleasant and amiable, who—”

  Freddie snorted, derisively, and her mare gave an answering huff. Pointing one chubby finger, Ursula launched into a lengthy discourse on the nature of horses.

  “What’s wrong with wanting that?” Guy asked over her chatter.

  “Nothing, for most men. Just not for you,” Freddie went on, suddenly as chatty as a bloody magpie, as she went to greet her horse. “Consider Father. No one ever dared to disagree with him and look how he turned out.”

  “I am not like Father.”

  “A tyrant.”

  “Nothing like Father.”

  “A great big tyrant.”

  “You don’t know me,” he snapped, sounding childish.

  Freddie, indifferent, patted the horse’s neck. “You don’t know me.”

  “Father controlled every facet of my life,” Guy said. “I won’t marry Arabella because he demanded it. I won’t let Sir Walter ruin your life because of Father’s rules.”

  “It sounds like he’s still controlling you.” She kissed the horse’s nose, shot a look at Ursula, and nodded at the groom. “Why bother with me and Ursula and a perfect bride, Guy? Tying a ribbon in her hair! If you want to play with dolls, get a dollhouse. Much less trouble that way.”

  With the groom’s aid, his perplexing sister mounted her horse and rode away.

  Ursula watched them go, saying something that sounded peculiarly, and improbably, like “Man is born free but he is everywhere in chains.” Having apparently quoted Rousseau, she yanked the ribbon from her hair and smashed it onto Guy’s head.

  “Bloody hell,” Guy muttered, reaching for the ribbon.

  “Bloody hell,” Ursula repeated, and burst into wild laughter.

  Guy had to laugh too. “Ursula means ‘little bear,’ did you know that? Like Ursa Minor, a constellation I’ll show you one night. You were well named,” he added. “No one would ever mistake you for a doll.”

  It was after midnight when Guy finally saw Arabella again.

  She had not appeared at dinner, and further queries yielded nothing. Her mother and friends appeared unconcerned, but Guy could not dispel his unease that he might have contributed to the broken engagement and should help put things right.

  Which was absurd. Did he think he had to rescue her? More likely, someone would need to be rescued from her.

  Devil knew he did.

  His restlessness made him wretched company, even for himself. To avoid going to bed, he sat up late in the Reading Room, a cozy book-lined parlor adjoining the library. Everyone else had long since retired by the time he ceased staring into the embers and headed to his room.

  Only to see Arabella hovering outside his door.

  At the sight of him, she froze, looking young and haunted. Her bare feet were visible under the hem of her long-sleeved nightgown, and her hair fell in a single braid. The glow of her candle softened her features, turned her eyes large and dark. She set the candle on the small hall table, turned it, picked it up, put it back down.

  Around them, the sleeping house was quiet.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked softly.

  “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I am fine. Nothing is amiss.”

  Go into your room and shut the door, Guy ordered himself, only to catch one of her hands in his. “You are chilled.”

  “I lied,” she said.

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  She shook her head, impatiently. “I told you I never think of it, but I do. London.”

  He didn’t need the clarification. “Was that why…? Your engagement.”

  Again, that impatient shake of her head. “Sculthorpe doesn’t know about London. No one does. You are safe. It was badly done of me.”

  “What happened with Sculthorpe? Do you need help?”

  “Oh, will you be quiet about that beast? You, I mean. It was badly done of me. In London, to put you in that situation. To use you like that. To… You know.”

  “Seduce me?”

  “Yes.”

  Guy stepped closer, amused. “I say, Arabella, that sounded suspiciously like an apology.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I never…” She sighed. “Just accept the wretched apology, would you?”

  “I am a grown man. I could have kicked you out at any point.”

  It was dark, and she was in her nightwear, and he still held her hand; it would be disastrous if anyone discovered them like this. But no one was around, not at this hour. He moved only to put his candle down beside hers.

  “Do you regret it?” he asked. “London?”

  “Do you?” she countered.

  He had no answer. He regretted his own folly at impulsively playing a game that he had lost. Yet the astonishing experience of knowing her like that… He could no longer imagine his life without that experience in it.

  She withdrew her hand from his. “No one must ever know,” she whispered. “You will choose a bride soon, I think. You must choose a woman who will make you happy, a woman whom you can love.”

  “Now you’re worrying me,” he said. “If there are consequences from London, you will tell me.”

  “There are no consequences.”

  Her eyes dropped to his chest. As if in a dream, Guy watched as she placed one palm against him, flat and firm and scorching. She eased closer. Her hand traveled over his ribs, to his waist.

  “Put your arms around me.” Her whisper was half command, half plea. “I’m all right. I just want…”

  Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her, welcoming the feel of her pressed against him. She ducked her head, rested her cheek on his shoulder.

  A sound. A door. A footstep.

  Guy dropped his arms. Arabella held on. He pulled away, forcing her to let him go and transfer her hug to her own belly.

  Suddenly, Guy recognized the impulsive words riding unspoken on his lips: to offer to marry her if she needed it. And how clear they became, the steps of her plan, laid out like a game of chess, a dozen moves in advance. She was ambitious and she had explicitly declared her desire to be a marchioness. She had tried to persuade him to marry her and paid bribes to make him listen. Following her engagement to Sculthorpe, she had come to Guy at night in a bid to trap him into marriage. She had used Freddie and Ursula to lure Guy to Vindale Court. Now, after getting rid of Sculthorpe, she stood outside his door, in her nightgown, in a house full of guests. Everyone knew this age-old scheme to catch a husband.

  Regret rolled through him. If only this was no plot or ploy. If only he could simply hold her, and kiss her, and take her into his room.

  Bloody hell. He was in a bad way. He needed to escape this house and this woman as quickly as he could.

  “Yet another scheme,” he hissed. “Who had you intended to see us?”

  The softness in her expression melted like mist. Once more, she stood straight and proud, and replied in her usual imperious drawl.

  “Good grief, Guy. As if I would employ such a tired ruse as that. Grant me a little credit.”

  Without another word, she picked up her candle and swept away.

  Arabella slept late, and awoke with her eyes gritty and dry. She lay in bed and probed her body. Her side was tender, and the marks on her forearms had turned an interesting shade of purple. All of her still felt Guy’s solid, comforting warmth.

  Fool.

  Sunlight seemed to lurk behind the curtains, so she opened them to see if the world had reappeared.

  It had.

  The autumn sun shone down on the familiar, beloved view: the hill with the abbey ruins, the patchwork of woodlands and fields. Below her
window, the lush green lawn offered a pleasant scene. Several gentlemen were engaged in a game of bowls, supervised by Miss Treadgold. Arabella’s eyes went straight to Guy, who was dancing with Ursula, or trying to anyway: Ursula was doing a dance all of her own, ignoring Guy’s efforts to show her where to put her feet.

  Arabella touched the cold glass. Last night’s encounter with Guy had felt like a dream from the moment she slipped out of bed, driven by a fierce urge to feel his embrace. How glorious those seconds in his arms—before he accused her again.

  Fair enough. It did look bad, loitering outside his door late at night in her nightgown. Although every country house needed a young lady wandering around in her nightgown seeking trouble.

  Below her on the lawn, a dispute seemed to have broken out among the bowls players, but then Miss Treadgold must have made some sound, for the three gentlemen turned.

  Just as something fluttered to the grass at Miss Treadgold’s feet.

  A canary-yellow ribbon.

  One of the gentlemen stooped, hand outstretched toward the ribbon. A heartbeat later, a second one lunged for it, knocking aside the first man, and while they gesticulated at each other, the third made his move. In disbelief, Arabella watched as three grown men scrambled to seize Miss Treadgold’s fallen ribbon.

  Only Guy did not move, his expression bemused.

  Well, Arabella thought. Clearly, she had been approaching life completely wrong, given those men’s response to a dropped ribbon!

  When Arabella dropped a ribbon—

  But Arabella never did drop a ribbon. She never dropped anything at all. In fact, Arabella was immensely talented at not dropping things. Which was just as well, because if Arabella were to drop a ribbon and a gentleman noticed, he would say, “Miss Larke, your ribbon has fallen,” then dash off to Miss Treadgold in case she did something adorable, like sneeze.

  Oh, for powers like that! If Miss Treadgold ever needed anything, she wouldn’t have to scheme and lie and bribe and steal and blackmail, nor tolerate insults and injury. She’d simply drop a ribbon and men would knock themselves out in their scramble to obey.

  All except Guy. Yet when Miss Treadgold turned to him, he smiled warmly.

  With a sigh, Arabella turned away from the window. In the duller novels, this was the part of the story where the woman realized what a sinner she was, reformed her ways, and lived tediously ever after. But it seemed premature to reform. After all, Arabella wasn’t much of a villainess. She hadn’t even murdered anyone. Yet.

  But neither was she ready to face them, so she climbed back into bed.

  Today, Mama delegated to Cassandra and Juno. They crept in with the hushed eagerness of any sickroom visit, eyes wide as they tiptoed toward her. Cassandra held a bunch of flowers so big Arabella could see nothing but the top of her chocolate-brown hair and her hazel eyes peering through the stems. Juno carried a portfolio, her round cheeks pink and blonde curls bouncing as she laughed at Arabella’s expression.

  Cassandra set the vase on the bedside table and arranged the blooms, their fragrance floating over Arabella in a soothing cloud.

  “Everyone has been asking after you,” Cassandra said. “Including Lord Hardbury. He has made polite inquiries several times.”

  “Today?” Arabella asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  Before that misjudged encounter last night.

  “He wished to know if you needed anything,” Juno chimed in from across the room, where she was opening her portfolio of drawings on a table.

  Tell him I need him to hold me. Tell him I need help, even if I don’t know how to ask. Tell him to pretend to be engaged to me, so I can buy time and not be cast out.

  “What could I possibly need from Guy?” she asked.

  She climbed out of bed and checked her appearance in the mirror. Even now, she was tidy. Her plait was neat, her blue bed-jacket smooth. How decadent she was, to entertain guests in her nightwear.

  “It seems I have mastered the art of lying in bed,” she said.

  She caught Cassandra and Juno exchanging a glance and regretted her admission. She was meant to be ill, not languishing in sorrow.

  Cassandra, predictably, was kind. “You are being very brave. I was devastated after I was jilted. But I found someone else to marry.”

  And in the two years since the day Cassandra Lightwell both met and married Joshua DeWitt, he had not visited her once. Indeed, as far as anyone was aware, Mr. and Mrs. DeWitt had not even communicated since their wedding day, and Cassandra preferred that everyone Not Mention her marriage. Cassandra had married a stranger purely to save her inheritance, and she did not mope about in her bed.

  Then there was Juno, who had sacrificed all hope of respectability to become a professional artist with her own studio in London, and neither did she complain. Arabella thought herself so strong, but clearly they were stronger.

  “What is your concern, Cassandra?” She turned away from the mirror. “That my famously cold heart is broken or my famously enormous pride is dented?”

  “At least I needn’t worry about your famously acerbic tongue. Anyway, that is all rot. I believe you are a warm, loving woman like any of us.”

  “Yes, but you also believe that you can reason with your mother’s goat and that your sister Lucy will not end up as a courtesan.”

  “You are feeling better then.” Smiling, Cassandra laid a hand on Arabella’s arm. “If you ever need help, you will ask us, won’t you?”

  “I never need help.”

  “Of course not. But I need to offer help. So please indulge me.”

  Cassandra did not fool Arabella, but clearly Arabella did not fool her friend either.

  “Very well,” Arabella said. “If it makes you feel better, I will come to you if I need help.”

  “It does. Because you always help others, even when you pretend not to.”

  Juno looked up from arranging her illustrations. “I remember when I was… That is, when my body matured earlier than most girls. Some village boys were teasing me, until you ordered them to stop. You hit one with a stick.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  Cassandra laughed. “Probably just another day for you. You’re always fighting about something.”

  “For which I shall not apologize,” Arabella said.

  “Of course not,” Juno teased. “First you would have to learn how to apologize.”

  “Why on earth should I learn how to apologize when I never do anything that merits an apology?”

  Cassandra and Juno only laughed; they had known her too long to be fooled.

  Ignoring them, Arabella joined Juno to study the bird illustrations she had commissioned.

  “These drawings are excellent.” She touched an exquisitely rendered nightingale and glanced at Juno, who beamed proudly. “Your studio will soon be flourishing.”

  Arabella would take these drawings with her to her grandparents’ house, where she would complete The Illustrated Guide to the Vindale Aviaries, and send several copies to Papa. The ornithology journal had not interested him at first, either. All alone, she had gathered the papers from his convention, edited, translated, and compiled them, solicited subscribers, negotiated with a London printer, and organized distribution. Now he was involved every step of the way.

  “I should also like to commission An Illustrated Guide to the Longhope Abbey, if you have time,” Arabella said, moving to the window to view the famous ruins. Too late, she remembered that Papa had cast her out; after the ball, this would no longer be her home.

  Juno joined her at the window. “I shall make time. Which reminds me, I must thank you. I secured a lucrative job illustrating a book on wildflowers, thanks to your recommendation.”

  “I have no hesitation in recommending someone with your talent and professionalism.”

  There: Arabella was not entirely useless. She had helped her friend Thea publish a pamphlet and Juno build her career, and she made Cassandra feel needed, and perhaps she would s
ave Freddie from Sir Walter Treadgold’s schemes. She could be of some use to the world, for all that the sight of her made no one smile and she could not drop a ribbon to save her life.

  Just as well. How annoying it would be, to have men always underfoot picking up her ribbons.

  “I would provide my artistic services for free if you commissioned an Illustrated Guide to that,” Juno said, as Cassandra joined them. Juno pointed at Guy. He had taken off his coat and was lounging on the grass, as he had lounged naked on the daybed. “Lord Hardbury has become quite magnificent. Speaking purely as an artist, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like to hear a shocking secret?” Juno added.

  “They are the only sort worth hearing.”

  “When I was studying in Florence, a group of us women artists started secret life-drawing sessions with laborers who needed extra coin. You may think me lewd, ladies, but a muscular male body is a work of art in itself. His lordship puts me more in mind of those laborers than nearly any other peer I’ve seen.” She sighed dramatically. “I suppose I have little chance of persuading a marquess to pose for me nude.”

  Arabella could not take her eyes off him. “I doubt you could find a canvas large enough to hold a portrait of him and his immense presence.”

  “Oh, it’s not his immense presence I’d be concerned about.”

  Juno chuckled and Cassandra’s blush was almost audible, but Arabella could not smile.

  They left soon afterward, her room and spirits transformed.

  “You will be better for the ball, I trust,” Cassandra said, turning in the doorway.

  “Of course,” Arabella said. “A ball is a medical miracle. The mere mention of a ball can make an ill person suddenly well or a well person suddenly ill.”

  A few minutes later, Holly darted in and said, in a dramatic whisper, “Miss, that thing you wanted… We think we found it.” With a furtive glance, in case any spies lurked in the corners of Arabella’s bedchamber, she offered a piece of paper.

  It was exactly what Arabella had suspected: a special license, authorizing the marriage of Lady Frederica Roth to Mr. Humphrey Treadgold, Sir Walter’s son, who was due to arrive at Vindale Court the following week.