A Dangerous Kind of Lady

by Mia Vincy

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Guy, don’t you dare feel sorry for me now. It is none of your concern. And never fear, I’ll not importune you again. I can manage by myself. I always have and I always will.”

  She whirled about, only to pause in the door to the ballroom. Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep, slow breath. Then she glided into the ballroom. Something fearsome must have shown in her demeanor, for everyone moved aside to let her through.

  Guy kept staring long after the crowd had swallowed her, still seeing the angle of her jaw, the set of those shoulders, the tilt of her head.

  He had never seen anyone look so alone.

  When Guy’s feet finally carried him back into the ballroom, the crowd parted for him too. As if they were all co-conspirators, they parted to lead him right to where Arabella stood, on the edges of a conversation between Mrs. DeWitt and Miss Bell, as elegantly aloof as if nothing had happened and nothing was amiss.

  Everything was amiss.

  Guy planted himself in front of her and held out his hand.

  “Come, Miss Larke,” he said loudly. “We must tell your father of our engagement.”

  Her face went blank, and she stared at his outstretched hand as if she had never seen anything like it before in her life. He looked at his hand too: It appeared foreign in its white glove but was mercifully steady. He did not feel steady. What he felt was the floor beneath his feet and his blood galloping under his skin and a million eyes watching the show.

  Still she didn’t move and a thought struck him: that she might take her revenge and publicly spurn him as he had spurned her. What an impulsive fool he was, yet again duped by sentiment and desire.

  But then he looked at her face, and her eyes traveled up to meet his.

  And something wondrous happened.

  Arabella Larke smiled.

  The smile started with a gentle curve of her lips, but it grew to take over her whole face, her whole body, the whole world.

  It was a moment of splendor, a moment of hope. The moment in a gloomy cathedral when the sun broke through the stained-glass windows and lit up the cold stone with a thousand dancing colors and patterns, a carnival of light that dazzled the eye and emboldened the heart.

  She had been so taut and tired. He had thought that was simply her nature, but she had carried a weight, which he had lifted.

  And so dazzling was the effect of her smile that when she placed her gloved hand in his, he entwined his fingers with hers.

  Guy ignored the eyes following them, as did Arabella, and hand in hand they walked through the over-loud murmurs and the over-bright candlelight and the over-scented air.

  Arabella’s parents stood together near the supper table, and turned to watch their approach. When they came to a stop, Guy released Arabella’s hand and bowed.

  “Mr. Larke, Lady Belinda. Miss Larke and I are engaged to be married. I trust we have your blessing.”

  Lady Belinda smiled graciously, held out her hand in congratulations. Larke looked from one to the other, features twisted with suspicion.

  “What’s going on, Hardbury?” he said. “You said you wouldn’t have her.”

  “You seem to be under the impression this is a discussion. It is not.”

  “And you’ll marry her soon?”

  “Plan the wedding for London in the springtime, that every lord, lady, and gentleman in the country might bear witness.” Guy could feel Arabella vibrating beside him but he didn’t look at her. “Now seems as good a time as any to make the announcement,” he continued. “Would you like to do it, Mr. Larke, or shall I?”

  Larke grinned. “You’ve realized what a gem Vindale Court is, eh?”

  “Your estate is of little interest to me.”

  “What’s your reason for the betrothal, then?”

  Guy laughed. This was almost too absurd for words.

  “Because we are in love,” he said. “What other reason could there possibly be?”

  Chapter 13

  Yellow wagtail. Short-eared owl. Red macaw.

  Arabella drummed her fingers on the smooth oak of the massive library table as she considered Juno’s illustrations, laid out in rows as if she were playing a game of Patience.

  Patience? Absurd name for a solitary card game, given she had absolutely none.

  The illustrated birds might have been alive, the way they flittered under her hands. Or perhaps in the excitement of the impromptu betrothal celebrations last night, which had offered no opportunity to speak privately to Guy, her brain had been replaced with that of a goldfinch. It was certainly chattering like a goldfinch—like a whole charm of goldfinches: Need a plan. Must talk to Guy. Why did Guy do it? Doesn’t matter. Don’t care. Must make a plan. Guy doesn’t even like me. What was he thinking? Doesn’t matter. Don’t care. Need a plan. Must talk to—

  Good grief! Those poor little birds must be exhausted!

  In addition, her birdbrain had her hopping like a finch every time one of the library doors opened—but every time it was only a guest, wandering in to join the others lounging around in a post-ball haze.

  Until the door opened for the hundredth time, finally revealing Guy.

  He paused in the doorway to study her, as if struck by something unexpected. She resisted the unfamiliar urge to smooth out the skirt of her striped morning dress and adjust its long sleeves.

  He was frowning, of course. Still no “happy to see you” smile for her! Then he was moving again, charging at her across the library, as he had charged across the ballroom last night: as though she were a dreadful accident about to happen and it was up to him to stop it.

  She lowered her eyes to the illustration of a chiffchaff—a confusion of chiffchaffs!—but all she saw was Guy, shoulders broad in his tailored riding coat, buckskins hugging his long, booted legs, Guy coming closer and closer, bigger and bigger, setting a gale blowing through the room as the huge library shrank to a cave.

  Until he was there, by her side, infuriatingly untouchable. He took up too much space and carried the elements with him: his hair tossed by the wind, his cheeks warmed by the sun, his eyes bright like leaves after rain.

  Her skin burning like fire.

  “You were out riding,” she said.

  “Keeping track of my whereabouts already?”

  “I had little choice in the matter. The standard greeting used to be ‘Good morning, Miss Larke,’ but today everyone greeted me with ‘Oh, Miss Larke, Lord Hardbury is out riding.’ One would think our engagement were a matter of such consuming importance that I could not possibly have an interest in anything else.”

  A glance around the library showed a few guests eyeing them with idle curiosity, but a room this size allowed for private conversations. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice.

  “I did not get a chance to thank you last night, for agreeing to…help me.” He watched her steadily; his expression gave away nothing. “I will not pretend to understand the reason you changed your mind, and I do not intend to inquire too closely, in case you change it again.”

  As if already bored, he shrugged and turned away, his eyes on the pages spread out on the table. “You went to considerable trouble and risk to help Freddie. It seemed a fair exchange.”

  “I didn’t help Freddie to secure an exchange,” she said. “She needed helping and I was in a position to do it.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you confronted Sir Walter?”

  “No, and I don’t intend to. This morning, I called on Sir Gordon Bell, and with his legal advice and assistance, have written express to request an urgent hearing in Chancery.”

  Arabella fingered the corner of a turtledove. A pitying of turtledoves. “And Miss Treadgold?”

  “What about Miss Treadgold?”

  “You appeared to be courting her.”

  “When our engagement is over, I shall choose a bride.”

  “Someone sweet and amiable. Of course,” she murmured, and busied herself with moving the peacock. A pride of
peacocks.

  “What are these drawings for?” he asked.

  “The Illustrated Guide to the Vindale Aviaries, a book I am making. This is to decide the final page order.”

  He picked up a drawing: a heron. A siege of herons. “These illustrations are excellent. There is joy in every line of these birds. You count writing and drawing among your talents too?”

  “Good grief, no. My talent is for issuing orders; other people do the actual work. Juno Bell drew the illustrations, and Livia Bell wrote the text.”

  “How do you make these into a book?”

  He put down the heron—crookedly!—and picked up a page of writing. Arabella took her time straightening the heron illustration while she tried to form a reply. The world had gone mad: She and Guy were making harmless, civilized small talk. They should be fighting. If they were not fighting, then they were…what?

  “I send the pages with my instructions to a publisher in London, who organizes the engraver and colorist for the illustrations, and sets the type. When the galley-proofs are ready, I check them, and when I am satisfied, they print and bind them. This will be my first attempt at full color, because of the cost.”

  “But you’ve made books before.”

  “I began by creating an ornithology journal based on Papa’s conventions.”

  He replaced the page of writing and scowled at the table. She scowled too, as she straightened the page.

  “You make books,” he said.

  “I do have some respectable interests. It cannot be all skulduggery, you know.”

  He nudged the corner of another page. Apparently, he did not even care that he had made it crooked. She straightened it irritably.

  “Do you even like birds?” he asked.

  “I don’t dislike birds.” She considered his question. Did she like birds? “I like the way the hawk circles and dives, all that speed and precision. I like how magpies use tools, and how crows recognize faces, and how blue tits chatter at each other like friends. I like that so many birds mate for life and that when they migrate, they know unerringly where and when to fly.”

  He said nothing, but regarded her as though she herself were a new species of bird.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  A hint of a smile touched his lips. “I found that charming. I am not accustomed to thinking of you as charming.”

  “Indeed. You made your opinion of me very clear last night.”

  “Ah. Those words were unkind and uncalled for. I apologize. I hurt your feelings.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I have no feelings. My enormous pride swallowed them up years ago.”

  Still smiling, his eyes searched her face, and clearly she had become bird-brained, because she thought she read in them some tenderness, even affection, and that could not be right.

  Then he propped himself against the table, legs outstretched, losing enough height to bring their faces level. He was so close that her skin anticipated his touch.

  The door opened. Mama came in and joined a trio of ladies. From a distance came music: Someone in the drawing room played the pianoforte.

  “You ought not stand so close,” she said. “People will think we’re…”

  “In love?” he finished easily.

  “Yes. That.”

  “That’s what we want them to think.”

  “You ought not have said that last night. About us being…”

  “In love?”

  “Yes. That. You should have given a rational reason. My property, your title.”

  “If I gave a rational reason, people would feel entitled to ask rational questions and demand rational answers. If we say we are in love, no one will expect us to be rational ever again.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh, but that made him regard her oddly again.

  “You laugh now,” he said. “You smile. I do not think I have ever seen you laugh or smile before.”

  She pressed her fingers into the table. “At any rate, it’s ridiculous. The very notion of us being…”

  “In love?”

  “Yes. That. No one will ever believe it.”

  “They will if we pretend.”

  “How on earth do we do that?”

  “It’s easy. For example, every now and then I shall comment loudly on how pretty your eyes are and how sweet you smell.”

  “How I smell?”

  “Yes. It’s very romantic. You try.”

  “You smell like horse.”

  This time it was he who laughed. She liked the way his laugh rumbled through him and danced over her skin, the way his eyes lit up and deep furrows formed alongside his mouth.

  “Do you mean to say that you have never been in love?” he asked.

  There had been those giddy feelings last night, when Guy had gifted her with hope, then tangled his fingers with hers and led her to Papa. The fluttering in her chest that she’d carried to her bed like a souvenir. But that was merely…what? Gratitude, no doubt. Relief.

  “I have liked some gentlemen, but they think that…” She shrugged. “You will agree that I am not that kind of lady.”

  “Do you mean never to marry?”

  “I have always hoped to marry. Married women have more freedom, and I would like a family. When I made my come-out, I imagined marrying a man who…”

  No. She would not confess that childish, long-buried daydream of a love match. If he knew, he would always be able to hurt her. Weeks or months or years from now, when they were married to other people, he would know her deepest desires and dreams, and she could not bear to be in the same room with anyone who knew such things as that.

  “When a woman marries, she gives everything to her husband—her property, her body, her very safety. If I must give so much power to a man, I should prefer one who will not abuse it. Who respects me for who I am and takes me as an equal partner.”

  “He would need to be brave, too.”

  She shot him a look. “True. Terrifying men is one of my more notable talents.”

  “Maybe you should not try so hard to terrify them.”

  “I do not try at all. I achieve it with the greatest ease.”

  Idly, she adjusted an illustration of a parrot. A pandemonium of parrots. The morning before, the long-awaited letter from Hadrian Bell had arrived; yes, he had written, he would indeed be interested in discussing marriage when he returned to England in the new year. Now was the perfect moment to mention that to Guy.

  But the words did not come. Instead she said, her tone brisk and bright, “So you see, the question is whether my ideal husband even exists.”

  “Ah, quite a conundrum.” He made a show of studying her. “It would take a very particular kind of man, I think. Obviously, he must not be terrified of you, but any man who is not terrified of you is a fool, and he must not be a fool.”

  “Then, by your own reasoning, he cannot exist.”

  “But he can exist, if he wants you so much that he does not let his terror deter him. He must be clever too. Perhaps even as clever as you, which means he is clever enough never to let you know he is as clever as you. And he must be a man who…”

  His words trailed off, and although his eyes were roaming over her face, one would think his mind was somewhere else and he did not see her at all.

  “Who what?” she prompted.

  His eyes stilled, met hers. She knew those eyes, she knew them from that night in London, when his hands were sliding over her body, when he swooped to claim her mouth in a kiss.

  “He must be a man who knows how to unleash your passion.”

  Guy stood so near, and there was so much of him, all shoulders and chest and arms and legs, that if she dared close the space between them, she could discover herself in him again.

  Her rational parts wanted to hide behind words, say how to know whether a man can do that, are we to conduct interviews and tests, but the words dissolved, crowded out by images and sensations from that hour when their bodies were entwined.

&nbs
p; A bang released her, as the nearest library door crashed open.

  Startled, Arabella hopped away like a wren. Guy rose lazily to his feet. He had set more pages in disarray, but she could not straighten them, for she was struck by the sight of Papa in the doorway, with Queenie perched on his arm and an unprecedentedly broad smile on his face.

  It seemed Guy’s move last night had brought a plague of smiles to the Larke family.

  But Papa’s smile was not for Arabella.

  “Excellent news, Hardbury,” he said. “I’ve just now spoken to the vicar. Your wedding will take place in sixteen days.”

  Silence stretched over the library. At Guy’s side, Arabella whispered, “Sixteen days,” her horror plain.

  Despite everything, Guy had to laugh.

  All morning, as he went about his business with Sir Gordon, he had been second-guessing his impulse of the night before, assuring himself that he had misunderstood Arabella, that he had the situation in hand.

  Yet their engagement was not a day old and already he had lost control, with a gambit from Mr. Larke.

  What a game this was turning out to be.

  At least he and Arabella were playing on the same side for once. She did not appear remotely threatening, just another genteel lady in an elegant morning gown. And surprisingly charming, the way she kept straightening the pages to align their edges with the table, so that Guy could not resist setting them crooked. They had eased into conversation as if they had not been battling each other their entire lives. He had teased her, as if he was not playing with fire.

  Arabella elbowed him. “You laugh?” she hissed.

  “You must admit, it is a little funny,” he said softly.

  “Sixteen days,” she repeated with a shake of her head.

  She truly did not want to marry him. Well. Good. Of course, he didn’t want to marry her, regardless of this infatuation, but it seemed he was just conceited enough to feel a trifle stung.

  Lady Belinda, her serene gaze on her daughter, had joined Larke, who was looking pleased with himself.

  “Explain yourself, Mr. Larke,” Guy said. “How is a wedding in sixteen days even possible?”