by Mia Vincy
Look at me and smile, Arabella willed him, as if the mere sight of me brings you joy.
But instead, when he saw her, he spread his arms wide in a parody of delight.
“Miss Larke, good morning!” he called. Silence fell, heads swiveled. “I trust you slept well?”
In his eyes lurked a knowing glint, as if he knew she had lain awake half the night, her body heated with the persistent memory of their kiss, and her mind racing to find the words to put things right, before remembering there was no right. She had lost his good opinion before she even realized it mattered.
“I had pleasant dreams,” she replied.
“So did I, for they were all of you.”
Everyone laughed like they were actors in a comedy at Drury Lane, and Arabella had to perform her role, though it felt wrong to perform in a play where someone else wrote the script.
To make matters worse, Guy crossed to take her hand and lifted her knuckles to his lips.
“A touch excessive, wouldn’t you say, Hardbury?” she muttered.
“Not nearly enough,” he murmured, then added, more loudly, “Let me help you with your bonnet, oh wondrous fair.”
As if this was all they had been waiting for, the group moved off down the laneway in the haphazard manner of such groups, while Guy took her bonnet and positioned it on her head.
“I am perfectly capable of dressing myself,” she said, and did not step away.
“I don’t doubt it.” He tilted his head, frowning, as if the task of positioning her bonnet were a grave responsibility. “But to convince the world that we are besotted, I must offer assistance and you must accept it.”
“You mean, I pretend to be weak and helpless to allow you to feel important.”
“If you wish, though asking for help does not make one helpless.”
“It’s only a bonnet, Hardbury.”
“And a lovely bonnet it is too.”
He took his time tying the ribbons, carelessly brushing her throat and jaw, and when he stepped back to admire his handiwork, she immediately missed his summery scent. She touched her bonnet: perfectly straight.
“Teasing you is excellent sport,” he said. “You take on this confused expression, as if no one has ever teased you before and you don’t know what to do.”
“Of course people have teased me. But they’re all rather dead now.”
“As I said, excellent sport.” He flicked a glance at the door. “While we wait for Freddie, smile at my dazzling charm and do everything in your considerable power to demonstrate your adoration.”
Arabella briskly pulled on her gloves. Perhaps flirting with him would indeed be excellent sport, but she hadn’t a clue how to flirt and would not make a cake of herself trying.
“Do you require me to recite nonsense too, to nourish your self-regard?” she asked.
“My self-regard requires only that you bat your eyelashes.”
“I wouldn’t know how.”
“Spare me a blush.”
“Not on your life.”
“And declare yourself devoted to my every pleasure.”
“I haven’t the faintest notion what your pleasures even are.”
He shrugged. “They’re very simple. Comfortable boots, hot buttered toast, and the fragrant silk of your unbound hair sweeping over my naked skin.”
She made a strange sound, like a baby crow’s call.
“Oh dear,” he said. “Seems I won that round.”
Before she could retort, Freddie came striding out, in her green riding habit and hat, Lady Treadgold at her heels.
“Freddie!” Guy called. “Walk with us?”
Freddie hardly glanced at him as she said, “I’m going riding,” and walked in the opposite direction.
“Ah.” Guy stopped short. He nodded at his sister’s retreating back, a hurt half smile twisting his lips. Without thinking, Arabella slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and squeezed his arm.
Lady Treadgold appeared crestfallen. “I am sorry, my lord. But Lady Frederica has been in such a mood recently, I thought one missed Sunday would not matter. She’ll take a groom, of course.”
“Of course.”
Miss Treadgold, who had been waiting nearby, stepped forward. “She received a note.”
“Hush, Matilda.”
Guy’s head whipped around. “What do you mean, a note?”
“I saw her—”
“That note was from me,” Lady Treadgold inserted smoothly. “Saying she could go riding instead of attending church today. Now, stop your pouting, Matilda, and let us enjoy this walk.”
The pair of them hastened after the rest of the party. Guy stared in the direction Freddie had gone.
“She is an excellent rider and loves horses,” Arabella ventured. Offering comfort: another skill she had failed to learn. What might someone kind like Cassandra say?
“Freddie’s life has undergone many changes in recent years, and she is trying to find her footing,” she tried. “At that age… Recall, you were only a year or so older when you ran away.”
“True.”
Her hand still curled around his arm, they walked down the laneway. The hedgerows were colorful with autumn fruits: red rose hips and clusters of purple sloe berries. A blue tit bounced among the berries and fluttered away.
Guy yanked off his gloves. She had to let her arm slip from his.
“I suppose it was too much to expect Freddie to care about seeing me again,” he said abruptly. “Before, she would run to greet me and we’d head off on some adventure. It was my favorite part of going home.” He grabbed some berries, jostled them in his palm. “She was too young to take with me, and I couldn’t have stayed.”
“You could have written.”
“I did. Father never passed on the letters.” One by one, he pelted the berries over the hedge into the field. “I wrote to her as soon as I arrived in Naples.”
“Why Naples? Did you have friends there?”
“No, I boarded the first boat I could find. But the locals in Naples proved to be very friendly and kind.” His expression was wry. “They gave me a few friendly punches and kindly relieved me of my purse and boots.”
“How did you survive?”
“Labor, in exchange for food and bed from an elderly couple, and boots from a local cobbler.”
Again, he reached into the hedgerow but immediately jerked his hand back with an “ow.” He sucked his finger, but, undaunted, once more reached to pick a rose hip.
“After that?”
“Whatever work I could get. Protected caravans in Anatolia as a private guard, joined expeditions in Peru, picked oranges in Spain. That sort of thing.”
Arabella studied his profile: the broken nose, the weathered complexion, the hollow cheeks. And as for his body—like a laborer’s, according to Juno, who had some experience in the matter of men’s bodies. As a youth, Guy had seemed so pleased with himself, so accustomed to having everything his way, that Arabella never dreamed he would even tolerate hardship, let alone welcome it.
“You could have come home at any time, or been welcome in any great house in Europe,” she pointed out. “Most people would fall over themselves to assist a future English peer.”
“I know, but… That first night in Naples, I walked out of town. I had no money, no shoes, and no idea what to do. I lay down in a field to pass the night and… It was clear, no moon, but millions of stars. And for the first time in my life, I felt free. On nights like that, the sky goes on forever and one’s soul expands. It’s…” He threw the rose hip at an oak tree. “I felt free.”
Arabella navigated a puddle. “So when you said your father would not let you choose your own haircut, you were not exaggerating.”
“He hired my staff, decided which shops and establishments I could frequent, and pulled strings to prevent me from getting any employment. Such was his influence that even the Navy wouldn’t take me. If anyone else served me, they would suffer for it. So I learned not to s
tray.”
“Good grief. He was obsessed.”
“Yes—with turning me into his puppet. The worst of it is, I still miss him at times.” He clasped his hands behind his back, but a few steps later was once more plundering the hedge. “I enjoyed my travels. Being challenged, learning what I could do without my money and name. In England…” He glanced at her. “You were the only one whoever challenged me.”
“No wonder you despised me.”
“But in recent years, I came to miss having a place to come back to. A home, connections, friendships: That’s what Father took from me. That’s what I want now.”
And that was why he wanted a peaceful, amiable bride, someone as unlike Arabella as could be.
“I hope you get what you want,” she said sincerely. “One’s home should be one’s heart and soul.”
She could feel his gaze hitting the side of her face. She walked on in silence, her muscles tense.
“You take an interest in my heart and soul?” he finally asked.
“Don’t be absurd.” She tossed her head haughtily. “The only part of you I find remotely interesting is your body.”
Guy stopped short, his jaw dropped. Shooting him a cool look, Arabella continued on toward the bustling churchyard.
His laughter chased her. “Take care, Miss Larke. You’ll make me blush.”
“Oh dear,” she called over her shoulder. “Seems I won that round.”
A moment later, he fell into step beside her again. “What I truly adore,” he said cheerfully, “is how you can say that and still sound prickly.”
Well, that was no compliment. Just more of his teasing, his excellent sport at her expense.
“Are you being romantic again?” she drawled. “Do you mean to torture me with dreadful poetry about roses and their thorns?”
“Rose? No, no, no, Arabella, you in no way resemble a rose.” He caught her hand, bringing them both to a stop. As he spoke, his bare fingers found the gap between her glove and sleeve, and made slow circles on the sensitive skin of her wrist. “You are prickly like a blackberry bush. Like a tangle of whips and leaves covered in sharp thorns. But among those thorns dangle delicious berries, fruit so enticing that the mere promise of a taste is worth being scratched and snared.”
His eyes, playful and warm, possessed hers, as he took her unresisting wrist in both hands, parted the fabric with rough thumbs, and brushed his lips over her skin.
Then he straightened and muttered, “Shouldn’t have done that.” He shook his head at the people milling about in the churchyard. “I am now feeling decidedly sinful.”
“The vicar’s drone will soon put us to rights.”
She bit her lip at the “us” but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Either that or lightning will strike the church,” he said.
“Which would solve the problem of our wedding, at least.”
“Yes.”
Abruptly, he released her. Arabella smoothed her sleeve over her wrist, pressing her other palm against it as if she could burn the feeling of him into her skin like a brand.
A flock of swallows were clustered on the church roof, welcoming churchgoers with their low warble. The flocks were getting larger now; soon they would all fly away.
“Have you given any thought to your departure?” she asked.
Guy took his time answering, pulling on his gloves. “I shall return to London next Monday,” he finally said.
In eight days, he would be gone.
He flashed one of his smiles and extended his elbow.
“Now, let’s see what happens when the vicar tells everyone we are to be wed. Ten pounds says someone laughs.”
The following evening, Lady Belinda made a rare mistake with the table settings and sat Guy and Arabella together.
It was the first time Guy had seen her that day. An army of dressmakers had invaded and taken Arabella prisoner, closely guarded by her friends, Mrs. DeWitt and Miss Bell. Heavy rain trapped everyone inside, except Freddie, apparently, who once more demonstrated her talent for escape. Guy spent the day playing with Ursula.
But now he sat beside his intended at dinner. For the sake of politeness, and their sanity perhaps, they ignored each other and the closeness of their legs under the tablecloth.
Fortunately, he was quickly engrossed in a debate among the ornithologists about whether they had spotted a jack snipe, newly arrived for winter.
“Where do birds go when the seasons change?” Guy asked. “And how do they know?”
Mr. Larke wagged a finger at him. “That, my lord, is one of the marvelous mysteries of migrating birds. Aristotle suggested that birds changed species from season to season. Others said they hibernate, and one fanciful chap even insisted they flew to the moon.” He laughed. “We are now certain they stay on Earth, but we are yet to determine where they fly to and from.”
“But they are instinctively compelled,” one of the others chimed in. “One sees the signs in caged birds. Zugunruhe, we call it in German: the restlessness in migratory birds when it is time for them to fly home.”
Zugunruhe. It sounded like the restlessness that had plagued Guy during his exile. Except his restlessness persisted, even now he was home.
“If you want to know more, Arabella can point you to the relevant journal. I say,” Mr. Larke added. “I’ll need to hire someone to make those journals, now my girl will be married and producing sons instead.” He grinned at the others. “Little men of science like their grandfather.”
“Or a woman of science,” Guy felt impelled to say.
Larke laughed again. “Do you truly believe such a thing is possible, Hardbury? Or are you merely trying to charm my daughter?”
“I don’t need to charm her. The poor darling is already utterly besotted with me.”
Arabella kicked him under the table. An erotic thrill shot up his leg. He pressed his foot against hers and carried on.
“If I am ever fortunate enough to have a daughter, I hope she proves as talented and resourceful as my betrothed.”
“Yes, well.” Mr. Larke returned to his roast lamb. “You just concentrate on producing these famous children, and we’ll see.”
Before Guy could loudly express his enthusiasm, Lady Belinda had one of her fortuitously timed coughing fits. This one was so violent she knocked over a glass of water, and the conversation was forgotten in the ensuing fuss.
A distraction plus a tablecloth equaled an opportunity: Guy planted his hand on Arabella’s thigh. Her fork jerked and a pea jumped onto the white linen between them. She glared at it.
Such behavior was dangerous, but he could not tear his hand away, not when her thigh felt so perfect through the silk-net of her gown. The gown was a rose color, with little white flowers unfairly embroidered along the edge of her bodice. She shifted under his hand, but not to escape him, he thought. Perhaps to relieve discomfort. Excellent.
“If I were to squish that pea into the cloth, leaving a green, mucky stain, would that make you scream or only swoon?” he asked.
“It would make me gut you with my butter knife.”
“But that would create a mess.”
“I would gut you very neatly.”
He removed his hand to flick the pea toward the flower arrangement, where it hid under the ivy.
“I have saved you from the pea,” he said.
“It’s still there,” she muttered, and he chuckled, and he and his burning hand made it through the rest of dinner without touching her again.
Neither did he look at her, not even when the ladies abandoned the gentlemen to their cigars and port. But upon rejoining the ladies in the drawing room, Guy sought Arabella automatically, as she turned her head and looked right at him. He would swear an understanding passed between them, something as tangible as a silken thread slung across the room between their eyes.
Before he could interrogate the fanciful thought, someone clapped him on the shoulder with impudent familiarity.
It was Sir Wal
ter, miraculously cured of his previously sour mood.
“Felicitations on your engagement, my lord,” he said jovially. “I assure you I bear you no hard feelings for breaking our agreement, none whatsoever.”
“Knowing that will help me sleep better at night.” Guy didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm. “Although I might lie awake wondering what agreement we had.”
“You were courting our Matilda.”
“I was?”
“Why, the day you arrived, you told me you were here to choose a bride.”
“And behold, I did choose a bride.”
Guy gestured broadly toward Arabella. Although ostensibly in conversation with Mrs. DeWitt and Miss Bell, she was no doubt eavesdropping on every word.
Sir Walter did not spare her a glance. “Of course, of course, and how delighted I am by that choice. But you appreciate my concern, as it is time for our sweet Matilda to marry.”
“Freddie too,” Guy said, with affected casualness. “Have you given any thought to whom she might marry?”
Sir Walter scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Indeed. A very important responsibility for a guardian. Your sister should marry a peer. I have long held that opinion.”
“Have you, Sir Walter? Have you, indeed?”
“Sensible men, such as ourselves, understand that marriage is about improving the whole family. Consider your own example: You had refused to marry Miss Larke, but one glimpse of Vindale Court and you stole her from Lord Sculthorpe. His lordship was not happy about that!”
“Sculthorpe!” The name came out louder than Guy had intended. Arabella’s head swiveled. She was listening openly now. “When did you speak to Lord Sculthorpe?”
“What? Speak? Never! Not seen him since he left. Purely my supposition, my lord. My assumption. My presumption.” Sir Walter accepted a glass of port. “Although you did have a score to settle with him, did you not? Years ago, he stole your sweetheart, and you returned the favor. Of course, your first betrothed ended up as a courtesan. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen again!”
He smiled broadly and sipped his drink.
“My dear Sir Walter, I do believe you have impugned the honor of my betrothed. What a dilemma this poses. Honor says I must defend her, yet the law says I must not shoot you. Which course would you recommend I take?”