by Mia Vincy
“Not at all. It’s very becoming,” he said automatically, at which she launched into a monologue about butterflies or flowers or something. Guy hardly heard a word. How easy she was. She made no trouble and demanded nothing, apart from the occasional rescue from nonexistent ghosts. She was precisely the kind of lady he had dreamed about these past lonely years, as he lay awake on hard beds or in rough tents and wove visions of his ideal life back home. He had been so sure that was what he wanted, so why could Miss Treadgold not stir up his blood and hold him in her thrall? Why could she not possess his mind and brighten his world and pull him in a hundred different directions all at once?
The monologue cut off abruptly. “Oh, do excuse me, my lord. My aunt needs me,” Miss Treadgold said and darted away.
Miss Treadgold apparently had magical powers, for Lady Treadgold and her needs were nowhere to be seen. But there were Arabella and her friends, emerging from the crypt.
Once more, Guy reminded himself to put distance between them, but she looked right at him, as if she was as aware of him as he was of her.
Guy waited, as still as one of those statues in the crypt. Once her friends had gone and they were alone, his limbs unfroze. They advanced toward each other, pacing as carefully as duelists on the field. Her expression was remote. She was shutting him out again. He should welcome that, but instead he felt a peculiar ache in his chest.
He had discovered so much of her true character. He had unleashed her passion, unlocked her smiles. But he was not satisfied; he wanted to know her more.
They stopped a yard apart.
“Pleased with yourself, Hardbury?” she drawled. “For saving the damsel in distress?”
“Are you not impressed with my heroics?”
“You played right into her hands.”
“The poor girl was terrified.”
“And I suppose you find that very becoming.”
Her tone was sharp. Her shoulders were stiff, her eyebrows issuing a challenge.
“Well, well, well.” Guy clapped his hands once. “You are jealous.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be absurd. I never get jealous. I simply have limited patience when otherwise sensible men turn into fools over a woman.”
Indeed, Guy was turning into a fool over a woman, but that woman was not Matilda Treadgold.
“But I suppose you cannot help yourself,” she added. “What with her trembling need and her smiles and her blushes…”
“You are jealous.”
“Good grief, Guy, I’d hardly be jealous of a few blushes. But do try to recall that we are meant to be engaged, and it hardly helps appearances if you insist on flirting with another lady.”
Her tone was icy, but in her eyes lurked that bleak vulnerability, undermining her proud façade.
Tenderness pierced him. Curse him for his blather, when it was neither blushes nor jealousy he sought.
He wanted Arabella to trust him enough to let him inside her walls. To reveal herself to him of her own free will, to lower the drawbridge and invite him in.
“I don’t care whether or not you blush,” he said gently. “All I want is to know you.”
Her chin jerked up. Her brow creased with confusion. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that emerged was a huff of breath. She tried again; again, no words. Finally, with an impatient shake of her head, she whirled around and marched away.
Guy stared at her stiff, retreating back, resisting the urge to run after her. He didn’t fully understand what had just happened, but he understood this: If he wasn’t careful, Arabella was going to break his heart.
Chapter 18
Later that evening, when Arabella was dressing for dinner, Holly warned her that the Treadgold family appeared to be brewing a plot.
The maid’s suspicions made for a happy distraction. Hours after that scene outside the crypt, Arabella was still mortified over her outburst.
“All I want is to know you,” Guy had said. Well, he knew now, didn’t he? He knew that proud, perfect Arabella Larke was turning pathetic over a man. How embarrassing!
“’Twas something that Eliza said,” Holly explained, as she pinned up Arabella’s hair. “Eliza said that Tabitha said that she heard Lady Treadgold say something to Miss Treadgold about biding their time and acting at night.”
And then, Holly reported, she’d heard from Ernest that Sir Walter’s man had asked Lord Hardbury’s man about his lordship’s habits at night. “That is,” Holly said that Ernest said that Sir Walter’s man said, “if Sir Walter wanted to find his lordship at night, where might be a good place to look?”
And then the other Eliza—the Treadgolds’ Eliza, that was, not the Larkes’ Eliza—well, Mrs. Ramsay said that the Treadgolds’ Eliza said that Lady Treadgold said that Miss Treadgold would not need her that night, and, as Holly said that Mrs. Ramsay said, “Whoever heard of a young lady not needing her maid at night?”
Who indeed.
Arabella praised Holly for the intelligence gleaned through the remarkable network. “I shall petition Mama to give the whole household an extra bonus,” she added.
Holly thanked her. “We won’t say no to that, but… We like Miss Treadgold, she’s always pleasant and polite, but it’s just not right, is it?”
No, indeed.
So it wasn’t jealousy but perfectly justifiable suspicion that made Arabella pay special attention to Miss Treadgold that evening, as their much-reduced party sat in the drawing room. Miss Treadgold was reading, and Lady Treadgold and Mama talked quietly as they sewed. Guy was writing a letter, Sir Walter and Freddie played cards with Mr. Larke and the last of the ornithologists, and Arabella played pianoforte, a simple piece she knew so well that she didn’t need to think. From this excellent position, she could see everyone else.
Then Guy finished his letter, stood, and started across the room.
Arabella looked at Lady Treadgold, who shot a look at Miss Treadgold, and Miss Treadgold rearranged her shawl. The movement dislodged something in her lap, something shiny and green, which slithered onto the floor.
A ribbon.
A ribbon falling right at Guy’s feet.
Guy stopped walking. Miss Treadgold kept reading. Lady Treadgold shot a look at Mama.
But Mama was studying her sewing and did not see.
Arabella glanced back just as Guy scooped up the shiny, green ribbon.
Of course he did.
He twirled it in his fingers, shot a glance at Arabella, and dangled the ribbon in front of Miss Treadgold like she was a kitten and he wanted to play.
“Miss Treadgold,” he said. “I do believe you have dropped a ribbon.”
“Oh, did I? Thank you for picking it up, my lord.”
“I am honored to do you a service.”
Oh, good grief.
Miss Treadgold reached for the ribbon and Guy jerked it away as though she really were a kitten, and he grinned, and she smiled and said, “Oh, Lord Hardbury, you are too wicked!”
Still grinning, Guy flicked another glance at Arabella, but Arabella looked away, which was why she saw Miss Treadgold shoot a look at Lady Treadgold, who passed the look on to Mama.
But Mama was studying her hands and did not see.
“This is a very pretty ribbon.” This time, Guy let her have it. “But the color does not match your gown. What is it for?”
Arabella hit the wrong key. If he was that interested in the girl’s ribbons, he should just jolly well marry her!
“I am using it to mark my place in my book.”
“And what is your book?”
Arabella hit another wrong key but no one seemed to notice. Miss Treadgold kept her eyes lowered, and yet again Guy glanced at Arabella, so Arabella looked away. Which was why she saw that Lady Treadgold seemed set to have a fit, her gaze was shifting so rapidly between Guy and Matilda and Mama, and then Lady Treadgold saw Arabella looking and turned away, and Arabella looked at Mama.
But Mama was studying a teacup and did not see.
“It is a book on Italy, my lord,” Miss Treadgold said.
“Why, so it is! Are you interested in Italy?”
“I think it is the most fascinating place in the world. I have heard that you spent some time in Italy, my lord. Perhaps you could entertain me with your experiences.”
“Miss Treadgold, it would be my immense pleasure to tell you all about it.”
Again, Guy looked straight at Arabella, who again looked away, so again saw Miss Treadgold look at Lady Treadgold, who again looked at Mama, who again was looking absolutely anywhere else at all and so, of course, did not see.
“Perhaps we could do that later this evening, my lord.”
“Of course.” Guy strolled over to Arabella, who kept playing the pianoforte determinedly. “You are not reading tonight, Miss Larke?”
“Why on earth would I read? I already know everything worth knowing.”
He chuckled and sauntered off. She did not look at him, nor at anyone else either, because she did not care who looked at whom.
If there was a plot to trap him into marrying Matilda, she ought to let him be jolly well trapped, and it would serve him right for being cabbage-headed enough to pick up ribbons in the first place.
But later that night, when the house was settling, Holly gave her a nudge, and Arabella discovered a need to loiter in the hallway outside Matilda Treadgold’s chamber, with her ear very close to the door. And so she heard a short conversation that sounded something like:
“Hurry up, Matilda! His lordship is alone in the Reading Room right now.”
“But Aunt Frances, I don’t think this is right. Lord Hardbury is already engaged—”
“Hush. You will thank me for it when you’re wed.”
If the conversation continued, Arabella didn’t hear it, for she was running along the hallway and leaping down the steps and skidding around the corner and hurtling down more hallways and through the music room and around another corner—and, good grief, was Vindale Court always this large?—until she reached the hallway door to the Reading Room.
At which point, she stopped, smoothed her skirts, patted her hair, breathed in, breathed out, and calmly stepped inside.
Guy was sitting by the fire, reading and sipping a brandy, with a green-and-gold banyan thrown over his shirt, his hair tousled, and his stockinged feet stretched out before him. He managed to look both dignified and rumpled, both potent and harmless, and the sight of him made Arabella think of domestic comforts, and long winter nights, and kisses and smiles and the hollow in her heart.
He looked up. The sight of her still did not make him smile.
“Are you coming in or guarding the doorway forever?” he said.
Which reminded her why she was there.
“You have to get out,” she hissed. “Get out, get out!”
She shut the door to the hall and dashed over to shoo him out like a troublesome cat. Like a troublesome cat, he resisted.
“What have I done now?” he said.
She tugged his book and drink out of his hands and dropped them onto the table, then opened the connecting door to the library and peered in. It was empty and dark but for the last coals glowing in the hearth.
“Go in there.” He had not moved. “Guy, for heaven’s sake. Hide in the library. It’s not safe here.”
He stood. “Safe? What—”
“Matilda Treadgold is coming to get you.”
“Is she coming with guns or knives?”
“Worse. I wager you a thousand pounds that in less than two minutes, Matilda Treadgold will come sailing through that other door, wearing nothing but a nightgown and a pretty smile, and she will draw you into a conversation about Italy, and who knows what else besides, and at a pertinent moment, the door will open again and every matron in the west of England will come flying in!”
He wandered toward the library, lazily amused. “I don’t need a thousand pounds. Can we wager something else?”
“Do you want to marry Matilda Treadgold? Is that it? Do you want to be caught in a compromising position with her and be marched to the altar?”
“Of course not. But—”
“Shush. Now go.”
She pushed him into the library, shut the door, and threw herself into the still-warm cushions of his chair. She picked up his brandy glass and arranged his book on her lap.
The door to the hallway eased open.
For the sake of her performance, Arabella focused on the words on the page, and almost dropped the book. Oh good grief, what was he reading?
A click: She looked up to see Matilda Treadgold turning around from closing the door, Matilda Treadgold wearing nothing but a nightgown and a grimace of horror.
“Good evening, Miss Treadgold,” Arabella said calmly.
“Miss Larke! What—” Miss Treadgold looked around. “What are you doing here?”
“This is the Reading Room and I am reading.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And you are drinking brandy?”
“Aren’t you cold, wandering around in only your nightgown?” Arabella said, dodging her question. “Who knew whom you might have encountered?”
“I could not sleep, so I came downstairs looking for a book. I did not expect to encounter anyone.”
Arabella raised an eyebrow.
“What?” Miss Treadgold sounded almost belligerent. “Don’t you believe me?”
“Of course I believe you. It happens all the time.” Arabella put down the book and glass and crossed to join her at the shelves. “You could have tried the library. Why the Reading Room?”
Miss Treadgold’s eyes darted every which way. “I wanted a book I could read.”
“A book you can read. Those are my favorite too.”
“I mean, there are two kinds of book, aren’t there? There are the books that one reads and the books that one doesn’t. And it seemed to me that the books that find their way into the Reading Room must be the kind of books that one reads.”
Even Arabella could not argue with this impeccable logic.
With a tight smile, Miss Treadgold turned to peruse the shelves. On one shelf perched a stuffed canary that had somehow wandered out of Papa’s study. Oh dear: The poor girl had said how much she loathed and feared the dead birds! To spare her, Arabella went to move the canary out of sight.
But Miss Treadgold saw the canary first. She paused, staring at it—and then touched a finger to the bird’s little yellow head. Her expression rapt, she stroked the feathers down its back and caressed the scaly feet and talons, which only a week ago she had described as hideous.
“The truth is, I like the birds. The dead ones, I mean,” Miss Treadgold said abruptly, her bright eyes on the canary as she petted its cold, feathered head. “Especially the dead ones.”
“The dead ones. I see.”
“And the crypt too. I was only pretending to be scared earlier. The truth is, I go down there by myself. I like looking at the sarcophagi and thinking about their bones.”
“Their bones. I see.”
“But Aunt Frances says I ought not like dead things, like stuffed birds and bones in the crypt,” Miss Treadgold went on in uneasy tones. “She says it is not becoming and that men don’t like women who like dead things. But it isn’t as though I like all dead things.”
Arabella studied her. Miss Treadgold was still undeniably amiable and likable—yet rendered interesting and new, with her surprisingly Gothic taste for the macabre so at odds with her ribbons and blushes. To think: All this time, Matilda Treadgold had been performing too. And one day, Matilda would perform her way to the altar, where she would marry a man who did not know her, and she would perform for the rest of her life.
“If you like dead things, you should say so,” Arabella said. “That is who you are, Matilda, and you ought not conceal your nature to please others.”
“I couldn’t! A young lady must not express opinions or disagree with anyone, Aunt Frances says.”
“You don’t have to do everythi
ng they say.”
An anxious look entered her brown eyes. “They took me in as a child and have looked after me; I would have nothing without them. My best way of repaying them is to marry well. That’s why I… You understand.”
Arabella understood: It was an apology for this plot to trap Guy. “I understand. It’s all right. But you owe them nothing. They should have looked after you simply because it was the right thing to do. You must—”
The door to the hallway flew open. Lady Treadgold hurtled into the room, Mama drifting along in her wake.
“Matilda, I— Miss Larke, you—” Lady Treadgold stared at them both. “What is going on here?”
Arabella gave her haughtiest stare. “It’s not what you think. I never touched the girl!”
A startled expression crossed Lady Treadgold’s face and Mama pressed two fingers to her temple, as though she had a headache coming on. Matilda was fighting a smile.
“Is that—” Lady Treadgold’s eagle eyes snagged on the table. “Brandy? There has been a man here!”
Arabella could only pray Lady Treadgold did not read the title of Guy’s book, but Mama moved more quickly, casually drifting across the room to shake her head at the glass.
“Arabella, darling, really. I have told you before not to drink that.” She picked up Guy’s book and glanced at the page. Her eyes widened and she hastily dropped it, then turned back to the other women. “I hope I can count on your discretion in this matter.”
They promised to be discreet.
“Now, Lady Treadgold,” Mama went on. “What was it you wanted me to see?”
“I must have the wrong room.”
“You said the Reading Room. This is the Reading Room.”
“I meant the room with the peacocks. Isn’t that the Reading Room?”
“No. The room with the peacocks is the Peacock Room.” Mama’s eyes met Arabella’s and skated on without giving away a thing. “My dear child, look at you in only your nightgown. You must be freezing. And who knew whom you might have encountered.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Matilda recited doggedly. “I came down for a book. I did not expect to encounter anyone.”