by Mia Vincy
“I believe she is out riding.”
“I’ll have to keep them talking,” he said. “We need Lady Belinda too. And if—”
“I say, Lord Hardbury,” came Sir Walter’s voice.
Guy excused himself to Ramsay and turned around. “Are you still talking?”
Sir Walter shot a shifty look to where Sculthorpe was lounging against the mantelpiece. “It occurs to me we could find another solution. I refer to our previous agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“Whereby you marry our Matilda and custody of your sisters passes to you.”
Guy glanced at the butler. “And if you would be so kind, Ramsay, it seems I’ll require a gun.”
Ramsay’s mouth twitched. “Yes, my lord.”
Across the room, Sir Walter looked earnest.
Guy shook his head. “It continues to astound me how my father’s will is a powerful legal document when it suits you, and easily overruled when it does not.”
“I speak of a gentleman’s agreement, my lord.”
“For that, we would both need to be gentlemen.”
Sculthorpe chuckled, as he turned his silver cigar case in his hands.
“We had an agreement too, Sir Walter,” he said. “Don’t wriggle out of it now.”
“Agreement?” Guy repeated. “What did Lord Sculthorpe offer you, Sir Walter, in exchange for giving him my sister?”
“Why, my lord, you offend me! I do this not for my own benefit but—”
“Oh, let up, Treadgold,” Sculthorpe interrupted. “We all see you for the weasel you are. If you must know, Hardbury, I offered to create a sinecure for him, worth two thousand pounds a year, and another for his son, whatever his name is. It’s what your father used to do.”
“Yes, I recall. The Old Corruption is alive and well. Well played, Sir Walter. Let me get this straight.” Guy glanced out the window, wishing Arabella would arrive. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could restrain himself from beating these men’s heads together. “If I play by your rules, the only way to save Freddie from Sculthorpe is to marry Matilda, to do which, I would have to jilt Miss Larke.”
Sculthorpe slipped the cigar case back into his pocket. “No more than she deserves. Come, Hardbury, you cannot still be so naive about women. You must know what kind of woman Miss Larke is.”
“I know exactly what kind of lady she is.”
Guy met the other man’s eyes steadily. Sculthorpe’s features tightened, and there might indeed have been a brawl in Lady Belinda’s drawing room had Sir Walter not interrupted.
“What is your decision, my lord?”
Guy took his time ending the staring match. “I refuse to play your repugnant game of brides. Sculthorpe, you are not marrying my sister. Sir Walter, I am not marrying Miss Treadgold.”
Sculthorpe shrugged. “Very well. I’ll marry Miss Treadgold instead. She was equally amenable to my advances.”
Sir Walter’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“You and your wife were happy to facilitate my trysts with Lady Frederica. But you failed to realize how enterprising your niece is. We also had some lovely trysts.”
“You met him too?” Freddie said to Miss Treadgold.
Miss Treadgold, looking very pink now, crossed to Freddie’s side. “I was visiting the abbey ruins when he showed up and professed his love. I had no idea he was meeting you.”
“Now, now, my little doves, no need to fight over me. I enjoyed meeting you both.” Sculthorpe looked around the room. “Oh, put away those judgmental faces. I did not compromise either of them in any way. I didn’t need to. A few sweet nothings and they were mine.” He smiled broadly. “Each has her own appeal, so long as they, at least, are chaste. Now, Miss Treadgold, Lady Frederica: Which of you will marry me?”
“Neither.”
The word came, hard and low, from the doorway.
Arabella had arrived.
She stood tall and proud, still in her red riding habit, hat, and gloves, riding crop in her hand. Her eyes blazed as she slapped the end of her crop into one gloved palm.
Those blazing eyes were directed at Sculthorpe. With a slow, deliberate movement, she pointed her crop at him like an avenging angel brandishing a flaming sword.
“No one is marrying that man.”
Chapter 22
Arabella dragged her eyes off Sculthorpe’s smirk to study the other faces, so she would not cross the room and take to the blackguard with her crop.
Lady Treadgold looked shocked. Sir Walter looked outraged. Matilda and Freddie, huddled together by the window, looked thrilled.
And Guy… She could not bear to look at him, but she saw him nonetheless. He had positioned himself between Sculthorpe and the young ladies, with that alert air, as if ready to strike.
“Arabella,” Guy said. “Exactly the person we need.”
She had to look at him then. He held her gaze steadily, and she was still puzzling out his meaning when Sir Walter’s voice intruded.
“This does not concern you, Miss Larke,” he said. “You lost your chance to marry Lord Sculthorpe. Now he will marry—”
“Enough.” Arabella slapped her crop into her palm. Sir Walter shut up. “Allow me to repeat myself for those who did not understand the first time. No one is marrying that man.”
And so it would unravel. Sculthorpe would assert his right to marry Freddie, and Arabella’s accusation would end up in court, in support of Guy’s petition. In arguing that Sir Walter was benefiting himself by marrying his ward to a violent man, she would have to reveal that violence. The whole country would read how she had lain weak and helpless on the grass. In retaliation, Sculthorpe’s barrister would eloquently argue the defense: The poor, heartbroken baron had merely reacted with passion to the news that his betrothed had cuckolded him.
She would do it, of course, for Freddie and Matilda, and any other young woman unfortunate enough to catch Sculthorpe’s eye. She would do it and end up completely ruined.
It would ruin Guy too, although in a different way. If he admitted to his part, he would have to marry her, or be denounced a cad in turn. But why should he confess? After all, she was the cad who had seduced him; she was the scoundrel who had blackmailed Sculthorpe.
She was the one brandishing a crop, and sorely tempted to put it to use.
Why would a decent, honorable man want a lady like that?
She continued: “Lord Sculthorpe is a violent man.”
Guy shot to attention, while Sir Walter spluttered. “Mind what you say, Miss Larke. His lordship is a war hero.”
“And I’ll marry whom I please,” Sculthorpe said.
He extended a defiant hand toward the young ladies. Without a thought, Arabella whipped the crop down onto his wrist.
With a yelp, he jerked it back. “You dare!” he snarled, rubbing the welt.
She ignored him. “This man must never be entrusted with a wife. He threw me to the ground and kicked me, and he—”
Her next words were lost in Guy’s roar, as he charged at Sculthorpe.
“Guy, you don’t have to…”
Sculthorpe ducked and spun, but Guy, faster, seized him.
“But if you were to…”
He hauled a struggling Sculthorpe in front of her; the baron grunted as Guy twisted one of his arms behind his back.
“Be careful not to…”
A well-aimed kick made Sculthorpe’s legs collapse; he cried out and his kneecaps cracked as they hit the floor. Guy held him in place.
Sculthorpe was on his knees before her, put there by Guy.
“Oh yes,” she said faintly. “I see.”
Sculthorpe had likely been in worse situations while at war. He merely sneered up at her. “You must be better than I dared dream, if Hardbury comes over all manly like this. Now I will take his sister, and—”
“Now you will be silent.”
“Because obviously he was the one who…”
Sculthorpe’s words trailed off,
and his eyes were watching her arm. Watching as she raised it, ever so slowly, with the crop gripped in her hand.
Then he looked in her eyes, and she looked in his, and those minutes whirled between them, when he had bruised her and cursed her, when he had thrown her down and kicked her. When he had cried like a little boy because he saw her as his and someone had taken her away, just as his brother had taken another woman he saw as his, and he did not see her as someone like himself, but something for him to use, to possess, to parade.
That face. How she loathed that face, those repellent eyes, quivering now, following the arc of the crop in her raised hand. Let him bear her marks! Let him know how it felt! Look at him, on his knees, held there by someone stronger, because he was nothing. He was weak.
Guy called her name; she ignored him. How she must repel him right now. She didn’t care. He had wanted to know her? Let him see!
Releasing Sculthorpe, Guy stepped away, but Sculthorpe didn’t move. He sneered up at her defiantly.
“Do you mean to horse-whip me, Miss Larke?” he taunted her.
“If I did, sir, it would be the only joy I ever got from you.”
The silence was stark. Even the air dared not stir. In the stillness, rage surged through her, engulfed her, conquered her, and she whipped her arm downward, watched Sculthorpe’s expression change as he realized her intent. She felt a momentary triumph, a surge of satisfaction, as he cowered, flinched away, cried out in fear…at the blow that never came.
Because her crop was no longer in her hand.
Sculthorpe opened his eyes. Arabella stared at her empty hand. She turned.
Mama stood right behind her, still in her bonnet and cloak. The crop was in her gloved hands and she was rapidly blinking away tears.
“Take care, my dear,” Mama said mildly.
“Listen to your mama,” Sculthorpe jeered. “You should have listened to your mama before you—”
Arabella never heard his wise advice, because Guy shoved him forward and forced his face to the floor. Sculthorpe yelled and struggled, but once more Guy had the baron’s arm twisted and his foot on his shoulder.
She looked up to meet Guy’s steady gaze. He was on her side. Her violence had not revolted him. Her weakness had not filled him with disgust.
Her rage dissipated, replaced by a peculiar peace.
“That works rather nicely, actually, doesn’t it?” she said.
“I thought you might like that.”
Like an exhausted lamb, Sculthorpe had stopped struggling under Guy’s boot.
“I say, that’s a fine-looking boot you have,” she said to Guy.
“They’re very comfortable.”
“I’m glad to hear it. A man needs a pair of comfortable boots.”
In the engulfing silence, Arabella could hear everyone’s confusion, but her world consisted of nothing but a pair of summer-like eyes.
“You lied,” he said.
“Yes. Lying is one of my more notable accomplishments, along with archery and needlework.”
Mama stepped forward and put her hand on Arabella’s arm. “Thank you, Lord Hardbury, but you have impressed us long enough. You may assist Lord Sculthorpe to leave my house.”
“But Lady Belinda, this is outrageous,” spluttered Sir Walter. “His lordship is here as my guest.”
“Then you may leave too, Sir Walter. Lord Hardbury, please escort Lord Sculthorpe outside. If he is unable to find his way to his horse, perhaps you would be so kind as to show him.”
Guy hauled Sculthorpe to his feet. “Your wish is my command, my lady. My only concern is that in escorting him, I might trip and accidentally plant my fist in his face.”
“There are many holes and stones upon which a man may trip,” she returned blandly. “I do hope you take care, but I understand if that is not the case.”
Guy released Sculthorpe, who took his time adjusting his sleeves and wiping his face.
“Let me explain again, Lord Sculthorpe,” Arabella said. “If you ever try to marry any woman, I will stand before the Chancellor or the Chief Lord Justice or the journalists or on a soapbox in Hyde Park, to tell the world of your violence.”
Sir Walter broke in. “No one will believe that of such a noble man.”
“Perhaps they’ll believe the testimony of my mother and my maid, who saw the marks left on my body.”
“I believe her,” Guy said.
“Good, because it is true,” said Mama. “Lord Sculthorpe, I advise you to leave, before I run out of patience and shoot you myself.”
Sculthorpe would not be hurried, even though Guy occasionally shoved his shoulder, furious at him for harming Arabella. And why the hell had she not just told him? That bruise! He had asked her and she had lied and at any bloody moment she could have bloody well said.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Sculthorpe said. “It’s the obvious explanation. I knew it had to be you, when I heard of the engagement. That’s why I came back.”
“You should never have shown your face here again.”
“You self-righteous hypocrite!” Sculthorpe whirled to a stop, square features hard as he advanced one threatening step. “You’re the villain here, Hardbury, not me. I did nothing wrong.”
Guy shoved him. “You kicked her! You bloody—”
“I was good to her and she betrayed me! With you! She was mine.”
Sculthorpe had wanted to claim Arabella, she had said. Guy shook his head, stepped away before he was tempted into more violence. “You never even made an effort to know her.”
“We understood each other perfectly.” Sculthorpe’s expression was bitter as he smoothed out his lapels. “She knew and shared my desires. She was mine and you stole her.”
“Arabella makes her own choices.”
That earned him a jeering laugh. “Not yet wed and already hen-pecked! After all those years doing whatever your papa told you, now you need your wife to tell you what to do.”
Sculthorpe’s contemptuous sneer was intended to provoke him, but it merely struck Guy as pathetic. With such a controlling father, Guy had indeed feared being made to do anyone else’s bidding. But no longer. He knew himself. He knew his values. And he knew Arabella.
“Your problem, Sculthorpe, is deep inside you like a worm, and it will never go away. After hurting Arabella, you could have seen how you were wrong and changed your ways. But you didn’t. Another day will come when a woman says something you don’t like, and you’ll strike her and convince yourself that was your right.”
“She was mine, damn you,” Sculthorpe hissed, and swung for Guy’s face.
Guy stepped aside.
Sculthorpe quickly recovered his balance and sneered. “Take it like a man.”
This bit of nonsense made Guy snort. “If you say so, my lord,” he said, and smashed his fist into the other man’s jaw.
By the time Guy had finished with Sculthorpe, the man was in no state to ride. So he hauled him to the far stables, which were old and empty, and tossed him onto a pile of hay.
“You have one hour to get yourself out of here,” he said.
“You grew up, Hardbury.” Sculthorpe laughed wheezily and swiped at the blood on his face. “Little whiner grew up to defend another whore.”
Rubbing his knuckles, Guy left the other man sprawled on the straw. The fight had left him both energized and exhausted. At the main stables, he found a pair of grooms, told them to take water and linens to Sculthorpe, and to fetch him in an hour if the baron hadn’t left.
Back in the house, Freddie and Miss Treadgold were cluttering up the foyer, eyes wide and faces pale.
“What were you thinking, Freddie? Miss Treadgold?” Guy looked from one to the other. “Why would you think it was a good idea to meet any man secretly, let alone that one? Let’s hope your guardians hush this up, but what the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I wanted to know what it was like to be courted,” Freddie said.
“That was a rhetorical questi
on,” he bit out.
“I was thinking I must repay a debt of gratitude to my guardians by marrying well,” Miss Treadgold said.
Guy gritted his teeth. “The point is, you weren’t thinking. Those are dreadful reasons.”
“Easy for you to say,” Freddie sniped.
“You’re not us,” Miss Treadgold agreed.
“Stars above, Miss Treadgold. When did you become so defiant?”
“Miss Larke told me I should express myself. She’s right. It feels good.”
“Express yourself? She said that? Ha!”
The hypocrite! Arabella would not be able to express herself if the Spanish Inquisition had her stretched out on the rack under a vat of boiling oil.
Lady Belinda appeared in the doorway, as unflappable as ever. “Is he gone?” she asked.
Guy rubbed his aching jaw. “He’s resting in the far stables and will leave when he is able to ride.” He turned back to Freddie and Miss Treadgold. “You will not leave this house tonight. You will go nowhere alone, not until we know what he’s planning. His is a vengeful nature and he does not like to lose.”
“Lord Hardbury! Please!” cried Lady Treadgold, bustling in. “You are frightening the girls.”
“They should be frightened. That man is a menace, and you, Lady Treadgold, wanted one of them to marry him.”
“It would be a good match for either one. You cannot argue with that.”
Guy held up his hand. “I already have.”
“My lord?”
Miss Treadgold was staring at his bloody fingers. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Miss Treadgold?”
“I like dead things.”
“Matilda! Hush!”
“Lady Frederica likes to ride astride and I like dead things. There, I said it. Now you know.”
Guy blinked at her. “Yes. Now I know. Ah… Thank you for telling me?”
With an exchange of grins, the two young ladies dashed away.
“I think I caught a few too many blows to the head,” Guy muttered, as he headed for the stairs.
Lady Belinda sidestepped to block his way.