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Sir Walter threw up his hands. “My lord, whatever can you mean? You can see your sisters any time you like. When you call on Matilda or take her for a drive, then—”
“Sounds like a jolly game, you scallywag, but I don’t want to play,” Guy said, and walked off into the crowd.
Chapter 4
The military review was sheer perfection. Thousands of red-coated soldiers marched in exquisitely straight columns, their uniforms matching right down to the gleam of their brass buttons, their boots and muskets clacking in harmony.
It was the most peaceful sight Arabella had ever seen.
The columns of ten thousand soldiers would stretch a mile or more, Lord Sculthorpe had earlier informed Arabella and Mama, as he competently maneuvered his carriage through the crowd gathering on Wimbledon Common to watch the Duke of York present the regiments. The promise of a fine day and a grand spectacle—complete with a military band, cavalry charge, and a glimpse of the Royal Family—had drawn some hundred thousand people to the massive Common. All sorts were in attendance, from workers to bankers to aristocrats: a boisterous, cacophonous mass of humanity, in the midst of which Arabella finally found a moment alone.
It had been a trying week of social gatherings, as Arabella was besieged by felicitations on her engagement. “Congratulations,” everyone said, as though she had accomplished something more onerous than simply living to adulthood and saying the word “yes.” For bonus agony, Lord Sculthorpe would appear at her side, charming, affable, and never missing an opportunity to drop a light touch somewhere on her person, say something affectionate, and sicken her with a leer. Arabella had to bear it, along with the stream of good-natured comments about his lordship’s devotion.
Just as she had to bear his solicitous inquiries about her well-being this morning, when they relinquished his open carriage to Mama and her friends and took a stroll through the crowd.
“You look tired, Miss Larke, if you’ll forgive my blunt speech,” he had remarked. Saying nothing of nights spent staring into darkness, she had offered the standard complaints about London’s weather, at which dashing Lord Sculthorpe dashed off to find her a drink. For such were her mighty powers: Sculthorpe would take her property, own her body, and control her behavior, but never mind that, because she could send him to fetch a glass of lemonade.
But she still had this: the ability to forget her plight in the thrilling exactness of military maneuvers.
Only when the soldiers came to a perfectly timed stop did Arabella drag her gaze away—to find herself looking at Guy, who was studying her with an expression of puzzled amusement.
He stood with one booted leg slightly in front of the other, hands clasped behind his back, broad shoulders straight in his blue coat, hat tipped back on his head. Even the insouciant ease of his stance could not mask his bold vitality.
When their eyes met, a slow smile spread over his face. Arabella fired off the kind of withering look that sent other men scuttling for the drinks trolley. So what did Guy do, but saunter to her side.
The sunlight revealed faint lines around the corners of his eyes, which were as green as summer, with an intriguing depth. He displayed a lean hardness at odds with his easy smiles: a man prepared to tackle any challenge and enjoy himself while he did it.
“You appear to delight in the regiments,” he said. “Your expression is nothing less than rapt.”
Because it was Guy and she didn’t care what he thought, Arabella replied with the truth. “It is very soothing.”
He laughed, a fearless chuckle that danced down her spine. “Only you could find the presence of ten thousand armed men soothing.”
Still smiling, his eyes whisked over her. Naturally, she had honored the occasion with a stylish, military-inspired outfit. It was blue, with epaulets, frogging, and braids, topped by a tall-crowned hat like a shako. The ornamentation was quite useless, of course, but it made a good impression; in Arabella’s world, that was half the battle.
“It pains me to admit it,” Guy said, looking remarkably unpained, “but military-style attire suits you. I wonder why they have not yet made you commander-in-chief.”
“I wonder that myself. If only I had all these soldiers at my command, marching in unison.” She shifted her parasol to her other shoulder, all the better to shoot him a look. “Do suggest it to the Duke of York when you see him next. I would happily take his place.”
“Perhaps your betrothed would mention it, given that he is a war hero.”
And there went her blessed peace. Curse him.
“You sound bitter, Guy. Surely you are not jealous that Lord Sculthorpe did something useful while you were off sulking over your lost sweetheart.”
Guy merely shook his head. He was vexingly difficult to provoke. “On the one hand, I think you and Sculthorpe are a good match. On the other, men must be lining up to marry you and I cannot imagine why the deuce you would choose a man like that.”
A man like what?she longed to ask.What does he mean when he calls me his virgin? Why does it repel me so? What will he do to me? Will you tell me? Will someone please just tell me?!
But she could never say that. She could never show anyone her fear, especially not Guy.
Irritation surged through her. Her hands gripped her parasol, tightening with a furious impulse to tear at him—tear at his golden skin and smiling eyes and broad chest—because she had attempted to ask for help and he had refused to listen, because she had no right to anger, because he owed her nothing. It wasn’t Guy’s fault she had to marry Sculthorpe, but it was his fault he was so cheerful and confident and attractive, and that, surely, was sufficient grounds for a grudge.
He didn’t seem to notice. Of course not: She had a lifetime’s training in hiding her thoughts, and she drew on it now to quash the emotion. Emotions were useless and pointless.
Just like Guy, really.
“Come now, Lord Sculthorpe is adorable,” she drawled. “He puts me in mind of a lapdog. I’m inclined to teach him to do tricks.”
