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With an exasperated sigh, she marched across the room, yanked the bunch of flowers from their vase, and marched back to shove them into his hands. Their stems were slimy, and cold water trickled down his wrists.
“There. Flowers.” She wiped her hands on a serviette. “And poetry. Ah… Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Your eyes are nothing like the sun. All coaxed and flattered? May we begin?”
Her briskness betrayed her. Whatever her true objective, she did not seek intimacy. Then—aha! Intimacy would scare her away. That kiss had not been his best idea. Time for a new approach.
“No, no, no. You need to make me feel special.” He separated a small red zinnia from the bouquet, pinched off its wet end, and dried his hands. “Like this.” He brushed the petals over her cheek and tucked the flower behind her ear. “Oh yes, very pretty. Suits you.”
“You are making fun of me.”
“Not at all. I am generously tutoring you in the finer points of seduction. If you don’t wish to know, well, you might as well leave.”
With daggers in her eyes, she went to remove the flower. Catching her hand, he tutted. “Leave that pretty flower in your hair, while I charm you with poetry.”
“No need for charm or poetry.”
Yet she shifted, betraying discomfort.
Encouraged, Guy entwined his fingers with hers. Desire continued to coil inside him. Ignoring it, he recited softly: “She walks in beauty, like the night,Of cloudless climes and starry skies.”
Uncertainty danced across her face. She looked young, vulnerable. This closeness unsettled her. Good.
“And all that’s best of dark and bright, Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
Guy had an image, suddenly, of the desert of Anatolia, where the night sky stretched forever and the stars were bright and fat, as if he was that much closer to heaven. Under that fathomless blanket of stars, he had melted into insignificance yet expanded to become part of something magnificent, the splendor of the heavens filling him with both peace and awe.
He blinked away the image and focused on Arabella, her eyes dark and unsure. This was a dangerous game he was playing. He would never become intimate with her—of course he wouldn’t—but for all her flaws, Arabella was a compelling woman, standing very close, and he was a man who responded to compelling women who stood very close.
He had to teach her not to make demands of him.
“That poem goes on,” he added. He caught one of the silken dark curls tumbling about her face and ran it through his fingers. “Something about raven tresses and sweet thoughts and winning smiles. Why, Byron might have written it for you. The raven tresses part, anyway. Certainly not the sweet thoughts or winning smiles.”
She spun away, yanked the flower from her ear, and flung it to the floor. “Have you quite finished?” she snapped. “Let’s dispense with this tedium, pretend we’ve whispered nonsense at each other, and get on with it, shall we?”
Her confidence was a façade; it had to be. Arabella and her famous pride, refusing to admit when she was out of her depth. It would be interesting to see what made that façade crumble.
“You really think I’m going to do this,” he said.
“I never start things that I do not intend to finish.”
“Very well, then. Take off your clothes. All of them.”
She stiffened, turned to marble. Oh, she would not hold up at all! Soon she would concede that she hadn’t the courage for this outrageous scheme, whatever it was, and she would leave him in peace. He would defeat her, as he had when they were children.
Folding his arms, Guy lounged back against the wall.
Then her chin lifted. Her limbs relaxed.
Arabella began to undress.
Chapter 6
Guy’s mirth faltered. Arabella was actually doing this.
She slipped off her shoes and arranged them neatly, then unfastened her gown.
“Are you going to stand there and watch?” she demanded.
“Yes. I think I shall. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
