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“Miss Larke,” Sculthorpe said sharply. “Why did Lord Hardbury toss you a shilling?”
Arabella kept her eyes on Guy. “Oh, just a token from some silly moment in our past. Something silly and foolish that meant nothing at all.”
The horse tossed its head and danced sideways. Guy half laughed, dug in his heels, and rode on.
* * *
Guy had vowedto avoid Arabella during his stay at her family’s house, but watching her with Sculthorpe in the drawing room after dinner that first night, he itched to make trouble.
He had already received several subtle admonitions to behave, from Lady Belinda (“I trust you will enjoy aharmoniousstay with us, my lord”), Mr. Larke (“That girl will marry Sculthorpe, so don’t you foul that up, Hardbury”), and Sir Walter (“How excessively delightful that we can be friends—nay, family!—my lord.”).
But Guy was growing restless, and of course—of course—Arabella was the cause, so provokingly poised and haughty, from the top of her flawlessly coiled hair to the hem of her glacier-blue gown.
It was her manner toward Sculthorpe that irked Guy. She displayed the sort of familiar forbearance one would expect in a woman two decades after her wedding, not a month before. Sculthorpe chatted freely and did not seem to notice that Arabella did nothing more animated than nod.
How wrong it was that Arabella, vibrant, vexing Arabella, was muted. No wonder Guy wanted to stir her up. Bloody hell. Whatwasthis compulsion to tease her? It was proving as dangerous as the obsession that summoned other men back to the tables even after their last penny had been gambled away.
Yet when Sculthorpe brandished his silver cigar case and excused himself to step outside, and Arabella crossed to show Miss Treadgold the sheet music, Guy wandered toward the pianoforte too, only for Arabella to drift away. Guy helped Miss Treadgold choose some music and relinquished the right to turn pages to another man, by which point Arabella was conversing with Freddie. Guy sauntered that way, yet by the time he reached his sister’s side, Arabella was with her mother. Guy sidled toward Lady Belinda…as Arabella glided to the tea tray.
Better he stop now, before anyone noticed that he was chasing Arabella around the drawing room. But when she lifted the teapot, he crossed to her side, creating a small world where they stood apart from the others.
Arabella glanced about, apparently saw no escape, and resigned herself to pouring him a cup of tea he didn’t want. The square bodice of her gown revealed her sharp collarbones. Guy could still feel those collarbones under his fingers, still see his hand splayed over her chest. He tore his eyes away.
“Are you avoiding me, Arabella?” he asked in low tones, so no one overheard.
“Don’t be absurd. I never avoid anyone. I’m merely discerning in my choice of company.”
She turned the teacup’s handle to align its pattern with the saucer, and passed it to him with steady hands.
“What are you up to, Arabella? What do you want from me?”
One eyebrow lifted. “What on earth could I possibly want from you? You have already served your purpose. Or had you forgotten so soon?”
Her bold gaze was like a whirlpool, sucking him in. Memories swarmed between them: their bodies, their mouths, their exhilarating passion, and this infernal longing for more.
If only he could whisk them both away to the desert and lay her down under the endless night sky. But they were in a drawing room, amidst chatter, candles, music, tea. He despised her. He wanted her. She was dangerous. He was mad.
“I am not here for you,” he managed to say through gritted teeth, and plunked down his teacup before he crushed it in his rough, hungry hands.
She nudged the abandoned cup on its saucer to align their patterns, but she overshot.
“I am not here for you,” he repeated, as again and again she tried and failed to align that saucer and cup.
Finally, scowling at the recalcitrant china, she clasped her hands in front of her and opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. Another attempt, and still she had no words. Her eyes darted around the room, landing on Freddie.
“You…” She cleared her throat. “You are here for your sisters, no doubt. And you seem to be friends with Sir Walter suddenly.”
Sweet relief: She had mercifully salvaged the conversation.
“Have you discovered the power of subterfuge?” she went on.
“Diplomacy,” he corrected. “I am exercising admirable restraint. I even refrained from calling him a brazen and corrupt hypocrite to his face.”
It was not to his taste, pretending to like someone he despised. When Sir Walter casually inquired as to the purpose of his lordship’s visit, Guy had murmured something vague about Vindale Court having multiple attractions and let his eyes rest on Matilda Treadgold. That set Sir Walter’s face aglow, and he had promptly arranged for his niece to lead Guy to little Ursula. His infant sister turned out to be a delightful doll-like creature, with feathery blonde curls, a sweet smile, and a stream of incomprehensible babble.
“Congratulations,” Arabella said dryly. “But I do wish you would listen to me about Freddie. You must find out—”
“No.” He raised one hand. “You do not tell me what I must or must not do. Let that be the first rule.”
