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Her eyes widened. “Even overme? Good grief. I cannot imagine why.”
“Ha! Because men prefer a woman who nurtures her young to one who eats them.”
“Don’t be absurd. I haven’t eaten any babies in years.”
Surprised laughter burst out of him. No mistaking it this time: Arabella was definitely making fun of herself. Another revelation: Her lips might not curve, but her eyes smiled and laughed.
Stars above, had she always been laughing at herself? Were her outrageously arrogant declarations in fact jokes at her own expense?
Once more, Arabella was rendered new and strange, like the night sky on the other side of the world, where the stars were arranged differently, fascinatingly familiar yet forever changed.
He had to remember where they were. Who she was. What she had done.
To remind them both, he said, “Sculthorpe must be pleased about that.”
Her eyelids barely flickered in response. “Was it he who broke your nose?”
“No. That happened when I was away. I was this big brash Englishman, expecting everyone to leap to my command. My face practically invited other men to hit it.”
“Because in England, everyone always let you win.”
He shifted uncomfortably. He had only discovered that upon venturing into the world without the protection of his name. Yet Arabella, years younger than he, had noticed. But then, when he was a boy, she was the only person who ever challenged him.
“Let you win what, Hardbury?”
It was Sculthorpe, come back inside, awash in tobacco smoke.
Arabella’s face went blank. “Lord Hardbury was telling me about his travels,” she said smoothly, pitching her voice to carry across the room. “Italy, among other places.”
How easily she lied. And how steady her hands, when she poured tea for her cuckolded betrothed.
The fine china cup and saucer looked delicate in Sculthorpe’s big hands. His eyes met Guy’s. Perhaps they were both remembering that day when Guy issued his challenge and Sculthorpe’s big hands had formed big fists, and beaten twenty-year-old Guy for his insolence.
“I spent some time in Italy during the war,” Sculthorpe said. “What were you doing there?”
Lady Treadgold’s voice sailed across the room. “Oh, Lord Hardbury, Matilda and I are simplydyingto hear more of your travels in Italy. Aren’t we, Matilda?”
Miss Treadgold did seem bright-eyed. “I hear one can see dead bodies left by an ancient volcano.”
“Matilda,” Lady Treadgold admonished softly.
Her face fell with becoming distress. “But Aunt Frances, it sounds so horrible. Those poor people.”
“Your tender heart does you credit. Doesn’t it, Lord Hardbury?”
“Indeed.”
Guy looked back at Arabella and Sculthorpe. Stars above, this whole situation was too absurd for words. Why the devil had he changed his mind and come here?
Shaking his head, he crossed to Lady Treadgold, who said, “Tell us about Venice. They do such wonderful things with glass.”
And Miss Treadgold, sweet, pretty, unchallenging, smiled shyly. Guy set about making himself agreeable, and not once did he look back across the room to where Arabella calmly conversed with Lord Sculthorpe and the botany student as though nothing untoward had ever passed at all.
Chapter 9
The wind seemed to blow right through Arabella as she climbed the hill to the abbey ruins. Normally, she would ride, but if she had taken a horse, Lord Sculthorpe could have learned that she was gone.
Not that she was hiding from Sculthorpe, of course. She simply chose to be out of the house while he was in it.
