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“…and our Matilda has saved the waltz for you, my lord. Lady Treadgold says the dance is not quite proper, but—”
“I don’t know how to waltz. England didn’t waltz when I was last here.”
“If only you had said! Our Matilda would have been happy to…”
But Guy never heard his next words, because Arabella had arrived. She drew every eye. Guy drifted away from Sir Walter, drawn into her orbit.
How had he ever imagined she might need help? Most likely, Sculthorpe had realized how much there was to her, her splendor and strength, her intelligence and complexity, and done the smart thing and run away.
Guy would do the smart thing and run too—he would not surrender to this infatuation; he would not allow this woman to manipulate him—but first he had to look at her.
Just…look at her.
Her gown was the pale blue of a summer twilight, dotted with crystals that reflected the candlelight like stars. More crystals glittered in her pile of dark hair. White gloves stretched to her elbows, and a fan dangled from one wrist.
She was a mass of contradictions; perhaps that was her appeal. He never could resist a challenge, or a riddle that needed to be solved. But resist it he must: this urge to take her in his arms, to offer to move the Earth, that she might have whatever she asked.
He imagined her pursing her lips to think, then tapping him with her fan.
“Now you mention it,” she’d say, “I am in need of a titled husband. Marry me. Oh, and bring me the king’s head on a silver platter while you’re at it.”
Not a chance.
Yet he could not tear his eyes from her, as she glided through the crowd toward him, snapped open her fan, and regarded him with her desert-sky eyes.
“I wish to talk to you,” she said shortly, already turning away. “Meet me on the terrace.”
He disciplined his feet, which were much too eager to obey. “What are you scheming now?”
She turned back. “If you meet me on the terrace, I can tell you without us being overheard. It is a private matter.”
“No.”
“Everyone will be able to see us.”
“Precisely.”
“Good grief, Guy. You behave like a coy virgin being coaxed into debauchery by a wicked rake. What on earth do you imagine I intend to do? Tear off your cravat and ravish you right there on the terrace? And force us both into a marriage that neither of us wants?”
Except she did want that marriage. She had been angling for it ever since his return. Yet her haunted look the other night… All these pieces of her did not add up.
“I must show you something,” she added briskly. “I am leaving tomorrow, as are you, and we must speak first.”
“I do not trust you,” he said. “You are unscrupulous and hungry for power.”
Emotion flashed in her eyes; he would swear it was hurt. He hated that he hurt her, but if he did not protect himself, he would be inviting her to hurt him.
A snap sounded, like something breaking, and her face shuttered, cold and aloof.
“Never mind. I shall send a servant. I need some air. This conversation is tedious. ’Tis as well we need never speak again.”
He reached for her hand. She jerked away and instead he caught the fan looped around her wrist. For three ridiculous bars of the waltz, they formed a comical statue, until she let the fan slip from her wrist as he let it slip from his fingers. It clattered to the floor between them. She glanced at it disdainfully. She would not stoop to pick it up. A lady never did.
“Running away, Arabella?” he said.
“Don’t be absurd. I never run away. I simply make a timely exit.”
And exit she did, sweeping across the ballroom and out onto the terrace.
