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But the words did not come. Instead she said, her tone brisk and bright, “So you see, the question is whether my ideal husband even exists.”
“Ah, quite a conundrum.” He made a show of studying her. “It would take a very particular kind of man, I think. Obviously, he must not be terrified of you, but any man who is not terrified of you is a fool, and he must not be a fool.”
“Then, by your own reasoning, he cannot exist.”
“But he can exist, if he wants you so much that he does not let his terror deter him. He must be clever too. Perhaps even as clever as you, which means he is clever enough never to let you know he is as clever as you. And he must be a man who…”
His words trailed off, and although his eyes were roaming over her face, one would think his mind was somewhere else and he did not see her at all.
“Who what?” she prompted.
His eyes stilled, met hers. She knew those eyes, she knew them from that night in London, when his hands were sliding over her body, when he swooped to claim her mouth in a kiss.
“He must be a man who knows how to unleash your passion.”
Guy stood so near, and there was so much of him, all shoulders and chest and arms and legs, that if she dared close the space between them, she could discover herself in him again.
Her rational parts wanted to hide behind words, sayhow to know whether a man can do that, are we to conduct interviews and tests, but the words dissolved, crowded out by images and sensations from that hour when their bodies were entwined.
A bang released her, as the nearest library door crashed open.
Startled, Arabella hopped away like a wren. Guy rose lazily to his feet. He had set more pages in disarray, but she could not straighten them, for she was struck by the sight of Papa in the doorway, with Queenie perched on his arm and an unprecedentedly broad smile on his face.
It seemed Guy’s move last night had brought a plague of smiles to the Larke family.
But Papa’s smile was not for Arabella.
“Excellent news, Hardbury,” he said. “I’ve just now spoken to the vicar. Your wedding will take place in sixteen days.”
* * *
Silence stretched over the library.At Guy’s side, Arabella whispered, “Sixteen days,” her horror plain.
Despite everything, Guy had to laugh.
All morning, as he went about his business with Sir Gordon, he had been second-guessing his impulse of the night before, assuring himself that he had misunderstood Arabella, that he had the situation in hand.
Yet their engagement was not a day old and already he had lost control, with a gambit from Mr. Larke.
What a game this was turning out to be.
At least he and Arabella were playing on the same side for once. She did not appear remotely threatening, just another genteel lady in an elegant morning gown. And surprisingly charming, the way she kept straightening the pages to align their edges with the table, so that Guy could not resist setting them crooked. They had eased into conversation as if they had not been battling each other their entire lives. He had teased her, as if he was not playing with fire.
Arabella elbowed him. “You laugh?” she hissed.
“You must admit, it is a little funny,” he said softly.
“Sixteen days,” she repeated with a shake of her head.
She truly did not want to marry him. Well. Good. Of course, he didn’t want to marry her, regardless of this infatuation, but it seemed he was just conceited enough to feel a trifle stung.
Lady Belinda, her serene gaze on her daughter, had joined Larke, who was looking pleased with himself.
“Explain yourself, Mr. Larke,” Guy said. “How is a wedding in sixteen days even possible?”
“Simple,” Larke said. “The vicar will read the first of the three banns in church tomorrow. Two more Sundays, and the wedding will be the day after that.”
“I’ll tell you what is simple,” Guy said. “Arabella is my betrothed, so I decide when and where the wedding will take place. We would prefer to wed in London in spring.”
