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And all was right in the world.
Except—
She stepped forward and straightened Apollo’s hat, so it sat evenly on his head. There.Nowall was right in the world. Nodding with satisfaction, she prepared to walk on when Guy brushed past her, touched his fingers to the brim, and set the hat crooked again.
His face was the picture of innocence. She glared at him, but when he did not rectify his error, she used both hands to once more straighten the hat.
He waited until she had stepped back, and then, with a lazy tap of his knuckles, tipped it again.
Again, Arabella straightened it.
Again, Guy set it askew.
She curled her fingers into her palms. She was not going to play his games. And look! One thing he knew about her—one harmless foible—and he used it to torment her. This was what happened when people knew you cared about something.
With a haughty toss of her head, she continued along the path. He fell into step beside her.
One step. Two steps. Three. Four.
Curse it.
She dashed back and straightened the hat, and he laughed, looking carefree and rumpled, with the smile in his eyes and the wind in his hair.
When he extended his elbow, she returned to him and slipped her fingers into the crook. They walked on, like a typical engaged couple, shoulders bumping, her wine-red pelisse flirting with his greatcoat.
“Are you already married?” she asked, oddly breathless for such a short dash.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Using a false name?”
“No.”
“Underage?”
“Hardly.”
“Insane?”
“Only around you.”
“Impotent?”
He whirled about. Her hand slipped from his arm. His eyes glinted with that heated intensity so familiar from that night in London.
“What doyouthink?” His growl was rough with promise. “You have some experience in the matter of my…potency.”
“Things might have changed.”
“Would you like a demonstration? To check everything still works as it ought?”
He lowered his gaze to her mouth, and then over her body, his look inflaming her skin, as though his hands were touching her again. In his eyes, amusement mingled with that heat, an infectious mix that rippled through her blood in delicious ways and, that, oh yes, she remembered that from London too.
That night when she had ruined everything, with her fears and pride and carelessness, long before it had occurred to her that there might be anything precious to ruin. All those years of despising him, only to learn too late there was nothing to despise. Caring nothing for his good opinion of her, until that good opinion was irrevocably lost. And what heartrending cruelty, to discover this longing for him, after all she had done to ensure he would never want her.
Maybe it was not too late. Maybe she could grab his head and make him listen. Make him understand that sometimes she got frightened, and fear turned her stupid, and her pride concealed it so no one would know. Even then, what was the point? Perhaps he would understand, perhaps even forgive. But it would not make him want her.
He thought her unscrupulous and arrogant and power-hungry, and a good, honorable man did not want a woman like that. She had made enough mistakes already; she would not mistake his fleeting desire and essential decency for anything other than what they were.
