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He reached across her for the reticule. She tried to whisk her arm behind her back, but he moved like lightning; his fingers wrapped around her wrist, warm and implacable. She held herself steady, even as the studded leather strips over his skirt knocked her thighs, even as his throat loomed before her. His scent of leather and spice warred with her own orange blossom, and she ran her gaze up the length of his neck, over his jaw and cheek, to meet his eyes, unamused and hard. They were close enough now to kiss, after all.
“Guy, first, hear me out.”
“No.”
He looked down, and those long fingers deftly loosened the tie of her reticule. When she let the little bag slide from her wrist, he clasped it like a prize.
“I’ll cut myself free of you, Arabella, and I’ll not hear another word.”
* * *
The lady’sscissors were so tiny that Guy feared his fingers would get stuck. The blades were designed for nothing more arduous than snipping threads—because heaven forbid perfect Arabella might have a loose thread—and he felt he was sawing away at the ribbon clumsily. He tried to focus on the ribbon, but he could not ignore Arabella’s pale skin, with its network of blue veins and scent of orange blossom, the memory of its heady silkiness lingering on his lips.
“We are attracting interest,” Arabella said softly.
“I’m trying not to hurt you,” he muttered.
“Do you think me so delicate?”
“You, no. Your skin, yes.”
Finally, the last of the ribbon fell away and he returned the scissors. Guy rolled his wrist, his skin tingling with her absence. Pink indents crisscrossed her forearm; Guy brushed them with his thumb, as if to soothe them, though heaven knew she did not deserve soothing.
He hastily stepped away, but she made no comment, as she sheathed the scissors and slipped them into her reticule. The fading light accentuated her sharp cheekbones, her aristocratic jaw. She had grown into her angles and height; her face would only become more interesting with age.
“You’ve grown up,” he said irrelevantly.
Her eyelids flickered. “As have you.”
“It’s curious, really. Through no fault of your own, you have been a presence shaping my life, but in the end, we are strangers.”
“If I were a stranger, you would listen to my request.”
“If you were a stranger, you would not ask.”
They would never be strangers. They would exist forever on the edges of each other’s lives, moving in the same circles, passing each other at dinner parties and balls. They would be polite and remote, starting now.
“Thank you for this exciting adventure,” he said. “And now I bid you good evening.”
Her eyes narrowed. “We have not finished talking.”
“As flattering as it is to receive your marriage proposal—”
“That was not a proposal—”
“—I have more important things on my mind than your marital status. Pray, excuse me, Miss Larke.”
He turned away.
“Winning custody of your sisters, I suppose,” she said from behind him. “Although Freddie doesn’t seem bothered by it, one way or another.”
Guy turned back. “You’ve spoken to Freddie?”
“She is here tonight.”
“As are three thousand other people, and I daresay she’s changed in eight years.”
“Do you mean to say you have not seen Freddie since your return?” She drew her head back. “Have you even met Ursula?”
