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Ah, the mysterious infant Ursula. Guy had not even known Ursula existed until his return, when he learned that his widowed father had married Caroline Treadgold, who had borne him a daughter before passing away.
Now, little Ursula was in the care of Sir Walter and Lady Treadgold. They were her uncle and aunt, but Guy was her brother; it was only right that he become her guardian, regardless of his father’s will. Father must have gone to his grave crowing at having thwarted Guy, but no longer would Guy allow the old man to dictate his life. He would marry a pleasant, amiable lady, bring both Freddie and Ursula into their loving home, and rebuild the family he and his father had destroyed. Then he would feel at peace and know he had come home.
“Once I solve the tricky little puzzle of where Sir Walter Treadgold stashes my sisters, I shall see them both,” Guy said.
Arabella raised her eyebrows in a silent question.
“Sir Walter has a cunning talent for always leaving a place hours before I arrive,” he explained. “I was hoping to see Freddie here tonight, but the party organizers have not made it easy for me.”
“I imagine not. Come along, then.”
Arabella pivoted and glided away, with the graceful fluidity to which all ladies aspired, but only some actually attained. Beneath the mane of red feathers from her helmet, he glimpsed a trio of glossy dark ringlets.
After a few steps, she twisted and shot him an expectant look.
“Arabella, I am not a dog that you take for a walk.”
“Do you want to see Freddie or not?”
Without waiting for a response, she resumed walking along the lawn, the white silk of her gown swaying around her long, hidden legs. Immediately, other people began to press forward. Cursing under his breath, Guy fell into step with her. His would-be audience subsided.
“I hear your father’s will left Freddie and Ursula wealthier than you,” Arabella remarked as they cut through the crowd. “One can only hope they still have that wealth when they come of age. Sir Walter Treadgold has bought himself a fancy new coach-and-four, but of course your father left him a generous bequest, too.”
“How the deuce do you know all this?” he asked.
“I keep abreast of all that happens in society. Including your stated intention to marry as soon as possible. An engagement may bolster your case in Chancery, and an heiress would remedy your financial situation.”
Guy chuckled. She was relentless! But her wealth would never sway him, not given the evidence of how unscrupulous she would be in chasing her ambition to become a marchioness. He knew exactly what he wanted in a wife, having spent years daydreaming of his ideal bride, as he wandered the world in his self-imposed exile.
“My income is still sufficient that I need not consider wealth a criterion for a suitable bride.”
“Ah yes, a suitable bride for Guy Roth. What would she be like?”
“Whomever I marry will have a talent for making a peaceful, comfortable home for our family. She will be gentle, pleasant, and…” Guy caught Arabella’s arch, sideways look. “And,” he repeated emphatically, “she would never plot or scheme or even consider offering bribes.”
“But of course.” She waved one hand regally. “Someone eternally cheerful and undemanding, who will engage you in diverting conversation and never bother you with what she is truly thinking. As a result, you will assume that her thoughts are the same as your own, and you will congratulate yourself on choosing a bride who is so well matched. She will be agreeable, amenable, and amiable, and when you find yourself thinking that your wife is a little dull, you will assume that is her fault and never realize it is your own.”
“You have a low opinion of your sex.”
“I have an extremely high opinion of my sex. My low opinion is reserved for men who see only what they want to see and then blame women for being the lack.” She shot him a look. “I have never met anyone who relished a challenge as much as you do. You’ll bore yourself with a bride like that, and make the poor girl miserable too.”
Guy stopped short, Arabella pausing at his side.
“Ah, so you would nobly rescue me from a lifetime of boredom by offering yourself instead,” he said, his tone mocking. “A lady too clever for her own good, a lady who pays bribes and makes demands and seeks to embroil me in some scheme to satisfy her own ambitions.” He stepped closer, but she did not yield an inch, her stance rigid, her glare fierce. “For both our sakes, Arabella, find someone else to command and leave me be. No doubt other men grovel wherever you go, but you’re wasting your time if you think you’ll ever make me fall to my knees.”
Those eyebrows lifted. “Good grief, Guy, what use would you be on your knees? No— I should put a ring through your nose like a bull. I’ll tie a ribbon to it and use it to lead you around.”
Her voice dripped with scorn, yet a lost look flashed across her face—a startling, naked vulnerability, come and gone like lightning. But perhaps it was a trick of the light, for the next moment, she was giving him her aloof profile. A mole graced her high cheekbone and a single dark curl caressed her ear.
She jerked her chin. “There,” she said.
Guy followed her gaze, which led him to a three-tiered fountain. On the low stone wall encircling the fountain sat a pair of matching shepherdesses; one had reddish-blonde ringlets and a blue dress, and the other was a brunette in pink.
“Freddie is the shepherdess in blue,” Arabella went on. “She is something of a wallflower, if only because of her indifference to others’ opinions and her marvelously original views. The pink shepherdess is Miss Matilda Treadgold, Sir Walter Treadgold’s niece. She has been his ward since she was a small child. She is not a wallflower, by any means. The fact that she is with Freddie now, rather than surrounded by besotted gentlemen, suggests that Freddie is the bait and you are the prey.”
“Do you think all women are schemers like you?”
“Only the admirable ones, and I admire Miss Treadgold immensely. She has little in the way of wealth or connections, but as you don’t require those, she fits your notion of an ideal wife very nicely.”
