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“Why would you even want to drop a ribbon?” he ventured.
“So that a man would pick it up.”
“But you can pick up your own ribbons.”
“Of course I jolly well can.”
“And you would never drop one in the first place.”
“Precisely! Which is why men like Matilda Treadgold.”
“Because she makes them feel strong and important and necessary.”
“Just because a man wants to feel strong and important and necessary does not mean I cannot be those things too.” She sipped her brandy and recoiled. “Good grief, that is vile.”
And Guy understood.
Arabella was unapologetically strong-willed and independent—traits rarely admired in ladies. But that same proud independence was isolating too; she realized that, perhaps, but did not know how to change.
Now, she wanted something from him, and she didn’t know how to ask for it, and so he could only guess what it was. But Arabella was asking. Not demanding or bribing or coercing—asking. She was doing a very poor job of it, but then, as she said, she didn’t know how.
Arabella, who knew everything, did not know how to ask for affection or help.
His heart ached for her, this woman so accustomed to raising her walls that she had forgotten how lonely it could be behind them, so determined not to seem helpless that she refused to make any requests.
“You are strong and important and necessary, whether you drop ribbons or not,” he said, hoping those were the right words. “And sometimes to get what you want, you have to take a risk and ask for it.”
“But it—you—I— When it matters— Oh.”
She dumped her glass on the table, folded her arms, and frowned at the wall. Not the right words, then. What the devil was going on in that complex mind of hers? He could spend a thousand evenings with her—a hundred thousand—and still not fully know her, but enjoy every minute of trying.
“You could start by asking for something small, and work your way up,” he suggested.
She glanced at him, thoughtful now.
Ah, that was encouraging. “You may improve with practice,” he went on. “Why don’t we try it now? Drop a ribbon and we’ll see if I pick it up.”
“I haven’t any ribbons.”
“You have a gown. Why don’t you try dropping that? Although, I confess, I would not make the slightest effort to pick it up.”
Something flashed in her eyes—Desire? Fury?—then she looked away. Damn. His flippancy was misplaced. In a moment, she would call him absurd and stalk out.
Well, good.
If he got any closer to her, he feared he would not be able to disentangle himself, until she cut him loose and he’d fall. And how very unwise to provoke her when they were alone in a warm room at night. So—good! It was good that he said the wrong thing. Good if she walked away.
He leaped to his feet and carried their glasses back to the sideboard, where, he vowed, he would remain until she left.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her move. But she did not leave. She sighed. Not a delicate, romantic sigh, of course. More an exasperated, impatient one.
Impatient for what?
He stilled, his hands on the glasses, his attention on her. Seeing her, not quite seeing her.
Again her arms moved. Again that sigh.
He turned to look.
