Too many ifs. This was Arabella, and if she didn’t leave immediately, he’d toss her out the window.
He lurched to his feet. A mistake: Now their faces were close. Her hand drifted up, hovered perilously close to his chest, which was shielded only by a linen shirt.
He caught her fingers. “What is this madness?” he murmured.
Her head jerked up, and in a single move, she yanked her hand from his, spun around, and glided away. Finally, she was leaving! But no— As though dancing with herself, she whirled back around.
“The fact is, I have not had enough adventures in my life.” Her words came out unusually loud and fast. “I am sure neither you nor Sculthorpe are virgins. Why shouldn’t I, too, have a chance to sow my wild oats?”
What a load of nonsense! But Arabella clearly had no intention of explaining, so Guy didn’t waste his breath pressing for more.
Instead, he said, “Women don’t have oats to sow. Women are the field, so to speak, in which the oats are sown.”
She did not sigh, but she gave the impression of having sighed. “Let us not debate metaphors. You understand my point. But speaking of that, you will take care to avoid sowing any oats in this field.”
“There will be no oats.”
“If you say so. So long as the plow enters the field, I am unconcerned as to whether there are any oats. Only that if there are oats, they do not, in fact, enter the field.”
Guy hardly knew whether to laugh or groan. “Arabella, you and I have never been friends, but I have always respected your abilities. So please understand that I speak with the utmost respect when I say: You are dreadful at seduction.”
“Then it is as well that I am not seducing you, but rather demanding that you seduce me, which is an entirely different matter.”
“You’re serious about this.”
“I would hardly risk my future for a joke.”
He wandered over to her, carefully keeping his eyes off the long, intriguing lines of her body. “You seriously think that we should take off all our clothes and pretend to like each other long enough for me to bed you, and then you’ll merrily go on your way.”
“That sounds right. Although we needn’t take off all our clothes. Or pretend to like each other.”
“This is absurd. Get out.”
She turned her head away, but her jaw clenched. He studied her profile as she pressed her lips together, the column of her throat as she swallowed nothing, the rise of her breasts as she took a deep breath.
“I will go through with this,” she whispered to the wall.
Unsettled, Guy reached a hand to her straight back, let it drop. “What is going on? If you need help…”
She said nothing. None of this made sense. Arabella had never been a model of feminine sweetness and docility, but her conduct had always been beyond reproach. That a young woman might succumb to lust or seek to explore her sensual side was something he could understand. But that Arabella might? She avoided his touch and barely looked at him, let alone betrayed any sign of actual desire. The only rational explanation was that this was a scheme to trap him into marriage, following her failure at the costume party, but her approach was decidedly odd.
“You’ll ruin your reputation if anyone learns you were here,” he said.
“I have been very careful, and your discretion is assured, is it not?”
Guy snorted. “Of course. If anyone knew you were here, they’d either shoot me or march me to the altar. The last thing I want is to wind up married to you.” He considered. “Being shot doesn’t appeal much either.”
“No one need ever know.”
“Not even Sculthorpe?”
“Especially not Sculthorpe.”
“But won’t he—”
“I did not come here to discuss Sculthorpe. Now, if you have dispensed with your maidenly sensibilities?” Her eyebrows raised. “Given the amount of effort that men expend trying to gain access to women’s bodies, and the corresponding effort women expend trying to deny them, you should be grateful I am making it so easy for you.”
Her expression remained imperious, but her gaze flickered and veered away. A tiny tell. Guy considered his options. He could carry her out and dump her on the street. Pull on his clothes and leave the house. Simply ignore her, or lock himself in his bedroom. She held no power over him, not physical, not financial, not social—and definitely not sexual, whatever her passing, puzzling allure.
Arabella could not make him do anything he did not want to do.
And, quite frankly, Guy wanted her to admit that. To explicitly concede defeat. The nerve of the woman: to conspire with Clare, to lie her way into his house, disturb his evening, and jeopardize his future. Sending her away would be easy—but too easy. How much more satisfying to make her give in, just as he had at the costume party. And Guy knew exactly how to win: Mockery had always been her downfall.
“Well, well, well. Flawless, frosty Arabella Larke, turned adventuress. This might have seemed like a grand idea inside that head of yours, but the reality…” He inhaled with a hiss, making an exaggerated grimace. “Naked bodies. Skin on skin. Limbs getting in the way. Me touching you in places you probably cannot even name. And the bodily fluids! Ugh.”
“Thank you for the warning. Shall we proceed?”
Somehow, the gap between them had shrunk, yet still she refused to yield an inch. She had no idea. She might know the facts—Arabella always knew the facts—but as for the actual experience of tupping? The awkwardness alone would horrify her. Not to mention the mess.
“Proceed?” he scoffed. “You would not even have the courage to kiss me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think this is a game?”
“It is now.”
Years before, Guy had witnessed Arabella practicing archery. From the moment she nocked the arrow, she might have been alone in the world. Every inch of her body had been directed toward the target, her limbs steady as she drew back the bowstring. Her eyes had flicked to consider the wind, then returned to aim. To loose the arrow. To hit that target at its center and coolly claim the prize.
He felt like that target now.
Arabella hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, before lowering her gaze to examine his mouth. Her curved lips twitched; Guy tore his eyes away. He would not think about kissing her.
Yet clearly her focus was on kissing him. He tried to laugh at her, but his laughter choked under the intensity of her gaze. An intensity that was growing perilously erotic.
Would she peck his cheek? Firm, brisk, cold? No, he decided. Arabella would kiss him to win. No hesitation, no half measures.
And if he were to kiss her—he wouldn’t, of course—but if he did… How would proud, poised Arabella react to the intimate brush of cheek against cheek, to the mingling of breaths, to the sensual slide of fingertips over her skin?
First, he would soften her: run his thumb over her mouth, wait for the catch of her breath, part her lips, and then—
And then he realized she was closing the space between them, her long lashes lowered as she targeted his mouth. She pursed her lips slightly, her tongue darting out; Guy’s own mouth was a little dry.
Don’t disappoint me, a voice whispered in his head, his last coherent thought before her hand drifted onto his jaw and cheek, a delicate touch that brushed his skin like smoke and coiled hotly in his stomach.