She shook her head, impatiently. “I told you I never think of it, but I do. London.”
He didn’t need the clarification. “Was that why…? Your engagement.”
Again, that impatient shake of her head. “Sculthorpe doesn’t know about London. No one does. You are safe. It was badly done of me.”
“What happened with Sculthorpe? Do you need help?”
“Oh, will you be quiet about that beast? You, I mean. It was badly done of me. In London, to put you in that situation. To use you like that. To… You know.”
“Seduce me?”
“Yes.”
Guy stepped closer, amused. “I say, Arabella, that sounded suspiciously like an apology.”
“Don’t be absurd. I never…” She sighed. “Just accept the wretched apology, would you?”
“I am a grown man. I could have kicked you out at any point.”
It was dark, and she was in her nightwear, and he still held her hand; it would be disastrous if anyone discovered them like this. But no one was around, not at this hour. He moved only to put his candle down beside hers.
“Do you regret it?” he asked. “London?”
“Do you?” she countered.
He had no answer. He regretted his own folly at impulsively playing a game that he had lost. Yet the astonishing experience of knowing her like that… He could no longer imagine his life without that experience in it.
She withdrew her hand from his. “No one must ever know,” she whispered. “You will choose a bride soon, I think. You must choose a woman who will make you happy, a woman whom you can love.”
“Now you’re worrying me,” he said. “If there are consequences from London, you will tell me.”
“There are no consequences.”
Her eyes dropped to his chest. As if in a dream, Guy watched as she placed one palm against him, flat and firm and scorching. She eased closer. Her hand traveled over his ribs, to his waist.
“Put your arms around me.” Her whisper was half command, half plea. “I’m all right. I just want…”
Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her, welcoming the feel of her pressed against him. She ducked her head, rested her cheek on his shoulder.
A sound. A door. A footstep.
Guy dropped his arms. Arabella held on. He pulled away, forcing her to let him go and transfer her hug to her own belly.
Suddenly, Guy recognized the impulsive words riding unspoken on his lips: to offer to marry her if she needed it. And how clear they became, the steps of her plan, laid out like a game of chess, a dozen moves in advance. She was ambitious and she had explicitly declared her desire to be a marchioness. She had tried to persuade him to marry her and paid bribes to make him listen. Following her engagement to Sculthorpe, she had come to Guy at night in a bid to trap him into marriage. She had used Freddie and Ursula to lure Guy to Vindale Court. Now, after getting rid of Sculthorpe, she stood outside his door, in her nightgown, in a house full of guests. Everyone knew this age-old scheme to catch a husband.
Regret rolled through him. If only this was no plot or ploy. If only he could simply hold her, and kiss her, and take her into his room.
Bloody hell. He was in a bad way. He needed to escape this house and this woman as quickly as he could.
“Yet another scheme,” he hissed. “Who had you intended to see us?”
The softness in her expression melted like mist. Once more, she stood straight and proud, and replied in her usual imperious drawl.
“Good grief, Guy. As if I would employ such a tired ruse as that. Grant me a little credit.”
Without another word, she picked up her candle and swept away.
Arabella slept late, and awoke with her eyes gritty and dry. She lay in bed and probed her body. Her side was tender, and the marks on her forearms had turned an interesting shade of purple. All of her still felt Guy’s solid, comforting warmth.
Fool.
Sunlight seemed to lurk behind the curtains, so she opened them to see if the world had reappeared.
It had.
The autumn sun shone down on the familiar, beloved view: the hill with the abbey ruins, the patchwork of woodlands and fields. Below her window, the lush green lawn offered a pleasant scene. Several gentlemen were engaged in a game of bowls, supervised by Miss Treadgold. Arabella’s eyes went straight to Guy, who was dancing with Ursula, or trying to anyway: Ursula was doing a dance all of her own, ignoring Guy’s efforts to show her where to put her feet.
Arabella touched the cold glass. Last night’s encounter with Guy had felt like a dream from the moment she slipped out of bed, driven by a fierce urge to feel his embrace. How glorious those seconds in his arms—before he accused her again.
Fair enough. It did look bad, loitering outside his door late at night in her nightgown. Although every country house needed a young lady wandering around in her nightgown seeking trouble.
Below her on the lawn, a dispute seemed to have broken out among the bowls players, but then Miss Treadgold must have made some sound, for the three gentlemen turned.
Just as something fluttered to the grass at Miss Treadgold’s feet.
A canary-yellow ribbon.
One of the gentlemen stooped, hand outstretched toward the ribbon. A heartbeat later, a second one lunged for it, knocking aside the first man, and while they gesticulated at each other, the third made his move. In disbelief, Arabella watched as three grown men scrambled to seize Miss Treadgold’s fallen ribbon.
Only Guy did not move, his expression bemused.
Well, Arabella thought. Clearly, she had been approaching life completely wrong, given those men’s response to a dropped ribbon!
When Arabella dropped a ribbon—
But Arabella never did drop a ribbon. She never dropped anything at all. In fact, Arabella was immensely talented at not dropping things. Which was just as well, because if Arabella were to drop a ribbon and a gentleman noticed, he would say, “Miss Larke, your ribbon has fallen,” then dash off to Miss Treadgold in case she did something adorable, like sneeze.
Oh, for powers like that! If Miss Treadgold ever needed anything, she wouldn’t have to scheme and lie and bribe and steal and blackmail, nor tolerate insults and injury. She’d simply drop a ribbon and men would knock themselves out in their scramble to obey.
All except Guy. Yet when Miss Treadgold turned to him, he smiled warmly.
With a sigh, Arabella turned away from the window. In the duller novels, this was the part of the story where the woman realized what a sinner she was, reformed her ways, and lived tediously ever after. But it seemed premature to reform. After all, Arabella wasn’t much of a villainess. She hadn’t even murdered anyone. Yet.
But neither was she ready to face them, so she climbed back into bed.
Today, Mama delegated to Cassandra and Juno. They crept in with the hushed eagerness of any sickroom visit, eyes wide as they tiptoed toward her. Cassandra held a bunch of flowers so big Arabella could see nothing but the top of her chocolate-brown hair and her hazel eyes peering through the stems. Juno carried a portfolio, her round cheeks pink and blonde curls bouncing as she laughed at Arabella’s expression.
Cassandra set the vase on the bedside table and arranged the blooms, their fragrance floating over Arabella in a soothing cloud.
“Everyone has been asking after you,” Cassandra said. “Including Lord Hardbury. He has made polite inquiries several times.”