Guy would have to listen to this. Arabella had lost everything, but at least she could save Freddie. Now, she needed only to get through the ball, and then see what she could salvage from the debris of her life.
“I am not worthless and I shall not apologize,” she muttered.
“Pardon, miss?” Holly asked.
“I think I shall go for a ride.”
Chapter 12
Guy chose to watch the dancing like a wallflower, while he waited for Arabella to arrive at her betrothal-ball-with-no-betrothal. For one thing, he had forgotten half the dance steps; for another, the ball made him feel like a foreigner in his own land.
There was something so quintessentially English about this kind of ball. Lemonade and supper, flowers and foliage, orchestra and gleaming chandeliers. White gowns, white gloves.
And an old bore rattling away at his side.
“…our Humphrey has distinguished himself in Ireland, so you’ll find him of value…” Sir Walter was saying.
No doubt it was Guy’s fate to spend his life with some self-important chap attached to his side, spouting obsequious opinions and unsolicited advice. Not unlike Mr. Larke and his parrot.
Maybe Guy should get a parrot. More stimulating conversation, at least.
“I’m returning to London tomorrow,” he interrupted.
The morning after that midnight encounter, Guy had ordered his valet to pack—until a startling realization had compelled him to stay. Freddie needed protection, Arabella had warned; not Ursula, only Freddie.
Now he stood in this merry, musical crowd only so he could seek Arabella’s explanation while in a public place, not because he wanted to hear Sir Walter blather on about how they were family or soon would be or some nonsense like that.
Damn. What a failure of strategy, giving the impression he was courting Matilda. It had not tempted Sir Walter to confess any sins. Quite frankly, diplomacy and subterfuge were a waste of time.
Guy would leave the next day.
Arabella would leave the next day too, he had heard, to travel to her grandparents’ house. Only to be expected, the guests agreed, best for a lady after such a disappointment.
A disappointment? Whatever Arabella had experienced with Sculthorpe, Guy was sure it was not a disappointment.
Perhaps he would ask her, when he spoke to her. He would exorcise the feel of her in his arms and leave tomorrow with a clear head.
“…and our Matilda has saved the waltz for you, my lord. Lady Treadgold says the dance is not quite proper, but—”
“I don’t know how to waltz. England didn’t waltz when I was last here.”
“If only you had said! Our Matilda would have been happy to…”
But Guy never heard his next words, because Arabella had arrived. She drew every eye. Guy drifted away from Sir Walter, drawn into her orbit.
How had he ever imagined she might need help? Most likely, Sculthorpe had realized how much there was to her, her splendor and strength, her intelligence and complexity, and done the smart thing and run away.
Guy would do the smart thing and run too—he would not surrender to this infatuation; he would not allow this woman to manipulate him—but first he had to look at her.
Just…look at her.
Her gown was the pale blue of a summer twilight, dotted with crystals that reflected the candlelight like stars. More crystals glittered in her pile of dark hair. White gloves stretched to her elbows, and a fan dangled from one wrist.
She was a mass of contradictions; perhaps that was her appeal. He never could resist a challenge, or a riddle that needed to be solved. But resist it he must: this urge to take her in his arms, to offer to move the Earth, that she might have whatever she asked.
He imagined her pursing her lips to think, then tapping him with her fan.
“Now you mention it,” she’d say, “I am in need of a titled husband. Marry me. Oh, and bring me the king’s head on a silver platter while you’re at it.”
Not a chance.
Yet he could not tear his eyes from her, as she glided through the crowd toward him, snapped open her fan, and regarded him with her desert-sky eyes.
“I wish to talk to you,” she said shortly, already turning away. “Meet me on the terrace.”
He disciplined his feet, which were much too eager to obey. “What are you scheming now?”
She turned back. “If you meet me on the terrace, I can tell you without us being overheard. It is a private matter.”
“No.”
“Everyone will be able to see us.”
“Precisely.”
“Good grief, Guy. You behave like a coy virgin being coaxed into debauchery by a wicked rake. What on earth do you imagine I intend to do? Tear off your cravat and ravish you right there on the terrace? And force us both into a marriage that neither of us wants?”
Except she did want that marriage. She had been angling for it ever since his return. Yet her haunted look the other night… All these pieces of her did not add up.
“I must show you something,” she added briskly. “I am leaving tomorrow, as are you, and we must speak first.”
“I do not trust you,” he said. “You are unscrupulous and hungry for power.”
Emotion flashed in her eyes; he would swear it was hurt. He hated that he hurt her, but if he did not protect himself, he would be inviting her to hurt him.
A snap sounded, like something breaking, and her face shuttered, cold and aloof.
“Never mind. I shall send a servant. I need some air. This conversation is tedious. ’Tis as well we need never speak again.”
He reached for her hand. She jerked away and instead he caught the fan looped around her wrist. For three ridiculous bars of the waltz, they formed a comical statue, until she let the fan slip from her wrist as he let it slip from his fingers. It clattered to the floor between them. She glanced at it disdainfully. She would not stoop to pick it up. A lady never did.
“Running away, Arabella?” he said.
“Don’t be absurd. I never run away. I simply make a timely exit.”
And exit she did, sweeping across the ballroom and out onto the terrace.
A footman scooped up the fan and dropped it onto Guy’s outstretched palm. The fan looked fragile. One delicately carved stick was broken.
Careful of the fracture, he eased the fan open; the silk was painted like twilight to match her gown. He closed it again, gently, as much as the broken stick allowed. When he glanced up, guests were gawking at him; his glower made them look away. Speculation must be rife, with Arabella’s broken engagement, and Guy, the big, brash marquess who had already spurned her, now acting like a slavering, devoted swain.
After tonight, they would not see each other again, not for months or even years. He would attend house parties over autumn and winter, and if that did not find him a bride, he’d find one when society gathered in London in the spring. The next time he saw Arabella, he would be engaged or even married; she would look right through him, but by then this mad infatuation would have passed and he would not care.
After everything, they needed a farewell. He was not doing her bidding. He was simply returning her fan, and bidding her adieu.
Arabella did not acknowledge Guy when he joined her on the terrace. She was studying the night sky as intently as if it had flaws and she was personally appointed to fix them. Gooseflesh gathered on her upper arms, on the inches of bare skin between her long gloves and short sleeves. If she were Matilda Treadgold, she would shiver pointedly and he would offer his coat, an intimate offering she would demurely accept. But this was Arabella Larke, and she stood tall and tense and ignored the cold. He was of a mind to offer his coat anyway, just to make her snarl.