“They will if we pretend.”
“How on earth do we do that?”
“It’s easy. For example, every now and then I shall comment loudly on how pretty your eyes are and how sweet you smell.”
“How I smell?”
“Yes. It’s very romantic. You try.”
“You smell like horse.”
This time it was he who laughed. She liked the way his laugh rumbled through him and danced over her skin, the way his eyes lit up and deep furrows formed alongside his mouth.
“Do you mean to say that you have never been in love?” he asked.
There had been those giddy feelings last night, when Guy had gifted her with hope, then tangled his fingers with hers and led her to Papa. The fluttering in her chest that she’d carried to her bed like a souvenir. But that was merely…what? Gratitude, no doubt. Relief.
“I have liked some gentlemen, but they think that…” She shrugged. “You will agree that I am not that kind of lady.”
“Do you mean never to marry?”
“I have always hoped to marry. Married women have more freedom, and I would like a family. When I made my come-out, I imagined marrying a man who…”
No. She would not confess that childish, long-buried daydream of a love match. If he knew, he would always be able to hurt her. Weeks or months or years from now, when they were married to other people, he would know her deepest desires and dreams, and she could not bear to be in the same room with anyone who knew such things as that.
“When a woman marries, she gives everything to her husband—her property, her body, her very safety. If I must give so much power to a man, I should prefer one who will not abuse it. Who respects me for who I am and takes me as an equal partner.”
“He would need to be brave, too.”
She shot him a look. “True. Terrifying men is one of my more notable talents.”
“Maybe you should not try so hard to terrify them.”
“I do not try at all. I achieve it with the greatest ease.”
Idly, she adjusted an illustration of a parrot. A pandemonium of parrots. The morning before, the long-awaited letter from Hadrian Bell had arrived; yes, he had written, he would indeed be interested in discussing marriage when he returned to England in the new year. Now was the perfect moment to mention that to Guy.
But the words did not come. Instead she said, her tone brisk and bright, “So you see, the question is whether my ideal husband even exists.”
“Ah, quite a conundrum.” He made a show of studying her. “It would take a very particular kind of man, I think. Obviously, he must not be terrified of you, but any man who is not terrified of you is a fool, and he must not be a fool.”
“Then, by your own reasoning, he cannot exist.”
“But he can exist, if he wants you so much that he does not let his terror deter him. He must be clever too. Perhaps even as clever as you, which means he is clever enough never to let you know he is as clever as you. And he must be a man who…”
His words trailed off, and although his eyes were roaming over her face, one would think his mind was somewhere else and he did not see her at all.
“Who what?” she prompted.
His eyes stilled, met hers. She knew those eyes, she knew them from that night in London, when his hands were sliding over her body, when he swooped to claim her mouth in a kiss.
“He must be a man who knows how to unleash your passion.”
Guy stood so near, and there was so much of him, all shoulders and chest and arms and legs, that if she dared close the space between them, she could discover herself in him again.
Her rational parts wanted to hide behind words, say how to know whether a man can do that, are we to conduct interviews and tests, but the words dissolved, crowded out by images and sensations from that hour when their bodies were entwined.
A bang released her, as the nearest library door crashed open.
Startled, Arabella hopped away like a wren. Guy rose lazily to his feet. He had set more pages in disarray, but she could not straighten them, for she was struck by the sight of Papa in the doorway, with Queenie perched on his arm and an unprecedentedly broad smile on his face.
It seemed Guy’s move last night had brought a plague of smiles to the Larke family.
But Papa’s smile was not for Arabella.
“Excellent news, Hardbury,” he said. “I’ve just now spoken to the vicar. Your wedding will take place in sixteen days.”
Silence stretched over the library. At Guy’s side, Arabella whispered, “Sixteen days,” her horror plain.
Despite everything, Guy had to laugh.
All morning, as he went about his business with Sir Gordon, he had been second-guessing his impulse of the night before, assuring himself that he had misunderstood Arabella, that he had the situation in hand.
Yet their engagement was not a day old and already he had lost control, with a gambit from Mr. Larke.
What a game this was turning out to be.
At least he and Arabella were playing on the same side for once. She did not appear remotely threatening, just another genteel lady in an elegant morning gown. And surprisingly charming, the way she kept straightening the pages to align their edges with the table, so that Guy could not resist setting them crooked. They had eased into conversation as if they had not been battling each other their entire lives. He had teased her, as if he was not playing with fire.
Arabella elbowed him. “You laugh?” she hissed.
“You must admit, it is a little funny,” he said softly.
“Sixteen days,” she repeated with a shake of her head.
She truly did not want to marry him. Well. Good. Of course, he didn’t want to marry her, regardless of this infatuation, but it seemed he was just conceited enough to feel a trifle stung.
Lady Belinda, her serene gaze on her daughter, had joined Larke, who was looking pleased with himself.
“Explain yourself, Mr. Larke,” Guy said. “How is a wedding in sixteen days even possible?”
“Simple,” Larke said. “The vicar will read the first of the three banns in church tomorrow. Two more Sundays, and the wedding will be the day after that.”
“I’ll tell you what is simple,” Guy said. “Arabella is my betrothed, so I decide when and where the wedding will take place. We would prefer to wed in London in spring.”
The parrot muttered something incomprehensible and Larke squinted suspiciously. “Why the delay? You already know each other. We can settle the paperwork now. You’ll get her dowry and your second son will inherit my estate, if that’s your concern.”
“That isn’t my concern,” Guy said. “A London wedding will be witnessed by all society.”
“Bah, because you’re in love.” Larke shook his head. “All the more reason to marry her quickly. She won’t keep your attention for long, judging by her history with other men.”
Beside him, Arabella stood as still and straight as a soldier, her expression impassive, while her father openly declared that she could not be loved.
Guy was not amused anymore.
The night before, he had realized how poorly he understood her. Now, suddenly, he wondered if she even understood herself: this proud woman who insisted on fighting her battles alone, but smiled as radiantly as an angel when someone took her side. She fought for her inheritance, she had claimed, but Guy suspected the fight was actually for her father’s affection.