But oh, so help her, she needed more.
As if sharing her urgency, his hand curved under her buttocks and hauled her against him, the whole hard hot length of him, their chests, their hips, and there, yes, there, she could almost feel him. If she could just press closer, deepen this kiss—
He was feverish too, his hands roaming, finding her waist, her breasts, as their tongues tangled, and her hands roamed too, under his coat, hunting his heat and promise, and he kissed her so she was full of him, his taste, his scent, his touch, and yet not full enough, never enough. She needed more. Why did he not touch her more?
Oh, she wanted to laugh too, from the sheer exhilaration! This was everything she remembered. The fever in her blood and under her skin, spreading through her like wildfire, smashing everything open, everything she had learned to keep locked away, and all these feelings—these feelings she had buried so deep—once more they burst free.
Splendid, he had said. Splendid.
They broke off the kiss to gulp at air, but still his arms clutched her, and his lips burned a trail along her jaw, her cheek, her ear. Every inch of her yearned for those lips. Her lips yearned for every inch of him.
“Oh Arabella, you annihilate me,” he muttered. “I can’t not… I can’t not touch you. Oh hell. I don’t care. Whatever the consequences, I don’t care.”
Arabella froze. She heard herself breathing, hard and heavy like a winded horse.
“The consequences?” she repeated.
He released her so abruptly she staggered. He spun away, laughing mirthlessly, his hands raking his hair, as if he had so much energy coursing through him the only way to dispel it was to move.
Arabella did not move. She stood very, very still.
“I’ll end up married to you after all. How Father must be laughing in his grave right now! All these years I insisted I would not do his bidding.” His back was still to her, as he shook his head. “Your reputation.”
“By all means, let us consider my reputation.”
Still he did not turn. “I do not owe you for what happened in London. But if anyone reported seeing that, I would definitely have to marry you. Honor would demand it.”
His face was hidden, but his bitter tone told her everything she needed to know.
Thankfully, her pride was the one part of her not obliterated by his kiss.
“How inconvenient it must be to have honor,” she drawled. “I am eternally grateful I do not suffer from that particular flaw.”
He nodded, as though she had confirmed what he already suspected. Then he threw up his hands and started to pace.
“That night in London. I still don’t understand why you came to me that night. And Sculthorpe. What happened with Sculthorpe?”
Memories and thoughts and possibilities pounded through her, as if she had a dozen hearts and every one of them was working double time.
She could tell him everything. Tell him about her fear and loathing, about Sculthorpe’s obsession. Admit why she had misused Guy.
He had tried to outdo her that night in London, but in the end he had done her bidding. That made him hate himself, and hate her, and that—well, she understood that. She understood that he could kiss her and laugh with her and stand by her side, while hating a part of her too. That was the trouble with feelings; they were complex and messy and contradictory, and, oh, if only she could pack them neatly into boxes, tied with colorful ribbons.
If she told him what Sculthorpe had done? Mama had started whispers at the ball. Over time, the news would circulate, and by springtime everyone would know. But for now…
If she pulled back her sleeves to reveal her fading bruises? How that would offend Guy’s blessed principles! Honorable and impulsive, he would hare off to challenge Sculthorpe. If any blood were shed, Arabella would always know it was her fault, because she had known the power of her words, because she understood Guy’s character and how his principles would make him wade into a fight.
“Once more, I apologize for how I treated you in London,” she said, sounding stiff to her own ears.
“I sought an explanation, not another apology.”
“There is nothing to tell. I have said I will release you.”
For long moments, he stared out over the lake. She picked up her bonnet and tried to smooth out its crumpled ribbons, as if she could smooth out all the wrinkles in her past, all her missteps and mistakes.
“Tell me honestly, Arabella,” he finally said, as though he truly believed that every other word she spoke was a lie. “What is your scheme? I confess I haven’t the wits to keep up with you. I have only my principles to guide me, and my desire for you so addles my mind I hardly know what to think.” He pinned her with his direct, honest stare. “Speak plainly. Do you mean for us to marry in the end?”
What a thing for him to admit! How easily he revealed his weaknesses, so sure of his strength that it diminished him not at all to reveal his flaws. How marvelous it must feel, to live like that. How freeing.
Yet she could use his weaknesses against him. If she chose the right words, in a few weeks, she would be a marchioness, and her position in society, future, and inheritance would be secure.
She could have it all—including a husband who despised her. Guy deserved better than that. He deserved better than to spend the rest of his life trapped with a woman he loathed. Just imagine: a lifetime tied to Guy, craving his good opinion, but receiving only resentment.
“Honestly, no,” she said. “That would be the worst thing in the world.”
He nodded in agreement, and added, “For your father to disinherit you in these circumstances would be an injustice. I abhor lying to everyone, but allowing that injustice would be worse. Let us make a plan. I wish to play this out. It need only be until spring.”
Papa would say the injustice was that Oliver had died, that his wife had not borne him more sons, that his daughter was a hoyden and a scold. Arabella would say the injustice was that she did not have the same rights as men, that her brother’s death hung over her like a curse.
“I promise I shall never try to make you do something you don’t want to do,” she said.
It was meant as a sincere promise, but this, too, made him laugh, and she wondered what she had misunderstood. He turned, their eyes met, and it seemed they would both break ranks, close the space, start kissing again.
But instead, he spoke. “How do you plan to find a husband? You have a plan, of course.”
“Of course.” She turned to watch the waterfowl surfing the choppy waters of the lake. “I am corresponding with Hadrian Bell. Sir Gordon’s son. You remember him?”
“I hear he’s at the embassy in Potsdam.” He stilled. “You mean to marry Hadrian?”
“He is interested in discussing it. Their estate neighbors ours, so our marriage would combine our estates. That will ensure Papa’s agreement.” Turning back, she lifted her chin. “So you see, all I ever needed was time.”
“Because you have a plan.” He nodded and nodded and kept on nodding. “Right. Yes. Hadrian Bell. Good match for him. He always was ambitious. Well played.”
Ambitious. Because, of course, no one would want to marry her for any other reason.
“You must go away, to delay the wedding,” she made herself say. “We cannot remove the vicar, the church, or the witnesses. And I cannot go anywhere, so that leaves you.” She shoved back her loose hair, pulled on her bonnet, and briskly set about tying the ribbons. “If we are not married within three months of the third banns, it has to start again. Tell Papa you have urgent business and will return for the wedding. But you get caught up in business and stay away for three months, writing frequently…” She dropped her hands. “It’s a lot of trouble for you. You didn’t ask for this.”