His laughter chased her. “Take care, Miss Larke. You’ll make me blush.”
“Oh dear,” she called over her shoulder. “Seems I won that round.”
A moment later, he fell into step beside her again. “What I truly adore,” he said cheerfully, “is how you can say that and still sound prickly.”
Well, that was no compliment. Just more of his teasing, his excellent sport at her expense.
“Are you being romantic again?” she drawled. “Do you mean to torture me with dreadful poetry about roses and their thorns?”
“Rose? No, no, no, Arabella, you in no way resemble a rose.” He caught her hand, bringing them both to a stop. As he spoke, his bare fingers found the gap between her glove and sleeve, and made slow circles on the sensitive skin of her wrist. “You are prickly like a blackberry bush. Like a tangle of whips and leaves covered in sharp thorns. But among those thorns dangle delicious berries, fruit so enticing that the mere promise of a taste is worth being scratched and snared.”
His eyes, playful and warm, possessed hers, as he took her unresisting wrist in both hands, parted the fabric with rough thumbs, and brushed his lips over her skin.
Then he straightened and muttered, “Shouldn’t have done that.” He shook his head at the people milling about in the churchyard. “I am now feeling decidedly sinful.”
“The vicar’s drone will soon put us to rights.”
She bit her lip at the “us” but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Either that or lightning will strike the church,” he said.
“Which would solve the problem of our wedding, at least.”
“Yes.”
Abruptly, he released her. Arabella smoothed her sleeve over her wrist, pressing her other palm against it as if she could burn the feeling of him into her skin like a brand.
A flock of swallows were clustered on the church roof, welcoming churchgoers with their low warble. The flocks were getting larger now; soon they would all fly away.
“Have you given any thought to your departure?” she asked.
Guy took his time answering, pulling on his gloves. “I shall return to London next Monday,” he finally said.
In eight days, he would be gone.
He flashed one of his smiles and extended his elbow.
“Now, let’s see what happens when the vicar tells everyone we are to be wed. Ten pounds says someone laughs.”
The following evening, Lady Belinda made a rare mistake with the table settings and sat Guy and Arabella together.
It was the first time Guy had seen her that day. An army of dressmakers had invaded and taken Arabella prisoner, closely guarded by her friends, Mrs. DeWitt and Miss Bell. Heavy rain trapped everyone inside, except Freddie, apparently, who once more demonstrated her talent for escape. Guy spent the day playing with Ursula.
But now he sat beside his intended at dinner. For the sake of politeness, and their sanity perhaps, they ignored each other and the closeness of their legs under the tablecloth.
Fortunately, he was quickly engrossed in a debate among the ornithologists about whether they had spotted a jack snipe, newly arrived for winter.
“Where do birds go when the seasons change?” Guy asked. “And how do they know?”
Mr. Larke wagged a finger at him. “That, my lord, is one of the marvelous mysteries of migrating birds. Aristotle suggested that birds changed species from season to season. Others said they hibernate, and one fanciful chap even insisted they flew to the moon.” He laughed. “We are now certain they stay on Earth, but we are yet to determine where they fly to and from.”
“But they are instinctively compelled,” one of the others chimed in. “One sees the signs in caged birds. Zugunruhe, we call it in German: the restlessness in migratory birds when it is time for them to fly home.”
Zugunruhe. It sounded like the restlessness that had plagued Guy during his exile. Except his restlessness persisted, even now he was home.
“If you want to know more, Arabella can point you to the relevant journal. I say,” Mr. Larke added. “I’ll need to hire someone to make those journals, now my girl will be married and producing sons instead.” He grinned at the others. “Little men of science like their grandfather.”
“Or a woman of science,” Guy felt impelled to say.
Larke laughed again. “Do you truly believe such a thing is possible, Hardbury? Or are you merely trying to charm my daughter?”
“I don’t need to charm her. The poor darling is already utterly besotted with me.”
Arabella kicked him under the table. An erotic thrill shot up his leg. He pressed his foot against hers and carried on.
“If I am ever fortunate enough to have a daughter, I hope she proves as talented and resourceful as my betrothed.”
“Yes, well.” Mr. Larke returned to his roast lamb. “You just concentrate on producing these famous children, and we’ll see.”
Before Guy could loudly express his enthusiasm, Lady Belinda had one of her fortuitously timed coughing fits. This one was so violent she knocked over a glass of water, and the conversation was forgotten in the ensuing fuss.
A distraction plus a tablecloth equaled an opportunity: Guy planted his hand on Arabella’s thigh. Her fork jerked and a pea jumped onto the white linen between them. She glared at it.
Such behavior was dangerous, but he could not tear his hand away, not when her thigh felt so perfect through the silk-net of her gown. The gown was a rose color, with little white flowers unfairly embroidered along the edge of her bodice. She shifted under his hand, but not to escape him, he thought. Perhaps to relieve discomfort. Excellent.
“If I were to squish that pea into the cloth, leaving a green, mucky stain, would that make you scream or only swoon?” he asked.
“It would make me gut you with my butter knife.”
“But that would create a mess.”
“I would gut you very neatly.”
He removed his hand to flick the pea toward the flower arrangement, where it hid under the ivy.
“I have saved you from the pea,” he said.
“It’s still there,” she muttered, and he chuckled, and he and his burning hand made it through the rest of dinner without touching her again.
Neither did he look at her, not even when the ladies abandoned the gentlemen to their cigars and port. But upon rejoining the ladies in the drawing room, Guy sought Arabella automatically, as she turned her head and looked right at him. He would swear an understanding passed between them, something as tangible as a silken thread slung across the room between their eyes.
Before he could interrogate the fanciful thought, someone clapped him on the shoulder with impudent familiarity.
It was Sir Walter, miraculously cured of his previously sour mood.
“Felicitations on your engagement, my lord,” he said jovially. “I assure you I bear you no hard feelings for breaking our agreement, none whatsoever.”
“Knowing that will help me sleep better at night.” Guy didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm. “Although I might lie awake wondering what agreement we had.”
“You were courting our Matilda.”
“I was?”
“Why, the day you arrived, you told me you were here to choose a bride.”