“Nonsense. How can you possibly know your own mind when I have not yet explained it to you?”
A chuckle burst out of him, though not, she thought, because he recognized that as one of her little jokes.
“Ah, Arabella, you’ve not changed one bit.” His gaze rippled over her, flicked away. “Still as arrogant and ambitious as ever. First it’s my father insisting I marry you, then it’s your father, and now you make demands, proving, true to form”—he indicated their bound arms—“that you’ll stop at nothing to get your way. You always said you wanted to marry me.”
She sniffed. “No, I always said I wanted to be a marchioness and that you would merely be an unfortunate appurtenance.”
“I do remember you saying that.” Galling laughter warmed his voice. “I was impressed that a ten-year-old knew a word like ‘appurtenance’. Was that the day I threw you in a snowdrift? You came up spluttering like an outraged cat with snow coming out of your nostrils.”
“Yes, I recall you found that amusing. Right until I threw a snowball smack in your laughing mouth.”
“I remember the summer when we stole your oars and left you stranded on the water.”
The years melted away; they were behaving like children again, tumbling into their familiar pattern of competing to defeat each other. Oh, but he was as maddening as ever! The way everything had always come so easily to him. The way everyone had told her to behave nicely with him, because, “Oh, he’ll be your husband one day!” It had only strengthened her resolve to bring him down.
“Was that the same summer when you boys were playing war games on the lake and I destroyed your boat?” she said coolly.
His eyes narrowed. “You weren’t even playing, and I was about to win.”
“And there we have it: the reason boys hate playing with girls. Because they know the girls will get the better of them.”
“Ha! Do not imagine you’ll ever get the better of me.”
“Says the man dangling off my wrist like a reticule.”
He held her gaze a heartbeat longer, then shook his head with another small laugh. “Why did they imagine it was a good idea for us to marry? All we ever did was quarrel, compete, or ignore each other.”
“Sounds ideal for a modern marriage.”
“That is not what I want from my marriage.”
It wasn’t what she wanted either. She uttered such lines out of habit, for her own amusement, if nobody else’s. She could hardly admit to anyone—especially not to Guy—what she truly wanted from marriage.
She forced her attention back to her mission. This conversation had fallen so far off track, it was in a ditch spinning its wheels. Time to change her strategy.
“Speaking of marriage, namely your past failed attempt at it, have you renewed your acquaintance with Clare Ivory?” she asked. “No doubt someone has already told you that, after throwing you over for Lord Sculthorpe, she went on to become one of London’s most expensive and sought-after courtesans. And Lord Sculthorpe is now a greatly admired war hero.” She suppressed a shudder. “He mentioned that when you challenged him over Miss Ivory all those years ago, he dealt you a beating, after which you ran away.”
There: Surely that reminder would prime Guy for revenge and make him listen to her proposition.
But he only shrugged and went back to fiddling with the knot. “Any young man who reaches his majority without embarrassing himself over drink, cards, or a woman is a disgrace to young men everywhere. Doing foolish things in public is the whole point of being a young man. An exciting youth serves as our only redeeming feature when we turn into crashing old bores.” He flicked her a glance. “A word of advice, Arabella: This is not the way to get a man to marry you.”
“Do pay attention. I never said a word about marrying you.”
He kept picking at the ribbons. “You said—”
“I said an engagement would benefit us both. If you tell my father you mean to marry me and—”
“No.”
“We announce our betrothal—”
“No.”
“After sufficient time has elapsed—”
“No, Arabella.” Once more, he let their arms drop, his expression hard. “No, no, no.”
“If you would just listen. If not, I must—”
“No. I have spent my entire life being ordered to marry you, if only because my father was determined to make me obey. Whatever your schemes and ambitions, leave me out of it. After your behavior tonight, I am more certain than ever that you are the last woman I would marry.”
Curse him. He was set against her so stubbornly that he would not even listen to her proposition, let alone consider it. Her solution to her marriage problem was so obvious she had berated herself for not thinking of it sooner: a marriage of convenience with her neighbor’s heir, Hadrian Bell. She had written to him, but Hadrian held a diplomatic post in Prussia and would not return for months. All she needed Guy to do was act as a placeholder until then—and he would not even listen!
What must she do next? Beg? If only she knew how! Tell him about Papa’s ultimatum and how Sculthorpe repelled her? Most likely, he would mock her fear, say she and Sculthorpe were well matched. If she didn’t salvage her pride now, for the rest of their lives Guy would regard her with scorn.
He must be getting desperate to escape her: He raised their hands to his mouth and tore at the knot with his teeth. His lips brushed her skin, sending warm shivers up her arm.
“Take care, Guy.” Her tone was sharper than usual. “Your slobber would not go with my costume.”
“If only my costume came with a sword,” he muttered. “Or if I could use that sharp tongue of yours to cut this ribbon.”
It was useless. He would never understand her precarious situation. He would never understand this gnawing hollow in her gut, this sick feeling of dread at her looming fate.
But she still had her pride and a lifetime’s practice in hiding her feelings. She arranged her expression into disdain.
“That sounds almost lewd,” she drawled. “At any rate, scissors would be more effective.”
“A dagger, a sword, an army—all would be more effective.”
“Yes, but I don’t have any of those in my reticule, do I?”
His eyes dropped to the shield-shaped bag dangling from her free wrist and bounced back up again.
“This whole time, you had scissors in your reticule?”
She raised an eyebrow coolly. “You don’t imagine I would submit to being tied to you if I did not have an escape plan?”
“You are diabolical.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a compliment.”
“Hm.”
He reached across her for the reticule. She tried to whisk her arm behind her back, but he moved like lightning; his fingers wrapped around her wrist, warm and implacable. She held herself steady, even as the studded leather strips over his skirt knocked her thighs, even as his throat loomed before her. His scent of leather and spice warred with her own orange blossom, and she ran her gaze up the length of his neck, over his jaw and cheek, to meet his eyes, unamused and hard. They were close enough now to kiss, after all.
“Guy, first, hear me out.”