“No.”
He looked down, and those long fingers deftly loosened the tie of her reticule. When she let the little bag slide from her wrist, he clasped it like a prize.
“I’ll cut myself free of you, Arabella, and I’ll not hear another word.”
The lady’s scissors were so tiny that Guy feared his fingers would get stuck. The blades were designed for nothing more arduous than snipping threads—because heaven forbid perfect Arabella might have a loose thread—and he felt he was sawing away at the ribbon clumsily. He tried to focus on the ribbon, but he could not ignore Arabella’s pale skin, with its network of blue veins and scent of orange blossom, the memory of its heady silkiness lingering on his lips.
“We are attracting interest,” Arabella said softly.
“I’m trying not to hurt you,” he muttered.
“Do you think me so delicate?”
“You, no. Your skin, yes.”
Finally, the last of the ribbon fell away and he returned the scissors. Guy rolled his wrist, his skin tingling with her absence. Pink indents crisscrossed her forearm; Guy brushed them with his thumb, as if to soothe them, though heaven knew she did not deserve soothing.
He hastily stepped away, but she made no comment, as she sheathed the scissors and slipped them into her reticule. The fading light accentuated her sharp cheekbones, her aristocratic jaw. She had grown into her angles and height; her face would only become more interesting with age.
“You’ve grown up,” he said irrelevantly.
Her eyelids flickered. “As have you.”
“It’s curious, really. Through no fault of your own, you have been a presence shaping my life, but in the end, we are strangers.”
“If I were a stranger, you would listen to my request.”
“If you were a stranger, you would not ask.”
They would never be strangers. They would exist forever on the edges of each other’s lives, moving in the same circles, passing each other at dinner parties and balls. They would be polite and remote, starting now.
“Thank you for this exciting adventure,” he said. “And now I bid you good evening.”
Her eyes narrowed. “We have not finished talking.”
“As flattering as it is to receive your marriage proposal—”
“That was not a proposal—”
“—I have more important things on my mind than your marital status. Pray, excuse me, Miss Larke.”
He turned away.
“Winning custody of your sisters, I suppose,” she said from behind him. “Although Freddie doesn’t seem bothered by it, one way or another.”
Guy turned back. “You’ve spoken to Freddie?”
“She is here tonight.”
“As are three thousand other people, and I daresay she’s changed in eight years.”
“Do you mean to say you have not seen Freddie since your return?” She drew her head back. “Have you even met Ursula?”
Ah, the mysterious infant Ursula. Guy had not even known Ursula existed until his return, when he learned that his widowed father had married Caroline Treadgold, who had borne him a daughter before passing away.
Now, little Ursula was in the care of Sir Walter and Lady Treadgold. They were her uncle and aunt, but Guy was her brother; it was only right that he become her guardian, regardless of his father’s will. Father must have gone to his grave crowing at having thwarted Guy, but no longer would Guy allow the old man to dictate his life. He would marry a pleasant, amiable lady, bring both Freddie and Ursula into their loving home, and rebuild the family he and his father had destroyed. Then he would feel at peace and know he had come home.
“Once I solve the tricky little puzzle of where Sir Walter Treadgold stashes my sisters, I shall see them both,” Guy said.
Arabella raised her eyebrows in a silent question.
“Sir Walter has a cunning talent for always leaving a place hours before I arrive,” he explained. “I was hoping to see Freddie here tonight, but the party organizers have not made it easy for me.”
“I imagine not. Come along, then.”
Arabella pivoted and glided away, with the graceful fluidity to which all ladies aspired, but only some actually attained. Beneath the mane of red feathers from her helmet, he glimpsed a trio of glossy dark ringlets.
After a few steps, she twisted and shot him an expectant look.
“Arabella, I am not a dog that you take for a walk.”
“Do you want to see Freddie or not?”
Without waiting for a response, she resumed walking along the lawn, the white silk of her gown swaying around her long, hidden legs. Immediately, other people began to press forward. Cursing under his breath, Guy fell into step with her. His would-be audience subsided.
“I hear your father’s will left Freddie and Ursula wealthier than you,” Arabella remarked as they cut through the crowd. “One can only hope they still have that wealth when they come of age. Sir Walter Treadgold has bought himself a fancy new coach-and-four, but of course your father left him a generous bequest, too.”
“How the deuce do you know all this?” he asked.
“I keep abreast of all that happens in society. Including your stated intention to marry as soon as possible. An engagement may bolster your case in Chancery, and an heiress would remedy your financial situation.”
Guy chuckled. She was relentless! But her wealth would never sway him, not given the evidence of how unscrupulous she would be in chasing her ambition to become a marchioness. He knew exactly what he wanted in a wife, having spent years daydreaming of his ideal bride, as he wandered the world in his self-imposed exile.
“My income is still sufficient that I need not consider wealth a criterion for a suitable bride.”
“Ah yes, a suitable bride for Guy Roth. What would she be like?”
“Whomever I marry will have a talent for making a peaceful, comfortable home for our family. She will be gentle, pleasant, and…” Guy caught Arabella’s arch, sideways look. “And,” he repeated emphatically, “she would never plot or scheme or even consider offering bribes.”
“But of course.” She waved one hand regally. “Someone eternally cheerful and undemanding, who will engage you in diverting conversation and never bother you with what she is truly thinking. As a result, you will assume that her thoughts are the same as your own, and you will congratulate yourself on choosing a bride who is so well matched. She will be agreeable, amenable, and amiable, and when you find yourself thinking that your wife is a little dull, you will assume that is her fault and never realize it is your own.”
“You have a low opinion of your sex.”
“I have an extremely high opinion of my sex. My low opinion is reserved for men who see only what they want to see and then blame women for being the lack.” She shot him a look. “I have never met anyone who relished a challenge as much as you do. You’ll bore yourself with a bride like that, and make the poor girl miserable too.”
Guy stopped short, Arabella pausing at his side.
“Ah, so you would nobly rescue me from a lifetime of boredom by offering yourself instead,” he said, his tone mocking. “A lady too clever for her own good, a lady who pays bribes and makes demands and seeks to embroil me in some scheme to satisfy her own ambitions.” He stepped closer, but she did not yield an inch, her stance rigid, her glare fierce. “For both our sakes, Arabella, find someone else to command and leave me be. No doubt other men grovel wherever you go, but you’re wasting your time if you think you’ll ever make me fall to my knees.”