Then she would pretend, she decided. She would pretend that Sculthorpe was not Papa’s choice. And as for Sculthorpe’s whisper during a waltz a few months ago, those words that made her skin crawl so she could scarcely bear to think of them? Perhaps she had misheard or misunderstood. It was one thing to pride herself on solving her own problems; it was quite another to invent problems that were not there.
“You were speaking with Lord Hardbury,” Sculthorpe said. “You know that he and I do not get along.”
“I am aware,” Arabella replied. “But it seemed preferable that Lord Hardbury and I deal with our history immediately, that we might leave it in the past.”
“Admirable,” he said. “You are a very admirable…”
He paused, as though seeking the right word. Arabella’s breath caught. Don’t say it, don’t say it.
“…lady,” he finished.
He hadn’t said it. She was mistaken.
“Your mother was telling me that your hobby is producing books,” Sculthorpe went on amiably. “A publisher here in London prints them at your commission.”
“It is very satisfying. I began by creating my father’s ornithology journals when I was sixteen.”
“As she said. Every bird-fancier in the world is familiar with your father’s journals, but I had not realized it was you who edits and compiles the convention papers. You truly are an accomplished…”
Don’t say it.
“Lady,” he finished. “What are you working on now?”
“My first color book: An Illustrated Guide to the Vindale Aviaries. Papa’s aviaries have become famous, and we receive many visitors and requests for information.” After a pause, she added, “I have a fondness for reading essays, and mean to commission writers on a variety of topics for future books. It is my belief that every lady should engage in a worthwhile pastime.”
“I agree. I look forward to whatever books you publish in the future.”
There. Sculthorpe would not be an interfering husband. She studied her wineglass, turning it between her fingers. Her forearm still bore traces from the ribbon, the lingering sensation of Guy’s callused thumb soothing the pink lines.
Something caught her eye: the end of Sculthorpe’s cigar, falling to the grass. He ground it out under one boot heel. When she lifted her head, she found herself looking right into his eyes, blue-gray and flicking back and forth.
“Miss Larke, you will forgive my directness, but I am a direct man, and you are a practical lady, and neither of us is given to foolish sentiments. I am too modest to make a scene in public, and too impatient to wait until we can be alone. Might I ask if my hopes are to be realized, and you will do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
As proposals went, it was what she might have expected. She did not want him, but neither did she want to lose everything. So, ignoring the sick hollow in her gut, Arabella looked her fate right in the eye, and said, “Of course, my lord.”
He lifted her knuckles to his lips. Arabella let him do it. She did not throw her wine in his face, or smash her glass over his head, or punch him in the jaw. She was doing very well.
Without releasing her, he twisted toward Mama, who looked at him right away.
Lord Sculthorpe bowed to Mama.
Mama glanced at Arabella.
Arabella nodded at Mama.
Then Mama nodded at Sculthorpe.
And like that, it was done.
Arabella was engaged.
“You are not pleased?” Sculthorpe still held her hand, a small smile playing around his lips.
“I am excessively pleased.”
“You don’t smile.”
This was true: She did not smile.
His own smile broadened. He really was very handsome. More handsome than Guy. Lucky her: a handsome husband.
“How proud you are,” he murmured, each word slinking from his mouth, and that lewd gleam she recalled—it slithered into his eyes, and he was not handsome, not anymore. Arabella tugged at her hand, but he clasped it tight, slid a fingertip over her palm. If only she had worn gloves, but Roman goddess costumes did not come with gloves. If only her skin did not crawl. If only the silver snake on her arm could come to life and tear out his throat.
No. She was being melodramatic. That was foolish. Arabella was never melodramatic. Or foolish.
But that look did not leave Sculthorpe’s eye, as, at his leisure, he dropped her hand.
“Such a proud…”
Don’t say it.
“Fierce…”
No. Stop.
“Willful…”
Don’t say it.
“Virgin.”
He said it. The same word he had murmured months earlier, during a waltz.
It’s a harmless word, she told herself, but her prickly body ignored her, for the unease came not from his words but from his eyes, from that knowing, possessive leer that crawled over her, as if her bracelet truly had come alive, a real snake coiled around her arm, its cold-blooded scales slithering over her skin and down her spine and into her swirling gut.
Around her, the party grew oppressively loud. Arabella escaped Sculthorpe’s leer by looking into the crowd, where flames rose in hellish columns and an acrobat cartwheeled past, his grinning face a mask of horror. A pair of female rope dancers leaped up—high—so high—too far—they’d fall. Her breath caught, awaiting disaster. No disaster: They landed on the rope, their feet sure.
Arabella breathed. The noise receded. The snake bracelet was just a bracelet, and the crowd was just a crowd, and Sculthorpe was just a man. She had not eaten enough; that would account for the nausea.
If Lord Sculthorpe had noticed her reaction, he gave no sign as Mama joined them.
“Lady Belinda, I do hope that you and my betrothed will not run straight back to the countryside,” he said. “It would be my great pleasure to escort the pair of you to the military review next week. Miss Larke will enjoy watching the soldiers, as she is about to marry one.”
“Of course, my lord,” Mama said.
“I shall send ’round a note.”
With a gallant bow and a “Good evening, ladies,” he left them.
Arabella did not watch him go. Instead, she sipped her wine. The nausea eased. Perhaps she would take up drinking. Something to look forward to.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mama said.
Arabella sipped more wine. “No.”
“Lord Sculthorpe assured me that he will never interfere with your interests or movements. No ladies report ill of him. The exception is that matter with Lord Hardbury all those years ago—though neither of them had their titles back then—but the woman in question was a courtesan, and she entered into a contract with Lord Sculthorpe of her own will.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
Papa would have checked his finances. Mama was checking his social standing. Sculthorpe would not mistreat her.
And it was only a word. Arabella was a virgin, and had always expected to remain so until marriage. Sculthorpe would be her husband; therefore, her virginity was for him. Technically, he was not wrong in calling her his virgin.
Yet he spoke as if the fact of her virginity excited him, as nothing else about her did.
Guy had looked at her lips and she had looked at his, and she had enjoyed his closeness, though the Spanish Inquisition could not impel her to admit it. Guy had insulted her, and she had insulted him in return, and not once had she felt diminished or demeaned.