Arabella found herself staring at his mouth. “You know very well our wager has nothing to do with love, my lord. But that is precisely my point. How can I trust that you won’t resort to something devious?”
“Because wagers are governed by a gentleman’s code. My honor will only permit me to go so far.”
Her mouth curved. “That is comforting to know.”
“You should not be comforted,” Marcus remarked. “I still have a great deal of leeway within the bounds of the code.” He laughed softly at her worried expression. “Never fear, sweeting. I won’t do anything to you unless you are completely willing.”
Arabella swallowed. “You won’t find me willing.”
“We shall see. As for rules, I mean to hold you to your pledge to give me a fighting chance to win our wager.”
“Yes, but simply because I agreed to let you court me, it does not follow that I must make it easy for you.”
“True.”
“I intend to do everything in my power to foil you.”
His roguish grin made her breathless as he raised his glass of Madeira. “So let the games begin.”
As he gazed at her over the rim of his glass, Arabella’s heart accelerated in an erratic rhythm. Thankfully, the intimate moment was broken when Marcus took a swallow of wine.
Wincing at the taste, he set his glass aside on a table. “I would never have expected your step-uncle to suffer such inferior quality wine. I will have to rectify that, since I intend to stay here for at least a fortnight. Tomorrow I’ll have some casks delivered from my cellars in London.”
Arabella’s heart sank at the reminder. A fortnight was beginning to seem an interminable length of time. But perhaps she was going about trying to win in all the wrong ways. What if she could simply persuade the earl that he didn’t want to marry her? “You know, my lord-”
“Marcus.”
“Very well, Marcus. I don’t believe you have fully considered what a marriage between us would be like. If you had, you would realize that we wouldn’t suit in the least.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, I wouldn’t make you a comfortable wife.”
His mouth quirked. “What makes you think I want a comfortable wife?”
“Most noblemen do. You want a lady to bear your heirs and manage your household, and to look the other way when you flaunt your mistresses or engage in various dalliances and indiscretions. I could never be so agreeable, my lord.”
When Marcus remained silently studying her, Arabella went on. “Lady Freemantle told me a great deal about you and your friends. You are all notorious bachelors.” She refrained from adding that her ladyship had a great deal of admiration for the new Earl of Danvers.
“My friends?”
“Your fencing partners last week. Those are your close friends, the Duke of Arden and the Marquess of Claybourne?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the stories of your conquests and sporting exploits are repeated in drawing rooms even this far from London. Based on all the tales about you, I can say with utmost confidence that you would not make me a comfortable husband.”
He cocked his head at her. “I doubt you want a comfortable husband, any more than I want a comfortable wife. Somehow I can’t picture a woman of your spirit settling for a milquetoast.”
Arabella gave a soft laugh of exasperation. “That is precisely what I have been trying in vain to make you see. I don’t want any sort of husband!”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear.” Marcus relaxed back against the settee. “But allow me to point out that your appraisal of my character is based on gossip and innuendo.”
“Perhaps. But I have little doubt you are the same ilk as my father.”
“Ah, we begin to get to the crux of the matter.” Stretching out his long legs, Marcus laced his fingers over his stomach. “You take a dim view of rakes.”
Arabella smiled a little bitterly. “Can you blame me? My father was a philanderer of the first order, and I have no intention of subjecting myself to any husband like him.”
“So you condemn me out of hand.”
“Is it really out of hand? How many mistresses do you have in keeping?”
A dark eyebrow rose at her impertinent question. “Is that really any of your affair, darling?”
“It is if you expect me to consider your proposal of marriage.” When he hesitated, Arabella smiled sweetly. “It is a simple question, Marcus. How many mistresses do you have?”
“None at present.”
“But you regularly employ one?”
“I have in the past. Most gentlemen of means do.”
She arched an eloquent eyebrow of her own. “I cannot take a blithe view of adultery. I would never tolerate affairs and infidelities from my husband.”
“Some men give up their mistresses upon marrying.”
“But I could never trust that you would do so, or that you wouldn’t relapse, even if you promised fidelity in the beginning.”
He held her gaze levelly. “I am not your father, Arabella. And you insult me to put me in the same category.”
The sudden intensity of his tone took her aback. “Forgive me,” she apologized with a strained smile. “I am only attempting to make you understand why I don’t want a marriage of convenience. If your parents had endured a marriage such as mine had, I’m certain you would be just as adverse to repeating their experience.”
His mouth twisted sardonically. “As it happens, my parents were much more discreet in their affairs than yours were. But I confess, their experience left me with no fondness for the institution of matrimony.” Marcus paused. “Apparently, though, your mother was as guilty as your father of faithlessness.”
Arabella’s smile faded. “I don’t like to speak of my mother.”
Victoria Loring’s initial transgressions had been nowhere near as severe as her spouse’s had been; her single affair had stemmed out of revenge against her husband’s countless infidelities. Yet she had committed a worse sin, to Arabella’s mind, by abandoning her family. For a moment, Arabella closed her eyes at the dizzying wave of pain that memory conjured up.
Marcus must have seen her expression, for he made a sympathetic sound. “You have not had an ideal time of it, have you, love? First the scandals and being forced from your home, then having to earn your living.”
Her eyes opened abruptly, finding his blue gaze alarmingly tender. “You needn’t pity me, you know. I have long since gotten over the pain and humiliation.” Which was a lie, Arabella added to herself. “In any case, adversity builds character, or so they say.”
“You and your sisters have had more than your fair share of adversity.”
She managed a shrug. “We were determined to make the best of our lot. The worst part was being dependent on our step-uncle’s largess, at the mercy of his whims. More than once he threatened to evict us. But thankfully, we were able to open our academy. It offered us gainful employment so we wouldn’t be forced into menial servitude or compelled to wed as our only means of survival.”
Marcus’s response was forestalled by a discreet knock on the drawing room door. When he bid entrance, Simpkin appeared to announce that dinner was served in the small dining parlor.
Glad to leave off such an uncomfortable subject as her family chronicles, Arabella took Marcus’s arm to accompany him in to dinner, an action she regretted immediately. Beneath his coat sleeve, she could feel the warmth radiating from him, could feel the hard muscles flex under her fingertips. The contact did strange things to her pulse.
She was glad to see that their places had been set at either end of the long table, with a significant distance separating the two.
Marcus shook his head at the arrangements, however. “We needn’t be so formal, Simpkin. I prefer to have Miss Loring seated beside me.”
