She pursed her lips, considering how she ought to respond. Her brother was no stranger to sins, having spent the years before his marriage to Clara cultivating his reputation for debauchery. “As you know, I am crafting a meteorological prognostics map.”
He stalked back across the salon, raking a hand through his hair. “I am aware. What I find myself pondering is what in the name of God meteorology has to do with Lord Harry Marlow mauling you in a carriage whilst you are dressed as a man.” He paused, his lip curling as he raked her from head to toe with a blistering glare. “Wearing my damned clothing, no less.”
She frowned. “Lord Harry was not mauling me, Julian. Pray do not be so melodramatic.”
Her brother’s brows snapped together, his mien turning ferocious. “He was mauling you, damn it, and anyone with eyes in their head witnessed it. Jesus Christ, Alexandra, you have not even had your comeout yet.”
No, she had not, but not because she was not of an age. Her brother’s dubious reputation and antics both had left her and her younger sister Josephine in the care of an elderly aunt until her brother’s nuptials. And then Julian had insisted upon further tutelage in the finer arts of being a proper lady before allowing her presentation.
Clearly, it had not done her a lick of good.
But what did he expect? They were cut from the same wicked cloth. Their mother had bedded so many men that no one knew the identities of their fathers. Almost certainly, none of them had been the issue of the departed Earl of Ravenscroft, Julian included.
She took a breath, uncertain of how to proceed but following her instinct. “Julian, I was conducting measurements and attempting to observe the snowbands when Lord Harry’s carriage suffered a setback. A new carriage arrived to carry him the rest of the way to Boswell House, and he was gracious enough to take me with him so that I did not need to tramp through the growing snowfall alone. It was most gentlemanly.”
In truth, nothing about the time she’d spent in Lord Harry Marlow’s intoxicating presence had been gentlemanly or proper. From the moment their gazes had first clashed, even through the pelting snowfall, she had felt something deep and smoldering and true arcing between them. His emerald gaze had been too knowing, too bold. His words, his every observation and caress and kiss…good heavens, she had not known such potent persuasion existed. It was as if he had somehow been fashioned precisely for her, and she for him.
The rational, science-minded part of her would have scoffed at such a notion as a flight of fancy had she not just experienced it for herself. She wanted to know him intimately, and she already mourned the loss of his touch.
“Gentlemanly?” her brother demanded, so loudly and with such disbelief that she flinched.
She wished he would cease stalking about and sit down to engage in a civilized discourse, but this was Julian, and he was a law unto himself. Alexandra sighed. “Please do calm yourself, brother dearest. You are hollering so loudly that I have no doubt the gossipmongers can hear you in London.”
“They will have already heard by now anyway thanks to the accommodating tongue of the Duchess of Cartwright,” he snapped. “Have you any idea the hounds of hell you have just unleashed upon us all? That woman is the most notorious gossip in the ton. Have no doubt that she will take everything she witnessed today straight to the waiting ears of anyone who will listen. You have ruined yourself before you have even made your bloody curtsy.”
When he phrased it that way, she supposed she ought to be concerned. But his dire words prompted no such sentiment. Indeed, she felt nothing more than a buoying sense of relief, for her unprecedented reaction to Lord Harry aside, she did not want to wed. “She may tell anyone she likes anything she desires. I have no wish to marry anyone, Julian, and I have been telling you so for months now.”
“Nonsense,” he said curtly, pinning her with a bright-blue glare. “You are too damn young to know what you want. When the time comes, you will wish for a man who loves you, for a marriage and children.”
Her sister-in-law Clara was increasing, and Alexandra was reasonably certain impending fatherhood was rotting her brother’s brain. “I do not need a man who loves me or marriage and children to satisfy me. I am a woman of science. I can be happy as I am, studying the weather and drafting my prognostics map.”
Julian’s strides ate up the distance between them until he towered over her. “Apparently not, sister dearest, else you would not have been acting with such rash disregard for propriety in a carriage with Lord Harry. I will own the blame for your moral failings, since God knows I’ve more than my fair share. It cannot have been easy having me for a brother. But by God, Alexandra, this sort of thing…it is beyond the pale, and the only way it can be rectified is through marriage.”
She stilled, for she did not care for the sudden trajectory of their conversation. “Marriage?”
Her brother’s expression hardened. “I did not wish this for you, but I’m afraid you’ve left me with no choice. You must wed Lord Harry. After I deliver a sound trouncing to him, of course.”
Alexandra shot from her seat. “There will be no marriage and there will be no trouncing, Julian. I will not be forced into a lifelong sentence with a man I scarcely know.”
Julian’s gaze was harsh, his jaw hard. “You damn well should have considered your lack of acquaintance before allowing him liberties.”
Shame curdled her stomach. She still did not know what madness had overcome her. Had it been the dizzying sense that she and Lord Harry were the only two people in the world for that brief interlude in the carriage with snow falling all around them? Had it been the false sense of freedom afforded her by dressing as a man?
She reached for her brother’s arm, laying a staying hand upon it and absorbing the tenseness in his bearing. “I am sorry, Julian. It was not my intention to cause such a kerfuffle.”
“This is not a kerfuffle, Alexandra.” His voice remained curt, his expression impassive. The pensive man before her was not the warmhearted, yielding brother she knew. “This is a scandal in the making, the life-altering sort which neither you nor I nor Josephine can afford. And I have not even begun to address the matter of your thievery.”
She bit her lip. “What you call thievery I prefer to think of as well-intentioned borrowing.”
“Semantics,” he hissed, refusing to bend. “Damn it, you cannot run about the grounds of the Duke of Bainbridge’s estate wearing clothes you stole from me, and you most certainly cannot closet yourself in an enclosed carriage with his brother and allow the bastard to dishonor you.”
Well. When he phrased her actions in such succinct fashion, she could not offer an argument, could she? It was all true. She was a horrid sister. Julian was in the midst of polishing his tarnished reputation with Clara at his side, and her younger sister Jo could also be tainted by her carelessness.
If only Julian and the other guests had not chosen to venture into the snow for an ice-skating party. As if such a thing was to be even entertained in such a downfall…
She relented, the severity of her actions hitting her with the force of a smack to the cheek. Julian was correct. The gathering may be a relatively intimate one by country house party standards, and the Christmas season may be one of gaiety and frivolity, but she had been caught wearing men’s clothing while sitting upon the lap of Lord Harry Marlow, who had been doing an admirable job of ravishing her mouth.
Her lips still tingled to think of those kisses, which had been nothing short of wondrous. And her breasts, oh how they ached with a strange new need at the memory of his thumbs working over her nipples. She had not known her flesh could be brought to life in such a fashion. For the whole of her days, she had believed her body to be a thing of utility, each part crafted for a specific purpose. Her mouth to obtain sustenance, her breasts to feed a babe one day should she have one, her legs to enable her to walk, her ears to hear, etcetera.
But Lord Harry Marlow had proven her wrong with one stolen interlude in a carriage, and now she c
ould not seem to quell the fever he had given her.
This would not do. She took a deep, fortifying breath and focused on the most troubling aspect of her indiscretions. “I am wholeheartedly sorry if my actions cause harm to you or Josephine in any fashion, Julian. You must believe it is the last thing I would ever wish. I love you both, and I would never intentionally hurt either of you.”
“Then you will marry Lord Harry, and the sooner the better,” came her brother’s frosty, unwanted response.
“He has not offered for me,” she protested.
Julian flashed a chilling smile. “I will assist him in rectifying that matter.”
“No violence,” Alexandra was compelled to order him. “Please. And moreover, I do not wish to marry.”
Julian sighed then, passing a hand over his face. The gesture left him looking weary and resigned. “You forfeited your choice in the matter when you went into that carriage, Lex. It’s my duty as your brother to see this through now.”
Panic sliced through her, dispelling the ridiculous flights of fancy that sought to dwell upon the way Lord Harry made her feel. She clutched her brother’s sleeve ever tighter. “Please, Julian. You cannot mean to force me.”
He covered her hand, his countenance turning grim. “There will be no need to force you. You will do what you must to preserve your good name and keep from harming Josephine’s chances for a future match both. Return to your chamber now, and I will meet with Lord Harry.”
The panic turned to dread and then an icy sense of understanding and impending doom. Julian was right. If Lord Harry offered for her, she would have no choice but to accept his hand and marry a man she scarcely knew.
“No fisticuffs, Julian,” she begged. “Please.”
Her brother raised a haughty brow. “I make no promises on that score. If the man requires a thrashing, then a thrashing he shall receive.”
“But it is Christmastime, and we are guests of the duke. Surely it would be ill-mannered of you to pummel his brother into wedding me?” she pressed, unable to adhere to his wishes and disappear until she had reassurance. The thought of Julian and Lord Harry facing each other like a pair of pugilists disturbed her.
Julian shook his head, his expression revealing nothing. “No more protests, imp. Go to your chamber. You’ve caused enough troubles to last us for the next five Yuletides at least.”
Yes, she supposed she had. Feeling suddenly as weary as her brother looked, she yielded. As she took her leave of the chamber, a new determination soared through her. She would find a way to extricate herself from this mess. A way that did not involve a hasty marriage to Lord Harry Marlow.
For as lovely as his kisses were and as maddening as his caresses, she had matters to concern her that were of far greater import than any gentleman could ever be. She had no wish to be tied down and married to any man. Some time ago, she had decided to devote herself to two causes: gaining the vote and science. Her actions today had been an aberration.
One she had no intention of repeating.
Chapter Four
“Bloody hell, Harry, you’re going to have to marry the girl,” clipped his brother, every bit the icy Duke of Bainbridge.
Seated opposite Spencer in his study, Harry tossed back a hearty gulp of whisky. Yes, he was going to have to marry Lady Alexandra Danvers. For some reason, the realization did not disturb him nearly as much as it ought. As a fledgling MP, the scandal he’d just created should be enough to chill him to his core. Add to that the fact that the lady in question was not only eccentric but was the sister to the notorious Earl of Ravenscroft and any man worth his salt would be quaking in his boots.
Perhaps it was the liquor or perhaps it was a stupor of a different variety entirely, but Harry could not shake the incipient burst of anticipation within him. More of Lady Alexandra’s lush mouth, her delectable body his to discover and pleasure, did not fill him with trepidation. Instead, it imbued him with an odd surge of expectation.
“I will do my duty, Spencer,” he assured his brother. “Of that you need have no doubt.”
Spencer skewered him with an assessing look. “If you don’t mind my asking, what in the hell were you thinking? Mother nearly had an apoplectic fit.”
He slanted a narrow-eyed glare back. “Mother should be accustomed to scandal, having one son whose life has been the embodiment of it, no?”
His brother stiffened, his jaw hardening. “Harry, if this is about Boadicea, you could have damn well left an innocent out of it.”
“It is not,” he was swift to insist, for Lady Alexandra had nothing to do with his former infatuation with his sister-in-law.
With time, distance, and love for his brother, Harry had realized that Boadicea was a far better match for Spencer than she would have been for himself. She had brought his brother out of his self-imposed exile and had introduced much-needed joy back into his life. For those reasons, Harry was grateful. To suggest that his attraction—and resulting indiscretion—with Lady Alexandra had been caused by his unrequited attachment to Boadicea was inherently wrong.
Spencer was quiet, studying him in a way that made Harry shift in his chair and take another swig of his whisky. Apparently, he approved of what he saw, for he gave a nod at last. “Very well. I think Lady Alexandra will be good for you. Did I not warn you that one day you would find the woman who would drive you to distraction? It would seem we have arrived at that day far sooner than either you or I could have imagined.”
“You also told me never to settle for anything less,” he pointed out with a sardonic air he could not quite suppress. “A forced marriage to save two reputations seems to be rather a sort of settling, does it not?”
“Not necessarily,” his brother said, taking a sip of his own whisky at last. “If you will recall, my nuptials with Boadicea occurred in much the same manner. Think of it this way, if you will. There are any number of ladies with whom you could have caused a scandal over the years and any number of indiscretions in which you could have indulged. This one was different, and there is a reason for that.”
Yes, this one was different. She was decidedly different. Lady Alexandra Danvers, who gadded about in men’s garb, who was compiling a weather prognosticator, who carried about a tool to measure rain and snowbands in her pocket. Who had flaming red hair, bewitching freckles, a lush mouth he could not help but kiss, and the most deliciously curved breasts, waist, and hips he had ever set his hands upon…that Lady Alexandra Danvers was unlike any other female he had ever known.
And in a decidedly good way.
She was refreshing, vexing, confusing, and alluring all at once. He could not get enough of her. She frightened the hell out of him. But all the same, he could not stop wanting her. Perhaps Spencer was not that far from the mark, and she was the woman who would indeed drive him to distraction.
What then? Would it be so indecent to want her? Would it be so injudicious to make her his?
“You are not wrong,” he conceded. “Lady Alexandra is the only lady with whom I desire to begin a scandal. As foolish and impossible as it seems, it is nevertheless truth.”
The stark, unmistakable sound of a fist pummeling the door of the study interrupted the peaceful exchange just then. There was precious little finesse on the part of whomever happened to be on the opposite side of the portal. If Harry had to hazard a guess as to the perpetrator, he would place his coin upon the Earl of Ravenscroft.
“Bainbridge, Marlow, I know you are within,” came a muffled but outraged voice through the portal. “Do I need to break down the bloody door, or will you invite me in?”
Spencer eyed him, ill-concealed amusement curving his lips into a half smile. This sudden propensity for levity—previously absent from his brother’s mien—Harry blamed upon his sister-in-law Boadicea as well.
“All set to rampage, is he not?” Spencer asked with a guffaw that suggested he was enjoying this, the knave. “Perhaps you ought to grant him entrance.”
“Enter,” he called
to the brother of the woman he had just disgraced.
A hopelessly awful situation in which he now found himself. He, Lord Harry Marlow, who had always been above reproach, who had never taken advantage of anyone let alone a defenseless female, who had taken care in his every action, curating his reputation as a gentleman…he was now being forced to marry a woman he hardly knew. All because he had unbuttoned her shirt, teased her nipples, and kissed her as if she were a seasoned courtesan.
He stood and faced Ravenscroft, feeling as if it were pistols at dawn. The earl’s expression was hard as granite, his customary unflappable charm nowhere in evidence. He stalked across the study, stopping only when he was close enough to strike. Harry stood tall and braced himself for the blow he knew was coming. Would it be his nose or his chin? Perhaps a blackened eye.
“Bainbridge,” the earl greeted Harry’s brother first in deference to his rank before turning his glacial gaze upon Harry. His lip curled. “Lord Harry. I do believe felicitations are in order.”
“Ravenscroft,” acknowledged Spencer in an equally clipped fashion. Their wives were dear friends, and the awkwardness in their manner had to be down to Harry’s ignominious presence and actions both.
Felicitations.
Here was the blow, then. Not a fist but the sentence of a lifetime. The earl wanted him to marry Lady Alexandra. Harry waited again for the shock to pierce him like a needle. For his mind to violently balk at the notion of marrying the eccentric younger sister of the notorious Earl of Ravenscroft. For his common sense to recall that the woman who would be his wife wore her oddness like a Worth gown, dressing as a man, creating a weather prognostics map, observing a bloody blizzard as though it were the most natural occupation in the world for a gently bred lady.
Mocking him for berating the sky.
The Night Before Scandal (Heart's Temptation Book 7) Page 3
