Daring to ask for his kiss.
Being bold and different.
Her sunset hair, those tiny copper specks on her nose, the wide blue eyes, sultry mouth, the perfect handfuls of her breasts…there he went once more, down the garden path. And no matter which way he trod, he could not seem to summon up the dread he ought to be feeling in this moment.
The silence in the study returned him to the present, as did the expectant gazes of his brother and the earl. He blinked, collected himself, focused on Ravenscroft. “Will you grant me your sister’s hand then, my lord?”
Ravenscroft’s eyes narrowed. “Had you asked me the same query yesterday, and had it been something Lady Alexandra would have wished for herself, I would have answered in the affirmative. After having witnessed your ravishment of my innocent sister not two hours past, I cannot say in good conscience that I will grant you her hand without some reassurance.”
Harry forced himself to tamp down his inner outrage at being accused of ravishment, of all the outlandish things. What had occurred in the carriage had been mutual. Not to mention the irrefutable fact that Lady Alexandra herself had asked for his kisses. Yes, he should have exercised caution and restraint, being the older and more experienced gentleman. But Lady Alexandra Danvers begging for a kiss would tempt the morals of a bloody saint.
And a saint, it was more than apparent, he was not.
He nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
“A whisky, Julian?” Spencer interrupted, rising to offer the earl a newly poured glass.
“Hell yes,” the earl said with a grimace, before tossing back a gulp of amber-colored liquid. “Fine stuff, old boy. Scottish?”
Spencer inclined his head and raised his own glass in salute. “Naturally.”
What a puzzling development. He felt suddenly as if he were an outsider, witnessing the easy camaraderie between Spencer and the earl. His own relationship with his brother had been strained following Spencer’s usurping of his intended bride, but they had made amends. And Harry had decided that seeing his brother happy was of far greater import than pride.
Harry frowned. “Forgive me, Lord Ravenscroft, but what manner of reassurance are you requiring to enable me to marry Lady Alexandra?”
The earl took another healthy swig of his whisky. “We are to be in residence at Boswell House for the next fortnight. Court her. Earn her hand. Prove to me that you deserve to have her as your wife by Christmas. If she tells me she wishes to wed you at the end of that time, I will be willing to see the two of you wed.”
This was decidedly not the response that Harry had anticipated from an outraged brother of a female who had just been compromised. In truth, what he had imagined—what he deserved—was a sound trouncing. At the very least a bloodied nose.
What was he meant to say? That he deserved to have Alexandra as his wife when he knew damn well that he didn’t? That he would earn her hand and prove himself when he was also sure that he couldn’t?
He finished his own whisky, relishing the burn of it in his gut, for it reminded him of the severity of his actions. “I will do whatever I must. The scandal of today cannot withstand anything less than Lady Alexandra becoming my wife. Surely you must realize that, my lord.”
Ravenscroft was bloody addlepated if he would not accept Harry’s suit. He hailed from one of the most distinguished houses in England. He was the son of a duke, an MP, a man of unparalleled reputation—today’s scandalous lapse notwithstanding.
The earl raised a brow. “Let me be perfectly candid. I love my sister, and one of my primary charges is to see her happily settled in life with a man who will love and appreciate her precisely as she is. I have yet to decide who that man is. What I witnessed earlier today does not precisely instill a great deal of hope within me for your suitability Marlow, as you must understand.”
A surge of guilt hit Harry at the reminder of how egregious his actions had been. “I apologize for my rash behavior.”
The earl’s gaze was honed as sharp as a dagger. “If you so much as breathe upon her in the wrong way, I shall thrash you into next week. Understood? Observe the damned proprieties, you jackanapes.”
Harry gritted his teeth. Yes, he deserved that remonstration. But that didn’t mean he could kowtow with ease. “Let us leave it in the lady’s hands, shall we? In the interim, I promise to be on my best behavior.”
Which had never been a problem before.
Now?
Harry thought of all that creamy skin, those sweet breasts, the curves of her hips, those hard, responsive nipples. No, there was no way on God’s earth that he could promise to be on his best behavior with the luscious and altogether glorious Lady Alexandra Danvers.
Ravenscroft finished his whisky and continued to pin Harry with a glare. “I still want to pummel you, Marlow. Give me a reason. One reason.”
“My brother is a paragon,” Spencer decided to chime in at that moment, raising his glass toward Harry as if in toast. “He is a good man, and Lady Alexandra could ask for none better in a husband. You will not regret granting him this chance, Julian. Mark my words.”
The earl’s eyes flitted from Harry to Spencer before settling back on Harry once more. “See that you prove your brother correct, Lord Harry. Otherwise, I seriously doubt your career as an MP can withstand a scandal such as this.”
It was a warning.
A reminder.
Harry nodded. He needed neither. For as frightening and unexpected as it was, he had accepted the notion of Lady Alexandra Danvers as his wife. As the mother of his future children. As the woman who would remain forever by his side.
He swallowed. “I will earn Lady Alexandra’s hand before Christmas. You have my word.”
Ravenscroft grinned, but it held little mirth. “If I don’t, you have my fists, Marlow.”
Chapter Five
The snow continued to fall that evening as the Welcome Ball got underway. Wreaths of fir and holly adorned the walls of the ballroom, faux snow bedecked corners of the floor, and an enormous Christmas tree towered over the procession in glittering majesty. The effect of it all, coupled with the perfectly groomed and coifed lords and ladies spinning about the polished parquet floor, would have taken the breath of most observers.
But Alexandra was not just any observer, and quadrilles did not interest her, nor did flirtations or furtive searches of the sea of faces for Lord Harry Marlow—who had yet to appear. She most certainly was not looking for him but her empirical examination had nevertheless noted his absence.
Julian would not have beaten him to a pulp, would he? What if he and Lord Harry had pummeled one another into oblivion? When her brother and his wife had quietly escorted Alexandra and Josephine to the ball earlier, she had not detected any injuries upon his person. But now, her imagination ran wild. She imagined Lord Harry sporting a broken nose and a blackened eye and shuddered.
Heaving another displeased sigh, Alexandra shifted in the corner she presently occupied amidst a grouping of potted holly bushes. Her right foot tapped. Then her left.
Balls were so deadly boring. Such a monumental waste of one’s time and attentions. Why, she could be outside taking hourly measurements and temperature readings and recording the results in her journal. It seemed horridly unfair that she should be denied the opportunity to further her studies for her prediction map.
She had observed the weather all afternoon from the window of her chamber, where she had been promptly banished following her ruination. Forced to relinquish her boots, trousers, shirt, and overcoat, she had remained at the window like a morose sentinel, inwardly bemoaning her fate. But at least she had been able to watch and take notes, to add to her prognostic.
Trapped in the ballroom, she was yet another awkward miss, too tall for fashion, hair an unsightly shade of red, who had somehow been compromised by the Duke of Bainbridge’s brother. Oh yes, she had felt the stares.
The gathering was small and select enough that she could flit about with the revelers prior to her comeout, bu
t not everyone here was her friend.
Indeed, most were not. She was aware that she was gauche and odd. That she said and did the wrong things at the wrong times, that she often acted without regard for consequence, and that she was hopelessly inept at behaving as a genteel lady ought.
“Why are you not dancing?”
The voice, butter-rich and deep and so near to her ear that gooseflesh pebbled on her arms, had her jumping and spinning to face its source in a swirl of emerald skirts. There he stood, a few inches taller than she, his golden hair tousled in waves, his green eyes vivid and knowing upon her.
Oh. Thank heavens, he did not appear harmed. He was as handsome as any man she had ever seen. And even more handsome now than he had been earlier in the carriage and snow, resplendent in his formal evening wear. He almost stole all the breath from her lungs.
“Lord Harry,” she said, wishing his name did not emerge as a gasp. “I do not dance.”
Heavens, put her in a dress, and all the ease with which she had interacted before suddenly dissipated like the clouds after a thunderstorm.
Lord Harry offered her an elegant bow, a boyish smile on his lips. “Danvers. I must admit that the sight of you in a gown is as surprising as it is lovely. Why do you not dance?”
She pursed her lips and studied him, trying to discern if he was teasing her or if he was serious. Perhaps a combination of the two, she decided. “Because I am an abysmal dancer. Monsieur Bouchard, my instructor, despaired of my ineptitude. I drove the poor fellow to tears.”
His smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tears, you say? I cannot countenance it.”
Alexandra found herself smiling back at him. “The tears may have been because I stomped on his instep after he suggested that I should compensate for the dreadful color of my hair by dancing with the grace of a swan.”
Lord Harry’s smile fled. “Your hair is glorious. You should have stomped on both his insteps for such an affront.”
“One was enough,” she assured him, recalling the moment her odious dance instructor had retreated, never to return. “It was a very thorough stomp, and I am no sparrow.”
“No indeed,” he said somberly, his gaze roaming her face. “If I were to compare you to a bird, it would never be something as boring as a sparrow.”
“I would never wish to be a bird,” she said with a shudder, “forever winging my way from tree to tree, prey to creatures five times my size. Consuming all my sustenance with a beak. Only think of how tiring it is to be avian. Isn’t it odd that birds are hatched from eggs? Why, they’re almost reptilian in nature, and no one likes snakes.”
Oh dear, there she went. Rambling again. Her face went hot. Would she never learn her lesson? She bit her lip to stay additional words that threatened to spill forth like water over a dam. Julian had issued his sentence to her like a jailer. She was to marry Lord Harry Marlow to atone for her sins. However, there had been nary a word of such a thing. During her hours alone in her chamber, she had fretted that a betrothal announcement would occur that very evening at the ball.
And yet, only her sister-in-law Clara had visited her, with a pitying smile, a commiserating embrace, and instructions that she should heed Julian’s wishes. Josephine had been kept from her tainted presence altogether until this evening. And Julian had never reappeared until she had been marched in deafening, disappointed silence to the ball.
He had growled a single sentence at her before allowing her to abscond to the fringes of the fête as was always her wont. Do not do anything foolish this evening, Alexandra.
And truly. Did he expect her to honor that or any other command?
“Would flying to one’s destination be such a chore?” Lord Harry asked then, intruding upon her jumbled musings. “Just think of how lovely it would be to soar through the sky.”
“Think of how awful it would be to plummet to the earth,” she countered, unable to help herself. It was the nature of her brain.
He took a step closer. “Alexandra.”
There was undisguised intent in his voice.
Of what, she couldn’t be sure. But she felt it in her breasts, the tips tingling and tightening in recollection of the torture his thumb had visited upon them. She felt it in the ache that throbbed between her legs. In the steady sweep of desire that licked down her spine and settled low in her belly.
She swallowed, casting a surreptitious glance around the ballroom. The revelers were all seemingly otherwise engaged, dancing in a swirl of multicolored silks and dark evening wear, the orchestra playing away on their strings. The potted holly and faux snow underfoot gave them the illusion of privacy.
No one was watching.
She swayed toward him before recalling herself. “Lord Harry?”
He touched her chin for a brief moment. Not her jaw, not her throat. It was not a caress but a gentle touch. An affirmation that what they had shared earlier in the carriage had been real, that the connection between them was undeniable. “You are the strangest creature I’ve ever met.”
She stilled, an arrow of hurt somehow zinging its way to her heart. “I will own my strangeness. I would far prefer to be odd than a boring, insipid, brainless female.”
He quirked a golden brow, his expression unreadable. “Who said that there is anything wrong with being strange?”
“You, my lord,” she said. “Rather, to be more specific, perhaps you implied it.”
“I am strange,” he surprised her by saying.
“You?” It was impossible to fathom that a man as beautiful and polished as Lord Harry Marlow could possibly be anything less than perfection incarnate.
“Me,” he affirmed, taking another step closer until his trousers brushed the fall of her skirts.
“How?” she asked, intrigued. Something inside her sparked to life once more, and it was a different something than the mad, corporal attraction that had flared in the carriage.
He took one more step, and she melted into the potted holly bush at her back. They were effectively shielded from the rest of the ballroom. Somehow, not even the prickly ends of the holly leaves disturbed her. Lord Harry commanded all of her attention.
He dipped his head as though he were imparting a secret of the gravest import. “I do not like fruit.”
“That is interesting, my lord,” she agreed with a speculative air. “However, it is decidedly not enough to classify you as strange. A great many people dislike various fruits, you must realize.”
He pondered her with a grave expression. “All fruit, Lady Alexandra?”
She blinked. “Strawberries?”
Lord Harry shook his head. “Too many tiny, irritating seeds.”
It was a valid argument, but she was also determined to prove him wrong. “Plums?”
He gave a mock shudder. “Too tart and fleshy.”
“Cherries,” she said triumphantly.
“Alas, the pit of the cherry comprises at least half its density,” he said in a regretful tone. “I cannot appreciate a fruit that is mostly seed.”
Was it her imagination at work, or had he stepped closer while she’d been distracted by shuffling through her mind for fruits he could not deny enjoying?
“Oranges?” she asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid the pith and seeds are far too distracting, as is the necessity of peeling to reveal the fruit itself.” He shook his head once more. “All that effort for a citrus that is often sour and unworthy.”
“The same could be said of most people,” she observed before she could stifle her tongue.
“Yes.” A sudden, beautiful grin curved his lips then. “Do you know what I like about you, Lady Alexandra?”
Oh dear. She would have retreated farther into her nest of holly, but the prickly thing was already clinging to her silk. Moreover, the last scandal she needed was to topple backward, skirts in the air, into an upended pile of Christmas shrubs. But he was crowding her, and his intimate tone, nearness, and the delicious, masculine scent of him was
enough to weaken her every intention to behave as a proper lady ought.
“What do you like about me?” she asked in spite of herself, for he was charming and he was handsome, and he was also different. No gentleman she’d ever met before him had been able to keep pace with her, to navigate the turns and tangents of her mind without pause. Certainly, no man had ever enjoyed it.
His grin softened to an intimate smile, and he brushed a lone finger along her bare collarbone just once, and so quickly that she would have thought she imagined the touch had it not branded her skin like a flame. “I like your quick mind. I like your feistiness. I like the daring that enabled you to traipse about dressed as a gentleman at a house party attended by the most fashionable set in London. I like your bold hair, the sweet trail of freckles on your nose. I like your mouth beneath mine.”
“Lord Harry,” she protested because she should, and not because he had affronted her. Quite the opposite, for she had never been rendered breathless by a mere handful of sentences before.
“I also like that you say precisely what is on your mind,” he continued, “that you don’t blunt your opinion by what a lady should say, and that you are refreshingly unique.”
She pursed her lips, considering him. “You like that I am strange?”
He captured her gaze, holding it with his, and the fierce light burning within those emerald depths refused to allow her to look away. “I do believe that I like everything about you, Danvers. And I do not think you are strange. I think you are an original. Besides, I already told you my own quirk.”
“Disliking fruit is hardly a cross to bear,” she pointed out, enjoying herself as she had not done in…well, ever in the presence of a gentleman.
Oh, she had relished every one of his skilled kisses and caresses earlier in the carriage, but this matching of wits was a different, more dimensioned level of gratification. He made her melt and he also fed her mind. What a dazzling, troubling, addictive combination.
His mouth quirked. “Become more familiarly acquainted with me. I promise that my dislike of fruit is not my sole oddity.”
The Night Before Scandal (Heart's Temptation Book 7) Page 4
