You are the prickly pear
You are the sudden violent storm
~Lorine Niedecker, “Wilderness”
Oxfordshire, 1884
f all the chits in Englandhis nonsensical brother could have gone lovesick over, Lady Boadicea Harrington was, indisputably, the most unsuitable. Spencer had never been more certain of it than the moment he caught her in his library with a bawdy book in her hand.
Oh, she’d disguised the tripe in a pretty, embroidered cover. The ordinary observer would never guess the contents of the small book she’d held nestled in her elegant, fine-boned hands. But she’d dropped it when he startled her from her rapt reading.
Naturally, he’d played the gentleman despite his acute dislike of her. He’d known without a doubt she was trouble. Everything about her—from her bold auburn hair to her vivid blue eyes and her beauty so singular that the first time he’d seen her at close proximity, a jolt had gone straight through him—yes,everythingabout her was in bad taste.
She flirted with each able man in her vicinity. She smiled too much. She laughed too loudly. She was gauche and opinionated. Even her dress, a dark-scarlet satin trimmed with velvet rosettes, was far too attention-seizing and daring for an unmarried lady. Fresh from Paris unless he missed his guess, the gown hugged her body as though fashioned to bedevil any poor sod who gazed upon her in it.
But he wouldn’t think of the gown now. Nor her perfectly shaped mouth with the tiny beauty mark offset to the right like a planet in orbit around a blazing sun. And he most certainly would not contemplate the sudden snug fit of his trousers as the scent of her, jasmine and lily of the valley, hit him with the force of a blow to the gut.
Dear God. He could not possibly be aroused by such a creature. No. He was not.
Spencer forced himself to read another sentence in the small volume he held in his hands, just to be certain he hadn’t misjudged.
I was well-pleased at the tumescence of the shaft I held in my hand.
Jesus Christ. He snapped the book closed and pinned Lady Boadicea with the most cutting glare he could manage. “Lady Boadicea, you are trespassing in my personal library.”
A charming flush traced her cheeks. Her wide eyes attempted, it seemed, to judge how much of the obscene drivel he’d read. “Your Grace, please forgive me. I do have a tendency to wander, and I’m afraid the beckoning sight of books and these lovely windows were too much of a temptation to resist. I hadn’t realized, of course, that it was your private library.”
Damn it, that flush on her skin went down her throat and disappeared beneath her décolletage, making him wonder if her lush breasts were tinged pink as well. Bloody hell, this wouldn’t do.
His brows snapped together as he pinned her with the frown he saved for the truly recalcitrant. “See that you do not come here alone again, my lady. Not only is it most improper, but I treasure my solitude.”
“I have heard, Your Grace.” She held out her hand impolitely. “Once again, I do offer my sincerest apologies. If you’ll just return my book to me, I’ll be on my way.”
She hadheard. He stiffened, wondering what else she’d heard. The whispers about him seemed to always abound, regardless of how much he tried to remain above reproach.
“You heard?” He could not keep the displeasure from his voice.
He despised being the target of others’ conjecture above all else. Too many years of his life had been steeped in ruinous gossip. Though he’d become adroit at numbing himself and the rumors about him no longer stung, he guarded his privacy with an intensity that even he had to admit bordered on fanatical.
Lady Boadicea blinked at him, a tentative smile curving that beautiful mouth of hers. “Why yes, from Lord Harry of course. Don’t worry. I shan’t tell a soul that we crossed paths here.”
Bloody hell. He didn’t need her promises. And he damn well didn’t need her smile. “Forgive me if your assertion is far from reassuring, my lady.” His tone was deliberately frigid and forbidding.
He’d feared her unacceptability from the moment Harry had requested he extend an invitation to their annual Boswell Manor house party for Lady Boadicea and her sister and brother-in-law, the Marchioness and Marquis of Thornton. But Thornton was a potential political ally for Harry, and Spencer had relented on that account alone.
Look what good his equanimity had done him.
“Make of it what you will,” the chit dared to snap at him in dismissive tones now, her hand still stretched out in anticipation of the lecherous volume he had no intention of returning to her. “My book, if you please, Your Grace?”
He tucked the slim volume inside his jacket. “No. I don’t think I’ll be relinquishing it.”
Her smile was gone, and some ridiculous part of him—a part he’d thought long buried—felt the loss like a physical ache in his chest. She considered him, lips pursed, her expression shifting to one of irritation. Her hand remained open, waiting. Rude, damn it all. Even if some far more ludicrous part of him contemplated running a finger over her palm just to see if the circle was as soft as it looked. To trace the lines bisecting it with his lips and tongue.
“I’m afraid I don’t see why you’re so unwilling to return my property to me, Your Grace.” She cast a sweeping glance around her. “Surely you have a more than ample supply of reading material at your fingertips?”
The baggage had more temerity than he’d imagined. “Indeed, though perhaps nothing quite so…edifying. I wonder what Lord and Lady Thornton would make of your reading proclivities, my lady.”
Her eyes flared. “Are you threatening me, Your Grace?”
