Chapter One
December, 1884
The last timeLord Harry Marlow had been at Boswell Manor, his brother stole the woman he loved and made her his wife. Fitting, then, that when he returned, Oxfordshire was colder than Wenham Lake ice and the skies had opened to unleash a torrent of snow.
Even more fitting that his carriage suffered a broken axle one quarter of the way down the immense drive, leaving him to the indignity of shivering in the misery of winter’s chill whilst his driver walked to the main house for assistance. There was no hope for it. His pride would not allow another moment of cowering like a frightened child in the night calling for his mother.
He threw open the coach door. A squall of white buffeted him, frigid air and snowflakes gusting into his face in further affront. Harry had never cared for either winter or Christmas because he detested being cold as much as he loathed disappointment. Why the hell had he consented to attend this cursed house party?
Icy pinpricks fell down the neck of his coat as he alighted from the carriage with a scowl at the offending heavens, which had not possessed the decency to stave off this ridiculous blizzard until he had been ensconced in the comfort and warmth of Boswell House.
He shook his fist at the sky. “Could this not have waited, damn it?”
“Is berating the clouds an effective method of persuading them to cease precipitation?”
The soft query had him spinning on his heel in the snow.
A fresh gust of wind obliterated his view of the interloper beyond a tall form in bulky trousers, a hat, and a shapeless overcoat. He blinked snowflakes from his lashes. Either his eyes or his ears deceived him, for the voice he’d heard had been distinctly feminine and husky, but the figure before him was completely outfitted in men’s garb.
“I beg your pardon?” he demanded, for he did not like being spied upon any more than he liked the prospect of sharing a Boswell Manor Christmas with his brother and sister-in-law and their nauseating love.
As an MP dedicated to his office, Harry liked to think that he was above the too-human emotion of jealousy. But he was a mere mortal after all, and the roiling in his gut and the dread clenching his chest as the carriage had plodded onward to Oxfordshire proved his deficiency.
It wasn’t that he was incapable of feeling happy for Spencer. His brother had been through hell and he deserved happiness more than anyone. But a small, unworthy part of Harry could not seem to stop wishing Spencer had discovered that happiness with someone other than the ladyhehad been courting.
His unwanted companion plowed toward him through the snow. There was no other way to describe the person’s awkward locomotion. “Awfully arrogant of you to attempt to berate the sky, is all,” said the dulcet voice.
Definitely female. As she shuffled toward him in a gait that suggested her boots were at least two sizes too large for her, his curious gaze settled upon a creamy oval face framed by wisps of copper curls. Wide, blue eyes stared at him. Cold tinged her high cheekbones pink. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense, but even in her bizarre, mannish dress, there was something arresting about her. Something intriguing.
Best to purge that thought at once. Banish it so far removed that it could never again emerge. The last time he had been drawn to a woman, it had not ended well, and he had no wish for an encore.
Neither did his heart.
She made a huffing sound in her throat. “Are you addlepated or hard of hearing, sir? I said berating the sky is awfully arrogant.”
The preposterous wench was hollering at him, enunciating slowly as if he were incapable of comprehending the Queen’s English. As if he were the one who was wearing the garb of the opposite sex and chastising strangers in a bloody blizzard.
He blinked, and an inexplicable urge to nettle her rose within him. “I assure you that I am possessed of both sound intelligence and sound hearing, sir. Equally arrogant of you to attempt to berate a stranger. I do not believe we have met. I am Lord Harry Marlow. What brings you to Boswell Manor?”
“Sir?” Her fiery brows furrowed, eyes narrowing on him. “I am a guest, my lord.”
A guest? Who was she? He noted that she did not bother to correct his intentional misunderstanding of her sex. It was bloody cold out, but perhaps he could warm himself with some entertainment.
Harry considered her through another gust of wind and snow, noting the stray snowflakes clinging to her full bottom lip. “Devil take it. I don’t recall when I last saw such a frightful storm before Christmas. Do you, Mr…?”
“Danvers,” she supplied. “The storm is fascinating. It certainly seems to be an aberration, which will prove most useful in my meteorological prognostics map.”
The skin over his cheekbones tautened with cold. This creature grew stranger by the moment. “Your meteorological prognostics map, Mr. Danvers?”
“Yes.” Her blue eyes burned bright with fervor for her subject, and still she made no effort to correct his assumption. She withdrew a small metal tube from her overcoat. “I’m attempting to observe the snowbands with my spectroscope. I have yet to complete the snow portion of my map, and the timing of this storm is really quite fortuitous.”
Despite the chill and the driving squall of precipitation, something warm slid through him. Desire, perhaps. Curiosity, certainly. She looked ludicrous in her too-large men’s clothing. Everything emerging from her mouth sounded absurd.
And yet, he was drawn to her. “You are studying the storm?”
Another burst of wind caused a smattering of snowflakes to become caught in her lashes. “Of course. Why else would anyone care to been plein airon a day such as this? Stuff and nonsense. The vigorousness of this particular cloud formation does render it frightfully difficult for one to see.”
“Here you are.” He took a step closer, reached into his own coat, and extracted a handkerchief, using it to blot the offending snow.
