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.Earnher 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.”
