Chapter Seven
Lord Harry Marlowpossessed more charm than a human male ought to be physically capable of producing. So much charm it seemed to defy the laws of science. As Alexandra roamed the extensive gardens of Boswell Manor on her own, boots crunching through the snow, she decided he must be an oddity. An outlier. For not only was he beautiful, and not only did his kisses make her weak, and not only was he capable of setting her at ease in a way no other suitor had, but he was also achingly kind and clever.
Over the course of the house party, he had been attentive, making every effort to spend time in her presence. Through all the entertainments planned, from trimming the tree to caroling to Christmas charades, he had not strayed far from her side. When he was not in a chamber, it seemed less gay for his absence, and she found herself waiting restlessly for his appearance.
To say her reaction to him was vexing was an understatement. The strange, quivery feelings he produced within her with nothing more than his presence baffled her. It was as if her body was attuned to him, as if some deep, primal part of her recognized its mate.
She did not like it.
He was a beautiful distraction, keeping her from the pursuit of far more worthy causes than stolen kisses and silken touches beneath her skirts. Why, she had not even added to her weather prognostics map in all the time since their infamous carriage ride together. Her head needed to take the reins from her heart, and she had to stop this silly longing for the man.
For though he was endlessly charming, she could not shake the needling suspicion he acted out of a sense of duty. The Duke of Bainbridge’s teasing words from their skating party returned to her. I would hate to see Ravenscroft break your nose as he threatened.
Was he only being charming because of the threat Julian had made against him? Or because of the threat of scandal that would taint him and his reputation if they did not wed?
He was an MP, after all, and he needed to maintain his good standing. A sudden gust of wind sent snow into her face from the hedges she meandered between. It was as if mother nature had sneezed upon her. She stopped, blinking to clear the snow from her lashes and dab at her nose.
“Allow me.”
The voice, butter smooth and rich and deep, sent the same ripple of warmth through her it always did. She blinked some more, and there he was, the object of her frustrated musings, as golden and gorgeous as a god in the winter’s sun. Her heart pumped frantically as he gently dabbed at her face with a monogrammed handkerchief that smelled deliciously of him.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said softly, willing herself to become inured to his allure.
She held still for his ministrations, telling herself she must end this fascination she had for him. She must be stern and strong. She must cleave to science, to her principles. She had never intended to marry, and there was no reason to change her mind now.
No reason at all.
Except…
“You are the loveliest creature I have ever seen, like a snow fairy queen here in the midst of all this winter’s white.” His gloves fingers brushed her chin, tipping it up. “May I kiss you, Lady Alexandra?”
If he kissed her, he would erase her ability to think. All logic would flee from her mind, disappearing like the sun from the sky before a sudden summer storm.
Her lips parted. She was going to tell him no, but then she made the mistake of falling into his eyes.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Please do.”
And then his mouth was upon hers, firm and warm and knowing, at once familiar and new. Thrilling. Delicious. Everything she wanted without knowing she needed it. She forgot all her earlier determination, abandoned it to the wind as if it had never been.
For how could she think of anything but Lord Harry when his lips were coaxing hers in the sweetest possible way?
Her hands found his shoulders, then twined around his neck, and she pressed herself shamelessly against him, her breasts crushed to the broad strength of his chest, her skirts trapped between their seeking limbs. The brims of their hats knocked together, and hers gave way, falling down her back to land in the snow.
She didn’t care what happened to the hat.
She didn’t care about keeping him at bay.
All she cared about was his kiss.
Thank heavens they were alone in the gardens and obstructed from the view of the main house by the immaculately manicured hedges. More scandal was the last thing either of them needed.
She parted for him on a sigh of pure need, and his tongue slipped inside her mouth. He tasted of tea and sugar and himself, that dark and divine temptation she had come to know asHarry. He groaned as if he was as tortured as she felt, everything inside her clamoring for more, for more than she could comprehend.
The kiss deepened, and then she knocked his hat from his head too, and her fingers were somehow in his hair, and she was shamelessly arching into him, sucking on his tongue. That was the problem with Lord Harry Marlow—he was intoxicating, and whenever she was in his presence or in his arms, he consumed her every thought.
He was all she wanted.
Could she not have him and her intellectual pursuits? Could not a woman of science also have…whateverthiswas?
