Chapter Eight
“Iam sohappy to have caught you alone.”
Harry, poring over a book in his brother’s private library and nursing a brandy, started at the sound of his sister-in-law’s voice. Boadicea sailed over the threshold in that boisterous yet elegant way she had, resplendent in her aubergine afternoon gown, her distinctive auburn hair swept into a Grecian braid. A pleasant warmth infused his chest at the sight of her, just as it would with any cherished acquaintance he was pleased to see.
He stood, acknowledging her presence. “What do you require of me, sister dear?”
Yes, it still smarted a bit to call hersister, but he knew the source of that emotion all too well: his pride. Spencer had won her heart, and as much as Harry loved his brother, losing to him in the battle for a lady’s hand nevertheless stung. He had always been the charming brother. He ought to have won.
And yet, looking upon her now, glowing with happiness, and beset by a new, previously unimaginable fascination for Lady Alexandra Danvers, he could not help but be relieved that he had not.
Boadicea stopped when she reached him, her blue eyes bright with excitement. “What do you think of Lady Alexandra?”
Bloody hell. She had sought him out on a matchmaking expedition. The truth of it was, he had spent the last week courting the lady in question by any means possible. He skated with her on Boswell Manor’s frozen pond—she had fallen on her rump and blushed so red her cheeks had put apples to shame. He danced with her, sang carols with her, took her for a walk in the gardens after the snow finally ended. He chatted with her. He wondered if her allure would ever lessen. Somehow, it only increased with each day.
But that did not mean he wished to examine the way he felt for Lady Alexandra with Boadicea now. Or ever.
He raised a brow. “I think I have compromised her and am obligated to marry her.”
She tapped him on the arm. “But do you like her? Are you in love with her?”
“Of course I like her,” he was quick to admit. Perhaps too quick. “She is intelligent and unique, and her wit never ceases to entertain me. She is also beautiful.”
And about as graceful as a plow horse, but he found her lack of affectation endearing. She was unapologetically herself, and damn if it didn’t make him want her all the more.
“Are you in love with her?” Boadicea persisted, slanting him a knowing look. “I have been watching the two of you together all week, and Spencer thinks me quite silly, but you are such a well-matched pair. Lady Alexandra is a member of my Lady’s Suffrage Society, you know, and she is not only clever but kindhearted and good. She is exactly the sort of wife you deserve.”
After one week, he was not prepared to say he was in love. The last time he’d imagined himself embroiled in that finer emotion, he had been hopelessly wrong. He did not dare trust himself now. Did he?
“I like her,” he allowed. “Do not meddle, Boadicea.”
“Meddle?” She pressed a hand to her heart and sent him a look of feigned innocence. “Why would you ever think me capable of such a thing?”
He tamped down the grin that threatened to give him away. “Because I know you.”
“I may have provided Lady Alexandra with some guidance,” his sister-in-law confessed without a hint of contrition. “But before I tell you anything more, I must be reassured that your intentions are honorable. Look me in the eye and promise me, Harry Archibald Marlow.”
Good God, she had invoked his hated full name. He had revealed it to her just the once, and the minx had never forgotten. But part of him was clamoring to know what sort of guidance Boadicea could have given Lady Alexandra, and what it meant for him. The wickedness within him dared hope it involved some time away from the watchful eyes of their friends and family and fellow revelers, who were attuned to the slightest impropriety.
“You must never call me that,” he gritted. “But you have my promise that my intentions toward Lady Alexandra are only honorable. I mean to make her my wife. Now please do elaborate upon the aforementionedguidanceyou gave my future betrothed.”
Boadicea winked. “Oh, I shan’t tell you a thing! That would spoil the surprise. But if I were you, I would find the nearest opportunity to find my way to the north tower.”
The north tower was precisely where he had intended to take Lady Alexandra that first day before the rude interruption of their families and fellow guests. “The north tower? You do realize that it has not been habitable since my grandfather was a lad, do you not?”
It was an exaggeration, but not much of one. The north tower was part of the original castle that Boswell House had been built around, and it was drafty and dark and filled with the ghosts of the past.
“Perhaps it is not as unwelcoming as you think,” Boadicea said. “Go have a look for yourself, Harry.”
His mind was instantly inundated with an image of Lady Alexandra—Danvers, as he liked to think of her—alone in the north tower, conducting meteorological studies, her fingers smudged with ink as she fretted over her prognostics map.
“Perhaps I will,” he said with casual nonchalance, as though the mere thought of Danvers with her odd little tool and her enthusiasm for the scientific didn’t make his cock go half-rigid in his trousers.
“Oh you will.” Her smile was knowing. “Promise me once more, Harry Archibald Marlow.”
“I promise you that I will make Lady Alexandra my wife if she and her irate brother will have me,” he grumbled. “I also promise you that further use of my middle name will result in me watering your holly bushes in a fashion you will not appreciate.”
Yes, he would piss in her potted holly. Why not? He was feeling rather reckless these days, and he had nothing left to lose.
