And then it did.
The door to the carriage was wrenched open without warning, and a blast of frigid air, a wall of snow, and a chorus of shocked gasps invaded the sheltered cocoon of the carriage.
“Unhand my sister, Marlow!”
The irate masculine voice cut through the haze of lust infecting his mind more effectively than cold, snowflakes, or scandalized murmurings ever could. It was a voice he recognized, and suddenly the pieces of the puzzle came together in perfect synchronicity.
Alexandra Danvers.
LadyAlexandra Danvers, to be precise. Sister to one Julian Danvers, reformed rake, formidable pugilist, and the Earl of Ravenscroft.
He tore his mouth from Alexandra’s throat, dread supplanting all lust, reason crowding all longing. Lord Harry Marlow, MP, returned to his senses to find a bevy of shocked faces gawping into the carriage and a thoroughly enraged Earl of Ravenscroft crowding the exit. In a moment of stinging clarity, he noted his mother’s pinched face, his brother and sister-in-law gaping in shock, and his mother’s bosom bow—and most reprehensible gossip in all England—the Duchess of Cartwright wide-eyed and sharp-eared.
Bloody hell.
He thrust Lady Alexandra back onto her squab as though she were made of flame, dragging a hand over his mouth. It was no use. The evidence of what he’d been about could not be hidden. Nor could he extricate himself from this farce without making reparations.
What had he done?
“What have youdone?”
Alexandra winced as her brother, who she had—until the last hour, or so—considered the great scapegrace of the family, bellowed the question at her in outrage.
They were seated in one of Boswell House’s many salons. It was a putrid shade of green, filled with an alarming amount of gilt, and hung with an array of boring oil pastorals. She was still, most regrettably, wearing the overcoat, shirt, trousers, and boots she had stolen from him. Rather disconcerting for any attempts to defend one’s self. How could she claim innocence when she wore the evidence of her sins?
And she wasn’t talking about the marks Lord Harry’s wicked mouth had left upon her skin, evidenced by the reflection she’d glimpsed in a looking glass hung in the labyrinth of halls. The red marks on her throat both shocked and intrigued her. She had not known a gentleman could possess such ardor. Now that she did…
“Damn it, Alexandra, you will answer me or I will bury you in the country for the next three years at bloody minimum,” Julian growled at her, stalking toward her with a menacing air that did not frighten so much as it dismayed.
She loved her older brother dearly, and the knowledge that she was cause for his disappointment lodged in her belly like a leaden weight. He knew how much she detested the country. That he would issue such a threat now spoke to his outrage.
Outrage which was, admittedly, understandable. She had been discovered dressed in scandalous fashion, riding Lord Harry Marlow’s thigh as if he were her trusted steed whilst he feasted upon her neck and visited the most exquisite torture upon her breasts. Just thinking about it now made warmth bloom between her thighs and the scalding heat of embarrassment color her cheeks. How had she allowed such a thing to happen?
Also, how had she not realized such wonders existed?
“Alexandra Maria Danvers, I expect a response,” her brother prodded, his tone no less furious. “You will give me your explanation for the outrage that I and almostall the other guestsassembled beneath this roof just witnessed.”
She pursed her lips, considering how she ought to respond. Her brother was no stranger to sins, having spent the years before his marriage to Clara cultivating his reputation for debauchery. “As you know, I am crafting a meteorological prognostics map.”
He stalked back across the salon, raking a hand through his hair. “I am aware. What I find myself pondering is what in the name of God meteorology has to do with Lord Harry Marlow mauling you in a carriage whilst you are dressed as a man.” He paused, his lip curling as he raked her from head to toe with a blistering glare. “Wearing my damned clothing, no less.”
She frowned. “Lord Harry was not mauling me, Julian. Pray do not be so melodramatic.”
Her brother’s brows snapped together, his mien turning ferocious. “Hewasmauling you, damn it, and anyone with eyes in their head witnessed it. Jesus Christ, Alexandra, you have not even had your comeout yet.”
No, she had not, but not because she was not of an age. Her brother’s dubious reputation and antics both had left her and her younger sister Josephine in the care of an elderly aunt until her brother’s nuptials. And then Julian had insisted upon further tutelage in the finer arts of being a proper lady before allowing her presentation.
Clearly, it had not done her a lick of good.
But what did he expect? They were cut from the same wicked cloth. Their mother had bedded so many men that no one knew the identities of their fathers. Almost certainly, none of them had been the issue of the departed Earl of Ravenscroft, Julian included.
She took a breath, uncertain of how to proceed but following her instinct. “Julian, I was conducting measurements and attempting to observe the snowbands when Lord Harry’s carriage suffered a setback. A new carriage arrived to carry him the rest of the way to Boswell House, and he was gracious enough to take me with him so that I did not need to tramp through the growing snowfall alone. It was most gentlemanly.”
In truth, nothing about the time she’d spent in Lord Harry Marlow’s intoxicating presence had been gentlemanly or proper. From the moment their gazes had first clashed, even through the pelting snowfall, she had felt something deep and smoldering and true arcing between them. His emerald gaze had been too knowing, too bold. His words, his every observation and caress and kiss…good heavens, she had not known such potent persuasion existed. It was as if he had somehow been fashioned precisely for her, and she for him.
The rational, science-minded part of her would have scoffed at such a notion as a flight of fancy had she not just experienced it for herself. She wanted to know him intimately, and she already mourned the loss of his touch.
“Gentlemanly?” her brother demanded, so loudly and with such disbelief that she flinched.
