As much as Ash wanted to marry Pru and make her his forever, these were not the words he wanted to hear. He wanted to earn Pru’s love and trust. To win her hand. To wed her because it was what she wanted, not because it was what they were forced into doing.
“He did nothing at all to me, Dev,” Pru stubbornly insisted. “We huddled together for warmth, and we shared conversation. That was all.”
But then Winter reached inside his coat and extracted the most damning evidence of all, holding it aloft. The gilt title emblazoned on the leather cover was undeniable.The Tale of Love.
“Perhaps you would care to explain the presence of this outrage,” Winter said, his tone deceptively calm.
Bloody hell, Ash had forgotten all about Pru’s bawdy book. He had been so caught up in their conversation that he had not even bothered to hide it. Like an utter fool, he had simply allowed it to lay in plain sight where anyone could find it. Much as he had fallen asleep with Pru half-naked in his arms where anyone could find the both of them.
And where they had.
“The book is mine,” he said.
“It is my book,” Pru announced in unison.
Still rubbing his smarting jaw, Ash threw Pru a look that told her he had everything under control before turning back to Winter. “You can rest assured I did not allow Miss Winter to see the contents of the book in question. I was, quite regretfully, reading it when I looked out the window and spied her falling in the snow. In my haste to reach her and offer aid, I must have left the book lying about. The fault is purely mine.”
“Rawdon,” Winter growled now, his voice taut with barely suppressed aggression.
“Yes, Mr. Winter?” he asked, knowing a sound drubbing was likely heading his way.
“Get the hell away from my sister. Right. Bloody. Now.”
Yes, he supposed lingering beneath the fur with Pru in his arms, her back nestled against his chest, her backside pressed to his hip, was not helping matters. Or his cause, for that matter. But still, he had no wish for Pru’s brother to see him in his smalls. And if he took the fur along with him to the hearth, that would mean leaving Pru clad in only her fine chemise. Which would also be indecent.
He cleared his throat. “Would you mind turning your back, Mr. Winter?”
Winter looked as if he were about to spew fire. But he turned his back. “You have until the count of fifteen to get your miserable arse out of here, Rawdon. Await me in the adjoining chamber whilst I speak with my sister.”
“Do not leave me,” Pru whispered, sending Ash an entreating glance.
“I heard that,” Winter called over his shoulder, his voice like a lash. “One, two, three…”
“I am sorry, sweet,” he murmured to her, knowing Winter would be true to his word. The man would think nothing of tossing him into the snow, even if he were bare-arsed. And whilst Ashley was strong and he could match up well against the larger, burlier man, he had no desire to test the matter.
After all, this dreadful conundrum still needed to end with Ash winning the hand of the woman he loved. The woman he had yet to convince to become his wife. But as long as he threw on his breeches before Devereaux Winter murdered him, hopefully he would have ample time to persuade her.
Though he hated to leave her side, he forced himself from beneath the fur and stalked across the room. He dashed to his breeches and hauled them on before hastily stuffing his shirt over his head. The last time he had dressed in such haste and without the aid of his valet had been when he had been leaving the bed of a married lady whose cuckolded husband had returned unexpectedly. Spending an hour beneath a creaking bed while an elderly, drunken baron attempted to plow his wife had not been the proudest moment of Ash’s life. Nor had the resultant tiptoeing away with his boots in his hands whilst the bastard snored.
“Fifteen,” Winter announced, dragging Ash from the murky well of his past. “Get out, Rawdon.”
Ash could have argued the point, demanded Winter to speak to him as befit his station. But he chose not to press the man’s mercy. Instead, he snatched up the remainder of his garments, along with his boots, and offered an awkward bow before withdrawing from the chamber.
He hoped to God this would be the last time he ever left a chamber in dishabille, clutching his boots.
To say herbrother was outraged would be akin to calling London a quaint little village.
The door had scarcely slammed on Lord Ashley’s retreating form—and even cravenly exiting a chamber, he was still ridiculously handsome—when Dev began bellowing at her. Pru winced, wishing she could disappear into the settee. But she was a captive audience, as she was wearing only her chemise beneath the fur, and her beloved, overly protective brother was before her, insistent upon berating her for her lapse in judgment.
“—putting your future in grave danger, along with that of your sister who has yet to be spoken for,” he was saying. “To say nothing of your sisters who are betrothed and are looking to find the path of acceptance in this damnable society! And you, of all our sisters, Pru. You have always been the rational sister. I can scarcely believe you would be the victim of a heartless rakehell like Rawdon. Did he force himself upon you? Do not fear telling me the truth, my dear. I will gut him like a fish if he did.”
Oh, dear.
This was progressing rather worse than she had feared, after she had been jolted from the sweetest dreams she had ever had to Dev’s scowling countenance.
“Lord Ashley did not force me,” she said. “Please do calm down, Dev. As I told you, Lord Ashley was a gentleman. He did nothing untoward.”
Except kiss her senseless, half disrobe her, and ask her to marry him.
