It was the question that had struck him as he’d gazed upon her in the moonlight, noting how very lovely she was, with her tall, lissome form and auburn hair, her retroussé nose kissed with freckles and her stubborn chin. The tears and sadness in her eyes had made him long to take her into his arms, and that protective surge, the urgent need to comfort her, had taken him by surprise.
How foolish of him to never have considered Freckles before, when now it seemed impossible to imagine any other lady fulfilling the role he would have her claim. He needed to marry, and if he must have anyone, he would have her. Freckles was loyal and intelligent, and though she never strayed from speaking her mind, he found he rather admired that trait. He could do no better in his future wife.
Of course, there was also the matter of her impressive dowry, and that could not be overlooked, as it, too, was quite necessary.
“You will persuade her of the wisdom of your strategy in no time, I am certain,” he forced himself to say, his mind traveling back to Freckles once more, as it invariably did.
“Damned inconvenient, all these fortune hunters sniffing about,” Rand said dismissively.
Fortune hunters.
The phrase made him stiffen. His sire’s staggering obligation was not a topic he preferred to think about. The mere thought of the former duke gambling himself into oblivion before putting a pistol in his mouth filled him with an incapacitating rage. Alistair was on the brink of penury, just as many of the lords in attendance were, drawn by the lure of the Winter sisters and their massive dowries.
But unlike the others, he was not attending the house party to snare a share of the Winter fortune.
He was here to snare Lady Lydia Brownlow, whose dowry, while far surpassed by the Winters’ wealth, was immense on its own. Revelstoke was rich as Croesus, and in an effort to marry off Freckles this Season so the younger daughter, Cecily, could debut, he had been bandying about the value of her dowry everywhere he could.
All London knew marrying her would result in a sizable fortune. It wasn’t the sole reason Alistair wanted to make Freckles his duchess, but he was uncomfortably aware his best friend may have cause to disagree should he ever discover the extent of his father’s debts.
He very much did not want anyone—let alone Rand—interfering with getting what he wanted. And what he wanted the more he thought upon it was Freckles, who smelled of spring violets and possessed gray eyes that shimmered with intelligence, whose lush mouth seemed undeniably created for kissing.
Forhiskisses, to be precise.
His alone.
He felt suddenly, fiercely possessive of her. He did not know what it was about her—he had tried to understand the force of his newfound, troublesome feelings without success—but somewhere betwixt that moonlit garden and this very moment, he had become determined to make Lady Lydia Brownlow his.
If he was honest, it had begun before the Havenhurst ball. He could still recall the way she had felt in his arms the one and only time he had danced with her, and the moment when he had gazed into her upturned face and noticed her eyes contained vivid flecks of blue. Awareness had sparked between them even then. She had called him a rogue when he had complimented her dress, which had been a pink affair wholly unsuited to her personality. A strange stirring had occurred inside him.
Ridiculous, he had told himself at the time.This is Freckles.
And yet, that same thing had not moved one whit from its spot, lodged firmly in the vicinity of the heart he would have sworn he did not own. When he had called upon her following the ball, she had muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “jackanapes” when he had bowed before her and kissed her gloved hand. He had yearned to keep her trapped in his grip, to haul her away from their unwanted audience, and kiss her senseless.
Devil take it, his cock was going hard, right here in the midst of the ballroom, before all and sundry. There was no hope for it—he must confess to Rand now, before he waded any deeper into these dangerous waters. He cleared his throat, deciding there was no delicate way to inform one’s oldest and best friend that one lusted after his sister and intended to marry her. “Rand, there is something I must discuss with you.”
“Dear God, Warwick. If you intend to get serious, I need a drink that isn’t more suited to babes and ladies than men fully grown.” Rand downed the dregs of his punch in a final gulp, curling his lip after he swallowed. “Gads. I cannot believe I stooped so low as to consume such rot.”
Alistair didn’t blame him. There was nothing he would like so much as a fine glass of port or a redoubtable whisky, but in their current environs, no such respite was forthcoming. “I am afraid that I must be serious.”
“Blast, there is my sister and my mother,” Rand said distractedly. “Would you mind terribly if we greeted them? Father has sworn this house party is Lydia’s last chance to find a match so Cecily may come out, and perhaps if you show interest in her, it will inspire some of these clods to ask her for a dance, if nothing else.”
He clenched his jaw. “Hold, Rand. Let us be clear: there is no lady I would prefer to greet more than Fr-Lady Lydia. Her intellect is far superior to every other lady of my acquaintance. Indeed, she is every other lady’s superior in all ways, including loveliness, for hers is a beauty that shines from within. No others can hope to hold a candle to it.”
He meant every word. In fact, he would have liked to have said more. Freckles was not merely beautiful. She was vibrant. She was animated. Being in her presence was akin to standing beneath the heated summer sky—glorious, and yet one could so easily get burned. Rand was his friend, yes, but Alistair did not like the manner in which he spoke of Freckles, as though she were the recipient of social alms. Someone to be pitied, rather than worshipped.
And Alistair meant to worship her as soon as possible. With his mouth and his tongue. But that was certainly not the sort of thing a man said to his best friend when the lady in question was his best friend’s sister.
Rand gave him a questioning look. “My sister? Christ, Warwick. Tell me you are not waxing eloquent overmy sister. If you are, I shall have to challenge you to a duel on principle.”
His cheekbones went hot. How mortifying. He found himself gazing beyond his friend, to the place where—at long last—Freckles stood with her turban-wearing mother, the Duchess of Revelstoke. Freckles wore an ivory gown embroidered with roses that hugged her curvaceous figure and emphasized her luscious breasts.
“I do notwax eloquent,” he forced himself to say through a mouth gone suddenly dry. “Ever. But by all means, do let us greet the Duchess of Revelstoke and Lady Lydia.”
Rand grinned at him then. “I am joking about the duel, old chap. If you do want to marry Lyd, I should be relieved. One less bugbear. There is no other gentleman I would be more pleased to see her wed.”
Alistair’s gut clenched as he wondered if his friend would feel the same way if he knew the truth.
