by Carola Dunn
“I cannot sit down,” Alison protested. “I shall ruin your chair.”
He grinned at her, his brown eyes that she had once thought so cold brimming with amusement. “Then drink this.” He poured a glass of wine from a decanter on a small, spindly table and handed it to her. “No doubt Mrs. Pugh will bear you off any moment anyway.”
‘‘But I must—”
“Drink,” he ordered sternly, and she obeyed. The wine was light and slightly sweet. It spread a glow of warmth throughout her body.
“If you’ll just come with me, Miss Larkin.” The housekeeper had come in while she was drinking.
“But I am quite warm now and must—” She looked over her shoulder at Philip as she was borne inexorably away.
“Mrs. Pugh was my nurse,” he called after her, as if that explained everything.
Hurry as she might, twenty minutes had passed before she went downstairs again. Her hair, beginning to dry, was fluffing like a black dandelion and she was wearing one of Miss Dorothy’s—Lady Vernon’s—discarded gowns. Apparently Dorothy Trevelyan had been on the plump side even as a debutante, for the dress hung in folds about Alison. Only a large cashemire shawl lent by Mrs. Pugh made her decent.
Despite the oddity of her attire, she swept into the library and held up her hand imperiously when Philip started to rise from the chair she had rejected.
“No more interruptions,” she commanded, standing in front of him. “I came all this way in the rain to tell you something and you will not let me speak a word. Lady Emma has eloped with Ralph Osborne.”
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked noncommittally. “Have you decided you want Osborne after all?”
“Certainly not! Because you love Lady Emma!” She was annoyed. “So that you can go after them and persuade her to marry you instead.”
“As a matter of fact, I lent them my carriage,” he said apologetically.
She stared at him, thunderstruck. “You do not care?”
“Not at all. I am glad for them. It is someone else I love.” He pulled her down onto his knee and kissed her.
Surfacing a few minutes later, dazed, breathless and shawl-less, Alison was at a loss for words.
“I’m sorry,” Philip said, though now he sounded smug, not apologetic, “I forgot you think kissing is horrid.”
“That was quite different from when Lord Kilmore kissed me,” she breathed. “Do it again.”
He looked at Midnight, blissfully stretched before the fire. The dog’s tail thumped twice. So he threw discretion to the winds and obliged.
This time when their lips parted, Alison knew exactly what she wanted to say. Looking up into Philip’s dear face, basking in the warmth in his eyes, she said, “I am not precisely sure what a mistress does, but I think I should like to be yours.”
“How can I refuse such a handsome offer?” His face was suffused with amusement. “I am honoured to accept, but on one condition: you must marry me first.”
“You cannot possibly wish to marry me.”
“Why ever not?”
She leaned her head on his shoulder, snugly safe in his arms. “Because you are an important gentleman, a pillar of the establishment.”
“A crumbled pillar.”
She giggled but persisted. “A gentleman of the first consequence. And I am only a silly girl, dreadfully middle class in spite of Mama. After all, she was only the daughter of a rackety Irish viscount. I would not know how to go on.”
“You will learn. You have inherited all the solid, middle class virtues, and someone who can teach herself to read Latin is capable of meeting any challenge. Besides, I could not possibly settle for anything so impermanent as an irregular liaison. A new protector might take you away, and I want you mine forever.”
“Really?”
“I have adored you this age. Dare I hope?”
Alison sat up and said with considerable indignation, “You are laughing at me again.”
“I can’t help it. I never thought to hear a female reject marriage in favour of carte blanche.”
“I have not refused.”
“You would not accept only because Lord Fane did not come up to scratch?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Yes.”
“Lord Fane did come up to scratch. I refused him because I love you so much I could not possibly marry anyone else.”
It seemed like the right moment for another kiss.
Some time later, Alison asked dreamily, “Are you sure we have to be married first?”
“Quite sure.” Sounding hesitant, Philip went on, “If you really want to be ‘your ladyship’ I can obtain a title any time, though it will be a little more difficult since my defection. It is just that for three centuries there has been a family tradition of choosing to be commoners.”
“Oh no, I never had any desire to be called ‘my lady.’ I just thought it would be excessively romantic to be loved by a lord. But I have known for some time,” —she sighed contentedly—“that nothing in the whole world could possibly be half as romantic as being Mrs. Philip Trevelyan.”
Copyright © 1991 by Carola Dunn
Originally published by Harlequin
Electronically published in 2005 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.