“An unwed society miss and not an academic?”
“Yes, I had a mind that we’d—well … never mind, I guess …” Harriet muttered something under her breath that sounded like “Foolish anyway.”
Alexander’s brows pinched with confusion before springing back up with understanding. “You were hoping he’d propose?!”
“No! Well. No. That is, I thought we might start … courting.”
Alexander let out a sharp crack of laughter at the admission, which went through Harriet like a hatchet. At the look on her face, no doubt one of pathetic pain, he stopped. God, she was making acake of herself, just like she’d always assumed she would do in the presence of a man. Marvelous.
Instead, he cleared his throat. “I apologize sincerely,” he said solemnly. Harriet held her breath for a moment, anticipating a continuation of his teasing. However, his eyes held hers, and he seemed to be trying to convey sincerity.
“If you weren’t such a … louche … man, I would have made it out of the library quite intact and perhaps my plan might have gone … well … according to plan.”
“So the ambush in the library was intended for him?”
“I hardlyambushedyou!”
“How do you know him to be good marriageable material? Do you know him to be unattached? Relatively young? In decent health—unless, perhaps, you had a mind to take his Oxford fortune? Does one make a comfortable living as a professor?”
“Not everyone builds their life around the pursuit of wealth. Some of us seek more important things,” she sniffed.
“Your message would be better delivered outside of the carriage where you’ve abducted a duke’s son.”
“Will you cease with the bloody kidnapping nonsense? You agreed at the last inn to go forward with me. I no longer have you here under duress. Had you offered for my hand like an honorable man, I would never have been in the position to kidnap you at all.” Harriet got the feeling she did when she and Philippa used to race down the hill by their old house, before Mama died. She was gaining momentum. “As for Mr. Dawkins, I know him to be an amiable andintelligent man, and whatever else he may be, I should think it falls after that in significance.”
“What if his likeness didn’t suit you? Perhaps he has a weak chin or sparse hair? A dastardly scar across his face?”
“I should like a scar, I think,” Harriet rejoined. Alexander’s eyes flashed with something that Harriet wished were envy, though she discarded the thought as quickly as it came and continued, “but his likeness is acceptable.”
“You’ve seen a portrait of him?”
Harriet squirmed the tiniest amount in her seat, realizing the mistake she’d made. Of course, this failed to escape Alexander’s hawklike notice. No wonder the man did so well in business. Something about his piercing eyes made one want to come undone, to unburden oneself, to beg for approval. Beg for something. At that last thought, Harriet clenched her legs tightly together. Why did her body keepclenchingaround him? Drat.
“Ahh, so thereisa portrait. A picture somewhere? Did you cut it out of a newspaper? Paste it in a locket? Is it buried in your trousseau?”
“I don’t have a trousseau.”
“Back to the photo of our dear Mr. Drexel …”
“Dawkins!”
Alexander waved away her correction and suddenly his eyes lit up, wolfishly. Harriet feared what might come out of his mouth next.
“Don’t tell me you have it on your person?”Oh dear.
Harriet couldn’t keep up with how quickly he was jumping from embarrassing inquiry to awful assumption. She didn’t have time toschool her face into a believable expression of denial. No, her traitorous eyes had already glanced down at her reticule, giving her away. Alexander snatched up the bag, and within seconds held the small, creased pamphlet, which had, until a fateful library meeting, contained her entire plan for the future.
He held it up dramatically. “Let’s see the man of the hour. The paragon of intellect who captured the affections of our dear Lady Harriet Bancroft!” Alexander turned the paper over and then flipped it back to the front, as if dissatisfied with what he’d seen.
“This is him?” he asked, holding up the pamphlet with the back facing Harriet.
“Yes,” she admitted, reluctantly.
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“His nose is a bit … squidgy, but perhaps that’s owed to the artist’s interpretation. His eyes are lacking in expression and his hair looks … well,unfortunateis the word that comes to mind. His valet should be let go. Or hanged.”
