“My beautiful idiot!” said Mr Ravenscar lovingly.
Deeply pleased by this form of address, Miss Grantham: “You have no notion of the money I owe! You are mad even to think of marrying me!”
“I beg your pardon. I have a very good notion of the money you owe.”
“Do but consider what your relatives would say!”
“I have not the slightest interest in anything they may say.”
“You cannot marry a—a wench out of a gaming-house!”
Mr Ravenscar’s arm tightened about her. “I shall marry a wench out of a gaming-house with as much pomp and ceremony as I can contrive.”
She gave a rather watery chuckle. “Oh, no! Think of your sister!”
“I am thinking of her. I am wholly incapable of controlling her, and trust that you may succeed where I have failed. My stepmother has informed me that it is my duty to marry, to provide Arabella with a suitable chaperon.”
Miss Grantham lifted his hand to her cheek. “I may ruin you,” she warned him.