You’re not supposed to laugh when a gentleman proposes marriage.” “I’m sorry, Julian. I can’t help it; it is too absurd. You must be bosky!” Harry Woodford quelled her laughter and eyed her friend curiously. Julian had dined with them informally, as he often did while in Kent. He’d only had several glasses of wine with dinner, and he and Papa had not spent much time over their port before rejoining her and Aunt Claudia in their cozy drawing room. Harry also knew that despite his growing reputation as a rake, Julian really didn’t drink more than most men. Still, she couldn’t think of another reason why he would propose to her. “I’m not the slightest bit foxed,” he insisted, indignation lighting his vivid blue eyes. “I am perfectly serious. Will you marry me?” “No. I still cannot believe you are asking me. You must be drunk, but don’t worry,” she said in a soothing tone. “I promise to forget what you’ve said by tomorrow morning.” “I tell you I’m sober as a judge!”
