Even so, the notion of the sought-after Duke of Warwick being jealous of other suitors vying for her hand pleased her.
“Would you like me to wake Jane?” she asked innocently, baiting him. “After all, your reputation is far more infamous than any of my other suitors, as you say.”
“No,” he bit out, giving her fingers a squeeze of warning. “Do not wake her. Who are these other suitors you speak of, Freckles?”
“Viscount Tottingham.” His was the first name that came to mind.
Warwick scowled. “Tottingham is a coxcomb with a penchant for losing all his blunt at the tables. He is in desperate need of a wealthy bride thanks to his own foibles, which is why he is in attendance here.”
This news did not surprise her. She did not care for the viscount, who was the sort of man who never listened to a word spoken that wasn’t his own. “He is a reckless gamer, then?”
The duke’s brows snapped together. “The worst sort, and not at all deserving of a lady like you as his wife. Who else?”
She tried—unsuccessfully—to squelch the burst of warmth his words ignited within her. A lady like you. What could he mean? She wanted to ponder it longer, but he waited expectantly, wishing to hear the rest of her list of gentlemen friends. “The Earl of Fulham.”
“Far too old,” he said dismissively. “What others?”
“The Marquess of Vale, Viscount Elmhurst, and Sir Stephen Montgomery.” All men she did not care for. Not one of them made her body burn as if kissed by flame with the mere act of sitting beside her.
Oh dear. From where had that errant thought come?
“Vale is a rake, Elmhurst is a simpleton, and Sir Stephen is a drunkard,” Warwick pronounced. “Is that the lot of them?”
She nodded, aware that he still held her fingers tangled in his grasp and his thumb had begun a lazy exploration of her inner wrist. Circles, of all things, and tantalizing in the most alarming fashion. She should snatch her hand away, and yet she did not wish to. His blue eyes held her entranced. He leaned forward, lowering his head as if to impart a secret.
“You forgot one.”
His deep, decadent voice sent an unfamiliar sensation, molten and pleasant, vibrating through her.
The combination of his penetrating regard, nearness, and touch undid her sufficiently enough that she could not follow his logic. She frowned, trying not to become mesmerized by the perfect shape of his mouth or the surprising fullness of his lower lip. Trying not to imagine him setting his lips upon hers.
Kissing her.
“Forgot?” she repeated weakly, thinking for a foolish moment that they were speaking in different languages. Or that he was taking part in a dialogue to which she was not privy.
“Yes.” His smile was blinding in its beauty. He flashed even, white teeth. The corners of his eyes crinkled. His dimples revealed themselves. “Me.”
She had seen those mesmerizing grooves on many occasions over the years, but she did not recall ever once being the direct cause of them. Or the sole recipient, for that matter. For a moment, they stole her breath. And then she recalled, belatedly, what he had just said.
Lydia gathered her wits. “You are not my suitor, Warwick.”
His wicked thumb traveled ever higher, up the sleeve of her prim, white muslin dress, making her pulse leap. “And yet, Freckles, here I sit.”
He was jesting, of course. For some reason, he had decided to make her the beneficiary of his rakish games. Ennui, perhaps? She supposed he had attended the house party to entertain Rand, who had been quite displeased at the prospect of having to attend. It did not matter. She would not be his source of amusement. She needed to put an end to his nonsense. Immediately.
She snatched her hand from him. “Do not make light of me. I will not be your joke.”
“I would not jest about such a thing, my dear.” His smile faded, taking with it the dimples that so distracted her. “I am deadly serious when it comes to you.”
Surely, she was in the throes of some sort of odd dream. At any moment, she would awake in her bed, and this entire interview with the Duke of Warwick would be revealed for the flight of fancy it undoubtedly was. There was no reason that the handsome rake she had grown up admiring—the same man who had never once looked upon her as a female, who had instead blazed through a series of whispered demimonde conquests, who had every marriageable lady in London hanging upon his every word and deed—would court her.
Unless…
Her eyes narrowed. “Have you made a wager at your club, Warwick?”
He shook his head slowly. “No, Freckles.”
His regard grew in intensity. Why was it so dratted hot in the room? Winter had already set in early, and with it, the unmerciful cold she had come to expect later in the season. Surely, the source of the warmth could not be the lone fireplace crackling on the far end of the chamber, its flames dying more and more by the minute.
Certainly, it had not seemed this stifling when she had entered. She sidled left, away from Warwick’s large, lean form. Perhaps the heat emanating from him was the culprit.
“This is a mission of mercy perpetuated by my brother,” she guessed next, trying to ignore how unsettled she felt. “You are pretending to court me to quell the worries of my parents as a favor to Rand.”
“Wrong again, Freckles.” A rueful half smile curved his sensual mouth. “As much as I consider Rand the brother I never had, I would not play suitor to anyone merely because he asked. Which he most assuredly did not, I assure you.”
Her mind whirled, the natural proclivity she’d always possessed for science making her certain there was a logical reason behind Warwick’s sudden change. “It cannot be because of my dowry, can it? I understand it is quite generous, but surely there are any other number of ladies with papas who have plump pockets. Or any one of the Misses Winter. They are lovely, all of them, and their fortunes are as large as they are renowned.”
“Freckles.”
She was not imagining it now. He had tipped his head forward, and his blue gaze burned into hers. His breath skated over her lips, warm and tempting. “Yes?”
“Stop talking.” His hand slid into the hair at her nape, and in the next instant, his lips claimed hers.
Lydia went still, adjusting to the strange sensation of a man’s mouth upon hers. Not just any man’s, but Warwick’s. Oh. His lips, like his kiss, were surprisingly supple. He kissed her gently at first, a series of light, teasing pecks that left her yearning for more. At last, his tongue swept over the seam of her lips. She gasped, and then everything changed.
He groaned deep within his throat and angled her head to press his advantage. His tongue, bold and plundering, slid inside her mouth. The sensation was decadent. Shocking. Her hands flitted to his broad shoulders, every part of her body alive, aware of him in a way she could not yet comprehend. She breathed him in, tasted him, felt his corded muscles and tempting strength. Despite herself, she leaned forward, her breasts crushing against his chest, and moved her lips in a mimicry of his, kissing him back.
Warwick was kissing her. His tongue was in her mouth. She was clutching and clinging to him like a wanton. Her maid slumbered not ten feet away. Anyone, at any moment, could come upon them and she would be ruined. Somehow, that knowledge only served to enhance the awareness careening through her.
Her nipples hardened, her breasts aching and full where they strained against him, and the strangest pulse of longing began between her thighs. Good heavens, he kissed as she would have supposed he would, with a masterful persuasion that marked him as a rake of the first order. She should not be so easily affected by a man with such dubious skill, and most definitely not by Warwick, of all men.
And yet, she was powerless to stop the desire that crashed over her as she shamelessly clambered closer to him. She had never wanted anything more than she wanted him.
He tore his mouth from hers and kissed a path of fire down her jaw to her ear. Pressing his lips to the sensitive shell, he whisper
ed, “Do you believe I want to court you now?”
She shivered, tilting her head to allow him greater access to a part of her she had not previously supposed would be as desperate for Warwick’s mouth as it was now. He obliged her, nuzzling her earlobe before running his tongue over the hollow directly behind it.
A moan escaped her before she could stifle it. Movement in the corner of her eye had her gaze flying to Jane, who had begun to stir. “Oh dear heavens,” she hissed. “Warwick. Jane is waking. You must return to your seat.”
“Damn,” he cursed, pressing one more kiss to her neck before he hastily disengaged, stood, and stalked back to the chair upon which he had begun his call. Less than discreetly, he adjusted his breeches before seating himself once more.
Jane cleared her throat and shifted in her chair, adjusting her cap as she blinked sleep from her eyes. She did not appear to have witnessed a thing, thank heavens. Lydia took a deep, calming breath, hoping she didn’t appear as thoroughly kissed and discombobulated as she felt.
“You did not answer,” Warwick pressed, drawing her attention back to him once more. To his mouth, which had owned hers in a way she had not been able to imagine possible. “Do you believe me now, Lady Lydia?”
She swallowed, willing her heart to slow its frantic pace, and then surprised even herself when she said, “Perhaps I require further convincing, Warwick.”
He grinned, and she felt that seductive smirk all the way to her toes. “Challenge gladly accepted.”
Chapter Four
An early snow had fallen, blanketing the landscape in white. While the snow was lovely to gaze upon, transforming the countryside with its tranquil beauty, Alistair appreciated the precipitation for a different reason entirely.
It gave him an excuse to drive about in a sleigh with Freckles.
Alone.
Seated side by side.
He handled the reins with expert ease, trying his best to stem the flow of heat that arrowed directly to his groin each time her soft body jostled his. It was a devilish form of torture to be so near to her and yet be unable to touch her.
In fact, it was bloody well hell.
Now that he had tasted her sweet, pink lips and run his tongue over her silken skin, his cock was having a difficult time understanding the finer points of propriety. Mine, railed the beast within him, longing to claim and conquer and take.
He could not blame it, for he was accustomed to taking what he wanted, when he wanted it. The ladies he had bedded in the past had not been ladies at all, nor had they been the sort who wore white dresses and required wooing. They had been demireps and wicked widows, the furthest one could get from prim innocence and virginal misses.
The furthest one could get from Freckles, and while his body didn’t recognize the distinction, his mind did and was glad for it. He cast a glance in her direction, noting the stiff manner in which she held herself, staring straight ahead. Her profile was shaded beneath a bonnet trimmed by a spray of silk roses. Her hands were buried in a fur muffler, the blankets over her lap hiding much of her from view.
“You are quiet, Freckles,” he observed at last, wondering what could so absorb her thoughts as to render her speechless. Unusual, that.
“The same could be said for you, Warwick.” Her tone was tart, but she still did not face him, keeping her gaze trained anywhere but upon him.
“I was admiring the view.” Although the words rolled fluently off his tongue, they were not empty flattery. He turned his eyes back to the vista ahead.
“The country looks the same today as it does every day after it has snowed,” she clipped.
Intriguing. Freckles was not, nor had she ever been, a lady of brevity. What had her at sixes and sevens? Could it be that he was the source of her cool affectation—or, to be more apt, her reaction to him?
He found himself grinning. “That is decidedly not the view I spoke of.”
When he threw another quick glance in her direction, her luscious lips had thinned into a straight, unwelcoming line. “You need not feel obliged to flatter me. There is nothing I dislike so much as insincerity.”
“I am being nothing but sincere, Freckles.” It was his turn to frown. “You insult me. Why would I flatter you?”
“I should think the answer as obvious as the reins in your hands.” She paused. “You cannot even bring yourself to address me properly, and yet you claim to be entranced by my beauty, a beauty which no other man has ever been so affected by.”
Ah. Her reaction to him was not what had her tied up in knots. Her pride was. Judging from yesterday’s stringent litany of questions, she believed his interest in her to be caused by an ulterior motive. Her words returned to him.
It cannot be because of my dowry, can it?
Guilt stabbed through him at the reminder, banking the fires of lust raging in his veins. She was not entirely wrong in her assumptions, and he had neatly sidestepped her query by kissing her rather than answering. He should have told her the truth. Would have, had he not feared that in doing so she would reject him. Regardless of his pressing need for a wife with a substantial dowry, he wanted Freckles, and no other.
So, he had kissed her senseless, as much because he wanted to as because it helped his cause. He was more than aware he was a proficient kisser and that the ladies did not find fault with his face or form. If using that knowledge to his advantage made him a cad, then it couldn’t be helped.
Her objections needled him, for they forced him to take a closer look at himself.
“Here, now.” He cast her another, searching glance. “I have always called you Freckles. It is your sobriquet, is it not? And as for the rest, I merely said I was enjoying the view. I would never utter such folderol in the name of courting a lady.”
She sent a furtive look in his direction at last, one delicate brow arched. “Folderol?”
His gaze met and held hers for a beat before he returned his attention to the horses. “I have not once, in all my years, told a lady I was entranced by her beauty. Nor would I.”
He said the last with earnest conviction, for while he was no angel, neither was he a silver-tongued devil. It was not in his nature to ply his conquests with idle chatter. He far preferred deed over word. A cleverly placed kiss, a tender caress, the glide of his tongue over achingly sensitive, smooth female flesh.
Freckles had nearly come out of her skin when he had licked the hollow behind her ear, and he had fantasized all night about doing it again while he was planted deep inside her and she clenched around his cock. She had smelled of violets there, and something else that was distinctively feminine and purely hers. Decadent. Sweet.
Bloody mesmerizing.
“I am certain you have told many females a great deal of nonsense over the years, Warwick.” Her arch tone pecked through his lust-hazed thoughts. “Whether or not you used those precise words is a moot point. The thing is…”
She trailed off, and he turned to her expectantly. “What is the thing, Freckles? Have out with it.”
Her lips pursed as she seemed to muddle through what she wished to say. She looked adorably befuddled, and the driving desire to put his mouth on hers once more raged through him.
“The thing is, Your Grace,” she began, “that you refer to me in the same manner with which one might speak about a butler, and you have known me for nearly my whole life, and I have always been a nuisance to you. I am more than aware that I am too tall and that I am rather more plump than convention considers appealing—”
“You have never been a nuisance, and neither are you plump,” he intervened.
“That I am too opinionated,” she continued as if he had not spoken at all, “that I am nearly on the shelf, and that you are a handsome and dashing duke to my spinster wallflower. Yet suddenly, you declare yourself my suitor and follow me about this house party, daring to suggest that you are gazing upon me as if I am someone who would hold you in thrall when we both know quite well I am not.”
He didn’t know
how to answer her concerns, for she was not precisely wrong that he had not always seen her as he did now. That was part of what he loved about the termagant. She was perceptive and observant, unafraid to embrace her intelligence and hoist it as a flag for all to see. But she was decidedly wrong about her not holding him in her thrall. Her artless loveliness hit him in the gut each time he looked at her.
“Would it help to know that I have also never kissed my butler?” he asked, attempting levity as a last recourse.
Freckles exhaled a disgusted sigh. “Have you gone mad, Warwick? Perhaps the strain of your father’s death has been too much for you and you are now addle-brained. It is the only explanation for your developing this ludicrous notion that you wish to court me.”
“Moreover,” he continued as if she had not spoken, warming to his cause, “I never considered you a nuisance, not even when I rescued you, bedraggled and stinking of fish, from the pond that day.”
“Stinking of fish!” Fury made her voice deep and husky.
He swallowed, shifting in his seat as his cock grew more rigid. What the hell was wrong with him that he could sit here arguing with her and yet think of nothing but touching her, kissing her, and making her his? Her anger was oddly lust-inspiring. Then again, this was Freckles, and everything about her was.
“You see?” Alistair gave her a heavy-lidded look. “I am honest to a fault. Obsequiousness has never been one of my sins.”
“Oh.” She huffed, her breath making a silver cloud in the air, her bonnet stirring in her agitation. “You know what I mean, Warwick. Do not be obtuse. I know my faults, all of them, so do not expect me to believe you cannot spy every one for yourself.”
“You are the perfect height,” he countered, mentally ticking through her extensive arguments, “and your form is perfect, curved and pleasing and feminine just as it ought to be. You are intelligent, kindhearted, and quick-witted enough to flay any lesser opponent alive. If it has never occurred to you that I like you, Freckles, precisely for who and what you are, then you are a fool. You are precisely the sort of woman whom any man would be proud to take to wife.”
Wishes in Winter: A Wicked Winters World Book Page 3