She forced herself to look away, to settle her stare upon her brother instead. He was dressed in the height of fashion, much like Lord Graham. Any number of young ladies would consider themselves fortunate indeed for him to spare them a glance, but Maximilian refused to find himself caught in the parson’s mousetrap.
“Mama has yet another success on her hands,” she agreed.
“Just the thing, Han,” Maximilian said with an affectionate grin. “You shall find yourself a husband in no time with all the swains you have collected this evening alone.”
Hannah flushed at her brother’s indelicate reference to her marriage prospects. The last thing she wished to discuss before Lord Graham was her suitors. None of them interested her. None of them moved her.
She fluttered her fan to distract herself and settled upon the means to secure a few moments with Lord Graham. “It is woefully hot in here, is it not? I find myself in need of some punch.”
“I shall fetch you some, my lady,” Lord Graham volunteered.
Drat. She had been hoping her brother would play the gentleman first. Her heart sank. Think, Hannah.
There were other tricks in a lady’s repertoire. The feigned swoon, the torn hem, the pebble in the slipper. Surely one of those would do…
Just as Lord Graham was about to take his leave, Hannah threw caution to the wind and pretended to stumble, jostling into Lord Graham. His reaction was instant, one large hand wrapping around her arm to steady her.
“Oh do forgive me,” she said, breathless as his scent washed over her. “I am feeling rather faint, I fear.”
“I will escort you to a seat,” Lord Graham offered. “Sundenbury, if you would retrieve the punch instead?”
Her heart leapt. His nearness was positively intoxicating. “Yes, please.”
Max nodded. “Of course, Graham. Thank you for looking after my sister.”
With that, he took his leave of them. Everything within her rejoiced at this unexpected turn of luck. Why, she ought to have staged a pending swoon ages ago!
Lord Graham led her to a chair and seated himself at her side. An impressive array of flowers hid them from view, providing an aura of intimacy even in the midst of the crowded ballroom.
He turned to her, the full effect of his handsomeness stealing her breath. A teasing smile was on his lips, his bright eyes twinkling with undisguised merriment. “Brava. That was an excellent performance, Lady Hannah.”
She fanned herself to chase the heat stealing over her, partially induced by Lord Graham and partially by embarrassment at the ease with which he had seen through her ploy. “And here I was, thinking myself dreadfully clever.”
“Oh, you are indisputably clever,” he returned, his grin deepening. “Tell me, were you desperate for a respite from the mad whirl, or were you longing for a moment alone with me?”
His query produced a burst of sensation low in her belly. Foreign and heady all at once. She gave her fan another flutter. “And if I were to say the latter, my lord?”
This time, it was not her fancy running away with her. His gaze settled on her mouth. “I suppose I should wish to know why.”
“Why?” she repeated, wondering how he could not know the answer already.
“Indeed.” He inclined his head, his teasing air giving way to something deeper. Something more intense. “You have at least half a dozen beaux ready to jump if you but snap your fingers, dukes and earls amongst them. Surely you would not need a moment alone with a mere second son.”
Had he been paying attention to the suitors paying her court this evening, then? Hope lifted within her, rather like an ascension balloon. “I can assure you, there is nothing mere about you at all, Lord Graham.”
His expression shifted. Dear heavens, had she said too much? Had she not said enough?
“You pay me an undeserved honor, my lady,” he said. “I am not worthy of such esteem.”
Of course he was. Lord Graham Dowling was a paragon of masculine perfection. He was handsome, intelligent, gallant, and kind. From the first moment she had met him, she had fallen helplessly beneath his spell.
“You are,” she corrected him, then bit her lip to keep from revealing more.
She hardly knew where she stood with him. His attentions had never been romantic. He had always been Max’s school chum, older than she, out of reach. Now that she’d had her debut, she was free to see at last if she had a glimmer of a chance with him.
The strains of the orchestra swirled around them. Hannah wished they were truly alone. That Maximilian would never find them. How she wanted to remain here, basking in Lord Graham’s presence.
“Will you save a dance for me?” he asked her, stealing her from her thoughts.
She would happily save every dance for him. Her heart beat with unadulterated happiness.
“Nothing would please me more, my lord.”
He smiled at her boyishly, tenderly, and Hannah found herself smiling back at him, as if they shared a secret none of their fellow revelers were privy to.
Oh yes.
This man would be hers. She vowed it.
Chapter Three
Now
Hannah shivered in the icy winter’s air, rubbing her arms. Torches had been lit to facilitate revelers who grew too weary of the crush indoors and sought a breath of air. But the night was so cold, she was the only soul foolish enough to brave the punishing December chill. The unseasonably early snow which had fallen made the extensive Abingdon Hall gardens look as if they twinkled beneath the moon’s glowing light.
But she could scarcely admire the alabaster beauty.
She was too distraught.
She had told herself, following Fawkesbury’s death, as she went out of mourning and began resuming her role in society, that it was inevitable she would see Graham again. Inevitable they would cross paths. But she had not been prepared for it to happen so soon. Nor had she imagined it would occur here, at this gathering, her first since her re-entrée into the polite world.
She had failed to anticipate how many lords and ladies would be in attendance at this house party. And especially not him. Why him, of all gentlemen? Why could she not have simply acted the chaperone to the twins for the next few weeks, and then returned home without ever having to be reminded of…
“It is a cold evening, is it not, Lady Fawkesbury?”
She stiffened at the voice, deep and low. Familiar, even though it had been years since she had last heard it. Devil take him, but that voice still slid over her like a caress after all this time. After his betrayal.
Heart thumping, body traitorously aware of him, she spun about.
He stood near. In dangerous proximity. He was tall, so very tall, towering over her like a vengeful god. In the glow of the torchlight, his handsome face took on a menacing quality. His jaw was rigid. His bright-blue eyes seemed to spark with icy fire. All the subtle colors in his hair seemed to come alive, the cinnamon and gold more radiant with the torch’s loving illumination.
He was so handsome, her heart hurt.
She found her voice at last, determined to sound unaffected. “The air seems to have grown suddenly colder, Lord Haven.”
“You expected a warm greeting from me?” he asked, taking a step closer. Then another.
He still smelled the same, spice and lemons. After all this time, she ought to have forgotten it, but the scent, mingling in the crisp winter air, unleashed a deep, familiar sense of homecoming within her.
Ridiculous, she scoffed inwardly. This man had never been her home.
She refused to retreat, though the distance between them had grown uncomfortably small. “I expected no greeting from you, my lord. Indeed, we are hardly acquaintances any longer. I should think it decidedly odd for you to seek me out.”
He laughed, but the sound held no levity, only bitterness. “You think too much, Lady Fawkesbury.”
“Once, I did not think enough,” she snapped before she could think better of it.
Those words
of hers were telling. Far too telling. How she wished she could recall them.
“Touché, my lady.” His countenance, like his tone, was grim. “Rest assured I did not seek you out. I merely required an escape from the swelter and the crush of the ballroom.”
“You did not wish to dance?” she asked, and again, she regretted the question.
His presence at this house party had shaken her. His nearness in these moonlit gardens had stripped her of the last of her defenses. She was unprepared for battle.
“Soon enough.”
His clipped response only filled her with more questions. She knew he had not married, not yet. Nor was he betrothed. Had he come here to this house party in search of a bride? Perhaps seeking to make a match with one of the Winter sisters?
She despised the jealousy surging to life within her at the notion. “Then perhaps you ought to leave me to enjoy a breath of air in peace.”
“Why?” He came nearer still. One more step. He was close enough to touch. “Does my presence disturb you?”
Yes.
“No,” she said blithely. Too blithely, she feared. “Of course not. Remain out here for as long as you like.”
Until your fingers and toes freeze, she added silently. Until you are as frostbitten as your heart.
She would go if he chose to remain. For she could not bear any more of such inane talk with him, as if he had not destroyed her. As if he had not abandoned her at the time when she had needed him most. As if he had not owned her heart.
As if he did not still own it, damn him. In spite of his betrayal. In spite of the years.
How foolish she was, how weak. Because seeing Graham once had been enough to remind her just how deep her feelings for him ran, whether or not he had ever deserved them.
A shudder wracked her then.
“You are cold, Lady Fawkesbury?” he asked, seeing everything, as always.
She wanted to tell him not to refer to her by that hated name, a name which had become the source of so much of her pain for the last few years. But she said nothing.
“Pray, do not feign concern for my wellbeing.” She rubbed her arms, partially in an effort to warm herself, part in an effort to protect.
She knew quite well he had never cared for her. He had merely been amusing himself with her. Oh, how she wished she had been wiser then.
“Nothing about you has concerned me for five years, madam,” he snapped, his voice colder than the air.
His words were the equivalent of a slap.
She kept from flinching by exerting all her control. “Has it been five years? I confess, I had not recalled.”
A wretched lie, as it happened. She knew exactly how long it had been since she had seen him last. To the day. Hour.
Minute.
A half smile curved his lips, but it was not the smile she remembered. This was the vicious smile of a predator. “I should not have expected you to, Lady Fawkesbury. Your memory has always been a problem for you, has it not? Along with your loyalty.”
The loathing simmering beneath his words, belying the chill with which he spoke them, gave her pause. What had he to be angry about? He was the one who had abandoned her.
“On the contrary, Lord Haven. My loyalty has never been called into question,” she countered. “I wish I could say the same for others.”
Even to Fawkesbury, she had remained loyal. Whilst he had made his bed with countless others, Hannah had not committed adultery. Her reputation as a married lady was, ironically, far more spotless than it had ever been as a debutante.
“What a lark. Need I remind you of the promise you made me?” His low voice held an accusatory note, a bitterness she had not expected from him.
“How dare you?” she demanded.
What rancor could he possibly harbor when he was the one who had disappeared from her life when she had needed him most? She had been eighteen, a stupid girl who knew nothing of the world. He had been her brother’s dashing, handsome friend. A gentleman, she had supposed, and one with whom she could trust her heart, and so much more…
But she could not think of those dark days now, nor the light she had so wrongly supposed she had found in the man before her. He had been the most heartless, soulless of cads. Taking advantage of an innocent, then leaving her.
“How dare I, my lady?” He reached out, caught her chin in his thumb and forefinger, holding her captive with the lightest touch.
Deep within, she mourned the glove on his hands. She ached for his touch, one last time, his skin on hers.
Stupid, traitorous body.
But still, though her mind knew she should move… Though the December wind blew, though she knew this man had never loved her as she loved him, she could not go. She was immobile, speechless, staring up at him. Lost in his eyes. In the memories. She shivered again, but it had nothing to do with the cold.
“Damn you, Han,” he growled, his other hand going to her waist. “Tell me you do not remember this.”
His head dipped toward hers.
Go, warned a voice inside her. Run.
There was a ballroom filled with people just beyond them, the faint strains of the orchestra reaching her. But she silenced the voice. Ignored the repercussions. She stepped forward, rose on her toes.
Her arms went around Graham’s neck. Their mouths met.
He had dreamed of her, so many nights. Years had passed, but he had never forgotten. Though he had clung to the pain of her betrayal, her defection, he had not stopped wanting her. Nor had he ceased loving her.
Which was why kissing Hannah, the Countess of Fawkesbury, was the biggest mistake of his life.
Her lips were warm, in defiance of the cold night. She opened for him instantly, her arms were wrapped around his neck, her soft breasts crushed into his chest, and it was as if the five years between them had never happened. He was once more the man he had been then, unjaded, unscathed. His tongue slid inside, playing against hers. She made the sweet sound he remembered, surrender and need, the one that had never failed to make his cock spring to life.
Tonight was no exception.
Sadly, he possessed no restraint when it came to this woman. Nor had he any pride. Because now that he had her in his arms, every honed instinct roared to life. He kissed her with all the hunger burning inside him, the flame that had never been doused. Not by time, distance, or pain.
She tasted sweet, like the spiced negus being served at the ball, and like everything he had ever wanted. Her tongue invaded his mouth in return, hesitantly at first, and then with greater ardor. He had to have more of her. He had to devour her.
This was not enough.
He was ravenous for her. Need fired through his veins, pooled in his loins. He caught the lushness of her lower lip in his teeth and gently nipped before licking away the sting. The hand he held on her waist could not resist traveling. He slid it upward in a caress, cupping her breast.
Her nipples were sweetly sensitive. He remembered that about her. Her honey hair was shot with copper and curled when it was unbound. He remembered that, too. Her hips were pale as cream, generously curved. She had a birthmark on her left hip shaped like a heart, and it had never failed to tantalize him. A mole just above her right knee. He knew her laughter. How it felt to sink deep inside her.
All the memories came flooding back in one kiss.
How perfectly her body fitted to his, as if she had been made for him, and it had always been this way. The fire inside him, the blazing lust to have her, to make her his, all returned with staggering force. His desire pounded in his pulse, licked through him like the flames in a burning house, threatening to destroy him. He had known other women since her, but none had been Hannah, and that had never been more painfully apparent than now.
He had to have her again.
If he was going to shackle himself for life, to find a bride and settle down, doing his duty as he had vowed he would to Gervase on his deathbed, then Graham wanted one more taste of passion. One more night
of bliss. He had to make love to Hannah once more.
Just once.
He had to have her beneath him, had to feel her sweet body surrendering to his.
One kiss, and he was wild with need. Drunk on her taste, on her sweetness. Drunk on Hannah. But she was kissing him, too. Kissing him fervently, frantically. Her velvet-soft lips responded to his so perfectly.
He wanted her now, but that was foolish. Still, he moved them deeper into the shadows. The wind bit at his flesh, reminding him they could not remain outdoors long, but he was reluctant to let her go. Her scent surrounded him, mingling with the cool freshness of nature: lavender and lemon.
Without ending their kiss, he maneuvered them into a sheltered space between two sculpted holly hedges. A marble statue of some Greek god hovered over them. By the light of the moon, and with Hannah in his arms, he did not give enough of a damn to decipher which one. He had her back against the statue’s base, and then he moved his lips to her throat.
With a complete disregard for the marks he might leave behind, he nibbled on a tender cord of her neck. Even her skin was delicious. Soft and smooth and warm, salty and flowery, all at once.
Her fingers were in his hair now, and his hand had burrowed in her gown. He grabbed a fistful, wanting to lift it to her waist, wanting desperately to get beneath it. Until he recalled he was still wearing gloves, denying him the sensation of her flesh bare against his. Another burst of wind whipped a fine sheen of powdery snow against them. It coasted over his heated face, a frosty recrimination he ignored.
Five years without her.
Now that he had her in his arms, he could not stop.
He kissed his way to her pulse, where it beat fast in a telling rhythm. Down to her décolletage. He kissed the tops of her breasts, abandoned her gown in favor of cupping her breast once more. She arched into him. Through her stays, he found her nipple with his thumb, pebbled.
“Graham,” she whispered.
The sound of his name in her husky voice, drenched with desire, sent another roaring rush of lust straight through him. And with it came more memories. The country house party where they had first made love, a walk through the rain when they had taken refuge in one of the temples built upon the estate they visited, and they had made love for the first time with the rain pounding on the leaden glass overhead. They had met everywhere. In her chamber, in his. They had met each other by the stream. Had ridden to an abandoned hunting cabin.
Wooed in Winter Page 2