Feigning a smile she did not feel, she disengaged from him. “There you are, my lord. You have had your kiss. As you can see, I remain utterly unmoved. Good evening.”
Liar, taunted her inner devil.
Her heart seemed to thud with the resonance of it, faster now than ever. Li-ar. Li-ar. Li-ar.
She dipped into a frantic curtsy and did not bother to wait to hear his response before fleeing from the library and all the restless urges inside her that told her not to go.
Chapter Two
Rand woke with the devil of a headache.
And a dry mouth.
And an aching cock.
A deuce of a thing, to rise randy, yet still a trifle sotted from the night before. His temples throbbed. His tongue tasted of sour spirits. His ballocks were drawn tight with the need to find a willing woman. His hand idly stroked his shaft. Perhaps not any willing woman. Only one. The one who had turned him inside out in the library before telling him to go to the devil and fleeing.
Leaving him with blue ballocks and a prick hard enough to rival any marble statue’s.
But he would not think of Miss Grace Winter now, he told himself.
No. To Hades with the stubborn chit. Instead, he would think of someone else. His eyes closed, shuttering the light of the country sun which was threatening the window dressings. Anyone else.
Yes.
Soft pink lips. Hungry pink nipples to match. Long, auburn hair he could uncoil from a chignon. Breasts that would fill his palms. Curvaceous thighs. A tempting heart-shaped mark on her throat…
Christ.
He released his cock and threw his head back into the pillow, exhaling on a harsh sigh.
He had been thinking of her. Imagining her.
His reaction to her was bemusing to say the least. She had kissed his cheek. His bloody cheek! And the unprecedented lust roaring through him at that lone, innocent buss of her lips had been enough to hold him in a stupor as he had watched her run from him in a swish of pale skirts.
The desire clawing through him had been so potent, in fact, that he had found his way into his host’s brandy store. Hence this morning’s headache. And dry mouth. And pervasive sense of self-loathing.
The raging lust, however, could not be explained.
He was not meant to desire Grace Winter. He was meant to use her to further his ambition of gaining Tyre Abbey. Indeed, he had chosen her because she had looked upon him as if he were an unavoidable mud puddle when he had been introduced to her. A lady who scorned him would suit his purposes well, he had thought, because she would not have any trouble crying off their feigned betrothal when the time came.
But somehow, along the way, he had forgotten his reason for choosing her altogether. Somehow, the need to convince her to agree to his scheme had been driven more by desire for her than by reason.
Pretending to be betrothed was meant to solve his problems, not create more.
His grandmother, the formidable dowager duchess, would not grant him Tyre Abbey until his betrothal was announced. Rand wanted Tyre Abbey. Rand did not want a wife. Hence, Rand needed Grace Winter.
Not to soothe the ache in his ballocks, he reminded himself.
Rather, to help him to gain what was rightfully his. And then break the betrothal so the two of them could go on to live their separate lives.
He had been obliged to attend this deuced Christmas country house party as an escort to his mother and sister. Making the best of his situation seemed wise. Attempting to get beneath the skirts of Grace Winter, however, decidedly did not.
Still, the notion would not leave him. There was no denying it. He was harder still, just lying here thinking about the damned impertinent bit of baggage. She had told him to eat pie. That his sallies would not be funny. That he should find someone else for his plan.
The trouble was, he did not want anyone else. He wanted Grace Winter, who was not easily won by his ordinary charm. On a sigh, he slid his hand back beneath the bedclothes once more. He told himself he had no choice. He could not carry on all day, playing parlor games and exchanging mindless pleasantries in such a state.
There was only one way to solve his current predicament.
He grasped his shaft, and then he closed his eyes once more.
A tempting heart-shaped mark on her throat…skin that smelled like the most fragrant blooms in the garden…
Grace told herself there was only one solution to her current predicament. She had to replace all thoughts of Viscount Aylesford with something else. Fortunately for her, she knew precisely who could help her and how.
“You want to borrow the book,” her sister, Christabella said.
“Hush,” Grace warned, her gaze darting about the drawing room to make certain no one had overheard. They were in the midst of a heated game of charades, and seated near the periphery of the festivities where they could have private chatter, but one could never tell when other ears were listening.
“There is no need to flush and look so guilty,” her sister teased quietly. “I did not say which book you want to borrow.”
Her cheeks went hotter still. “You know very well which book.”
Christabella was undeniably the wildest of the Winter sisters. Everything about her was bold, from her brilliant red hair to her manner. And so, it had surprised none of the Winter sisters one whit that it was Christabella who had been able to secure a set of books containing forbidden words and engravings.
Naughty, carnal depictions of men and women, to be specific. One of the words she had seen printed in the book returned to her then.
Coitus.
If their protective older brother Dev ever found out his sisters had procured such sinful literature, he would be furious. Which was why they had sworn one another to secrecy.
“The book?” Pru, the eldest of the Winter sisters, asked.
Of all the books Christabella had in her possession, there was one which was the most shockingly descriptive. One that had put them all to blush. One Grace had vowed she would never open again.
“Yes,” Grace hissed, glaring at Pru. “The book.”
“I thought you said you had no wish to read it,” Christabella countered slyly. “I believe you called it rubbish.”
“I called it nonsense,” she argued, gritting her teeth. Of course, she ought to have known her sisters would not allow her to simply obtain the book with ease. “But the manner in which I referred to it matters not now. All that does matter is my necessity to borrow it.”
“Why should you wish to borrow it?” Pru asked, her tone shrewd.
Pru always saw straight through to the marrow of them all. It was one of her gifts.
“I…” she stumbled about and then paused, searching for the proper phrasing. “Oh, very well. I require distraction.”
“But I thought you said it was vile,” Christabella said. “The sort of filth you would never deign to read again.”
“Do hush,” Grace grumbled.
“You called it offensive,” Pru added. “The writings of a small mind. I believe you said it ought to be pitched into the ash heap.”
It was true, Grace had been shocked by the words and images contained in the book. It was also true she had been curious about what those pages contained ever since she had ridiculed the book in question. For some reason, ever since Viscount Aylesford had begun paying her such marked attention over the course of this cursed house party, she had been thinking of the book more and more.
“I have changed my mind,” she gritted. “I wish to borrow it. A day or two ought to be sufficient.”
Yes, one day to remove all traces of Viscount Aylesford’s handsome face from her mind. Two at the most. What she was experiencing was natural. An urge as simple as hunger. She would feed her curiosity using the book, and the impulse would be satisfied.
“What has changed your mind?” Christabella asked next.
“Nothing,” she lied.
“It would not be Lord Aylesford, would it?” Pru whi
spered.
Drat the man.
“No,” she fibbed a second time. “Of course, it is not.”
“You did make a striking couple when you danced at the ball,” Christabella mused. “And he is a rake.”
Her sister sighed, for Christabella was of the mind that there was nothing more delightful than a rake. She had her heart set upon marrying one. Grace could not fathom why.
“Stop speaking about him,” she ordered her sisters, all too aware of their audience and the carrying potential for their voices, even in a drawing room as massive as the one here at Abingdon House.
“She doth protest too much,” quipped Christabella.
“Silence,” she ordered her sister on another glare.
“I have the book,” Pru said. “Pray, Grace, do not resort to pulling Christabella’s hair.”
“I have not pulled anyone’s hair in years,” she defended herself, miffed her sisters continued to bring up her means of girlhood defense.
When one came of age with four sisters, one had to make herself heard however she could.
“I will excuse myself and go get it,” Pru whispered. “I will leave it beneath your pillow for safekeeping.”
“Thank you,” she said grimly. “You could have said as much from the first.”
“It would not have been nearly as entertaining, however,” Christabella observed, beaming.
“Or as illuminating,” Pru added.
Sisters. Huffing a sigh, she turned her attention back to the proceedings.
But her mind continued to wander to those blue eyes to rival a summer sky and those sensual, smirking lips. To the sensation of a thumb brushing over her lower lip…
She could not get her hands on the dratted book soon enough.
By a remarkable stroke of fortune, Rand found himself alone with Grace Winter once more, and this time quite unintentionally. He had wandered into a writing room in search of his sister, only to find the chamber occupied instead by the auburn-tressed beauty who had been haunting his thoughts all day.
He should have observed propriety and left the room the instant he had seen it occupied by a lone, unwed female. But the female was Grace, and he had made a habit all his life of eschewing the proprieties altogether. Moreover, he needed to convince her to agree to be his feigned betrothed.
For reasons he chose not to examine, she was the only one who would do.
He closed the door at his back and strode into the room.
She had been seated, her head bent over a book, and at first, she did not realize she was no longer alone. Which was perfectly fine by Rand, as it meant he could leisurely drink in the sight of her as he crossed the thick carpets, his footsteps muffled. Her brow was furrowed, as if she were concentrating deeply upon something in whatever she was reading.
As he neared her, he realized there appeared to be an engraving on the pages she was contemplating. Before he could get a better look at it, she stiffened and slammed the book closed, alerted to his arrival at last.
“Lord Aylesford!” she exclaimed.
His title emerged almost as a squeak.
He was not certain if her discomfiture was a compliment or an insult. He bowed deeply to her all the same, deciding he would do his best to woo her once more. They were nearly halfway through the duration of the house party already. His time to convince her of the wisdom of his plan grew more limited with each day that passed without a yes from her pretty pink lips.
And how he wanted a yes from her.
Lord God, how he wanted it.
A yes to everything.
But that would be dangerous. And foolhardy. And entirely damaging to his plan.
“Miss Winter,” he greeted her in turn, deciding upon formality for the moment.
The moment and not a second more.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, rising to her feet with such haste, she upended her chair.
He decided her lack of composure was in his favor. She was flushed, her eyes wide, her lips compressed. She clutched the book she had been reading to her bodice.
“I am here in Oxfordshire to celebrate Christmastide,” he said mildly, rather enjoying the sight of her flush expanding down her throat. He did not think he had ever seen her so flustered. “Mr. Winter and Lady Emilia Winter are hosting a house party. Perhaps you know them?”
She pursed her lips. “You have proven me right, my lord.”
“Oh?” He sauntered nearer to her, drawn as ever.
Devil take it, but he could not expunge the thoughts of her which had brought him to release. Looking at her now, being in proximity to her, sent a fresh rush of lust pounding to his loins.
He had to stop.
“Your sallies are not humorous,” she told him, still frowning, still clutching the book. “I was correct, of course. You rely far too much upon your handsome face.”
He grinned. This was getting promising.
“You think me handsome, Grace?”
Her frown grew more severe. “You think yourself handsome. That much is apparent. And as we have already established, I never gave you leave to refer to me by my given name.”
It nettled her when he called her Grace. He resolved to do it from this moment forward. No more Miss Winter.
“I was not making a statement, but rather posing a question,” he prodded her. “I shall ask it again. Do you think me handsome, Grace?”
In truth, he did not merely think himself handsome. He knew he was. The females of his acquaintance had flocked to him. Always. He had no concerns in that quarter. The fairer sex found him impossible to resist. He had legions of bed partners to attest to that fact.
Which was just fine with Rand. It had always stood him in good stead. He had never gone without a woman. Had never had to.
All he required now was for Grace to find him impossible to resist.
Not him, he reminded himself sternly, but his plan. The plan was everything. The plan was all.
Tyre Abbey was his motivating force.
“I think there are some ladies who would undoubtedly find you attractive,” she said then, interrupting his musings with her cool assessment. “However, I am not one of them.”
The lying minx.
He moved nearer, thinking about the book, taking note of the protective manner in which she held it against her. Thinking of the engraving he had spied before she had snapped it closed. He had thought, for a fleeting second, that it had been a man and woman in flagrante delicto. But then, he had persuaded himself it was naught but his overeager imagination.
Now, he could only wonder.
“Forgive me, Grace,” he said, stopping when they were almost touching. Near enough for her summer’s blossom scent to envelop him. “But I cannot help but note the flush in your cheeks when you speak to me.”
She frowned at him, moving away in a flick of her skirts, striding toward the opposite wall and her relative safety, he could only suppose.
“If I am flushed, it is because I am irritated,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Nothing more.”
“Or perhaps you are embarrassed by your attraction to me,” he guessed, stalking after her.
She spun about so suddenly, he nearly collided with her. As it was, he was left reaching out to steady her, lest she lose her balance. Her soft arms burned his palms. Reminded him why he had spent that time in bed envisioning her sucking his—
“I am not attracted to you in the slightest,” she told him, disrupting his thoughts as she wrenched herself from his grasp and put some more distance between them.
The stubborn wench was dismantling his opinion of himself, one brick at a time.
A cursed disconcerting situation, it was.
He decided to abandon that particular subject for the nonce. Instead, he turned his mind to the book. She had it pressed to her breast just now, and unless he was mistaken, he recognized that binding. He had seen that finely tooled leather before. The gilt title.
The Tale of…
The rest of
the words were obscured by her fingers, clenched tightly and protectively over the little book.
“Are you reading a volume of The Tale of Love?” he asked.
Her countenance went pale. “Of course not. What would make you think such a thing?”
He raised a brow. “The guilty expression upon your face, my dear Grace. To say nothing of the fact that you are familiar with the title.”
The Tale of Love was a series of bawdy stories which had been published to great public outrage and scorn. They were supposedly the writings of a famed courtesan. Though no one knew precisely who had authored them, they were indeed lurid and shocking. In some instances, they were even downright depraved. The drawings which accompanied the stories were the stuff of legend. Rand himself had only been able to procure a copy sans engravings after the publisher had been jailed.
“I have no notion of what you are speaking of,” she denied stubbornly.
But of course, she did. He knew it. She knew it.
Still, for some reason, he was determined to prove he was right to the both of them.
“Hand me the book,” he said, holding his hand, outstretched, toward her.
Her sea-green eyes narrowed. “No.”
Her lashes were long and luxurious. Her lips seemed fuller than ever, begging for his kiss. Being in the presence of Grace Winter was an exercise, all over again, in the knowledge he could not help but to lust after her.
“Give me the book and prove me wrong,” he challenged anew.
“The book is not mine,” she said, still holding it to her heart as if it were her most prized possession. “I cannot simply give it to you.”
“Of course you can.” He followed her to the opposite end of the writing room, not stopping until her gown billowed into his legs. “Extend your hand, offer me the volume you are holding, and there you have it.”
“What I meant to say is that this volume is not mine to give,” she said. “I am safekeeping it for a friend.”
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