Willful in Winter

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Grim thought,” said the Duke of Coventry, who was far more soft-spoken than his outlandish rakehell of a brother. “Unlikely, however.”

  “No such poison exists,” Hertford said, grinning, “else all the marriage-minded mamas would have armed themselves with it long ago.”

  Love was the poison, as far as Rand was concerned.

  “Three of the five Winters are betrothed,” Lord Ashley pointed out. “There are only two remaining, and my brother has his heart set upon making a match with the eldest of them, which means there will soon only be one.”

  “The eldest?” Warwick asked, his brow furrowed. “I confess, there seems to be so many Winter sisters about, and as I have eyes for only my own betrothed, I have the devil of a time telling them apart.”

  “The long Meg,” Lord Ashley elaborated.

  Everyone knew who the tallest Winter sister was, as she stood a head above the rest. She possessed the height of her brother, but fortunately, a far more ladylike countenance.

  “An excellent choice,” Hertford told Coventry. “Miss Prudence Winter is quite kindhearted.”

  Coventry, ever sparse of words, merely flashed a tight smile. “Quite.”

  “He has set his heart upon her, despite her outspoken nature,” Lord Ashley said, his tone one of disapproval. “I told him he would do better to find a more biddable sort.”

  “Biddable and the Winter sisters are as disparate as fire and ice,” Rand could not resist warning. “If Coventry is seeking a quiet bride, he would do better to search for one elsewhere.”

  “That is what I told him,” Lord Ashley said, an edge to his voice, his jaw rigid as he exchanged a glance with his brother. “But he will not listen to reason. As I have promised to aid him in his cause, I can do nothing but sit idly by and watch him commit this folly.”

  “I need a wife,” Coventry said. “You know this.”

  “Yes.” Lord Ashley’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Thanks to Father’s profligacy.”

  “The sins of the fathers are oft cast upon the sons,” Hertford said. “I understand your plight all too well.”

  Rand’s father, the duke, was not a wastrel, thank Christ. In fact, unlike most peers in his acquaintance, he liked his father, which rather set him apart. He had no painful upbringing, no need for a wealthy bride to replenish the dust-ridden familial coffers.

  All he needed was Tyre Abbey.

  At least, that was what he told himself as he listened half-heartedly to the chatter around him and sipped at his brandy. But there was one face that rose in his mind, impossible to escape, regardless of how much he attempted to bury himself in drink and amusement.

  That face was hers.

  Grace’s.

  And the longing that rose within him with each new thought of her seemed to grow stronger and more vibrant. He had kissed her just last night. What they had shared in the gardens had left him wanting more.

  But wanting more was foolhardy and reckless.

  Lord Ashley raised his glass in a mock salute. “A toast to all of you. It would seem I am the only one of us who intends to escape this house party with his future intact.”

  Rand drained another measure of brandy, feeling even more grim than he had before. He had what he wanted, he reminded himself. Word had already been sent to his grandmother. Lord willing, Tyre Abbey would be his sooner rather than later.

  And then, he and Grace could put an end to this farce.

  Why the thought left him with nothing but a hollow ache in his chest, he would not ponder.

  The sisters ended the evening as they so often did—gathered together in one another’s chamber. This time, they had all descended upon Pru’s bedchamber for their meeting of the minds.

  “Has he said when he will turn over the book to you?” Christabella asked Grace. “Now that you are betrothed and he has what he wants, I should think it only reasonable for him to make good on his word. What need does he have of the volume anyway? He is an experienced rake. Surely he is already in possession of the knowledge it contains.”

  Grace sighed. “He will not return it until he is assured his grandmother, the dowager, will bestow Tyre Abbey upon him. She would not do so until he could provide a betrothed.”

  “That vagabond,” Christabella said.

  “He is an utter pirate,” Eugie agreed. “Surely being in a feigned betrothal with him cannot be worth it. Perhaps we should all just go to Dev and admit Lord Aylesford is in possession of The Tale of Love and that he is using it to force your hand.”

  “No,” Pru said. “We cannot admit to having the book in our possession. Dev would be outraged.”

  “And he would demand I surrender the other books in the series,” Christabella added. “If Grace had not been gadding about with it, Aylesford never would have discovered it in the first place.”

  “I fear I must agree with Pru and Christabella,” Bea added. “If Grace lost the book, she has to pay the forfeit.”

  “Even if it means parading about in a feigned betrothal with a rake?” Eugie demanded, sounding indignant.

  “Everyone else is right, Eugie,” Grace intervened on a tired sigh. “I am responsible for Aylesford’s discovery of the book, and I must make it right. Even if that means accepting his madcap bargain.”

  “You do not sound particularly displeased with the notion,” Christabella observed, her tone sly.

  “It is not a horrid idea,” she found herself saying. “As I told Eugie when Aylesford first made his proposal to me, a feigned betrothal is not entirely without merit. I will not be forced to suffer through an endless round of suitors, and Aylesford will get the estate he wants. It will be mutually beneficial.”

  “Except for the part where he stole our book and used it as leverage against you,” Eugie pointed out, her gaze narrowing. “I know he is friends with Hertford, but truly, the man is a scoundrel for sinking so low and taking advantage of the situation. I cannot fathom it.”

  “He is not as bad as he may seem,” she defended.

  Four sets of eyes swung to her, making her realize, belatedly, what she had just said.

  She cleared her throat. “He is arrogant, it is true, and more than aware of how handsome he is. Pompous as well. But he can be quite thoughtful. Last night in the gardens, he offered me his coat and stood there in the frigid wind in nothing but his shirtsleeves.”

  Oh dear. This revelation, too, had been far too much information. More than she needed to volunteer to her sisters, certainly.

  Her ears went hot.

  “What were you doing alone with him in the gardens?” Eugie demanded.

  “You kissed him,” Christabella guessed.

  The fire spread to her cheeks. “I did nothing of the sort.” She licked her lips.

  “You always lick your lips after you tell a lie,” Pru pointed out.

  “You do, Grace,” Bea agreed.

  “You definitely kissed him,” Christabella crowed, clapping her hands excitedly. “Oh, do tell us what it was like, Grace. None of us has ever experienced a true kiss before.”

  “I have kissed aplenty,” Bea and Eugie protested in unison.

  Eugie’s betrothal to the Earl of Hertford had just been announced as well. Three of the five Winter sisters were now engaged to be wed. Two in truth, one in deceit.

  “The two of you have not been kissing rakes.” Christabella waved a hand through the air, as if she were clearing away an undesirable scent. “Lord Hertford and Mr. Hart are both lovely, but according to everything I have read, rakes kiss far more proficiently than gentlemen. You must tell us what it was like to kiss the viscount, Grace.”

  “Lord Hertford is incredibly skilled at kissing,” Eugie said, championing her new betrothed.

  “As is Mr. Hart,” Bea added.

  “Nevertheless,” Christabella said, warming to her cause, “they are neither of them rakes. I want to know what it is like to kiss a rake.”

  “Do stop reading those novels of yours, Sister,” Pru said c
almly, ever the voice of reason.

  “I kissed him,” Grace admitted, tired of the back and forth of her sisters arguing.

  Silence fell.

  All eyes were on her once more.

  “And I liked it,” she added. “Christabella, I cannot speak for all rakes, but I can assure you that Lord Aylesford kisses with remarkable aplomb. Indeed, I would have continued kissing him last night had it not been for Dev’s timely interruption.”

  “That would have been quite foolish indeed,” Eugie pointed out.

  She raised a brow at her sister. “You are not telling me anything I have not already told myself, and quite sternly, too. There is simply something about the man. I cannot define it.”

  “Rakish wiles,” Christabella suggested, sighing wistfully.

  “A handsome face,” Pru added. “When he holds you in his arms, you forget all the reasons why you should not trust him. Why he is all wrong for you.”

  “Yes,” Grace agreed with her eldest sister, frowning. Once again, it seemed as if Pru spoke from personal experience. “Just what have you been doing with Lord Ashley?”

  Pru colored furiously. “Nothing at all. Certainly not groping each other in the gardens at midnight.”

  “There was no groping,” Grace denied. “Well, perhaps just a bit of touching…but that, too, was quite exceptional…”

  She was thinking, of course, of Aylesford’s hand on her breast. The knowing way he had cupped her there. But the liberties she had allowed him were dreadfully improper. And then there had come his stinging suggestion she had another suitor she had arranged a clandestine meeting with in the gardens. The reminder rather dampened any incipient stirrings of ardor she may have been experiencing.

  “You must take care,” Eugie warned her. “If you allow things to progress too far between yourself and the viscount, you will find yourself wed to him in truth.”

  Grace sighed, the shame and the guilt returning. “I know.”

  “There could be worse fates, surely,” Christabella suggested. “Can there be anything more romantic than a reformed rake?”

  “You need not fear for my reputation,” she assured her sisters. “I am impervious to Lord Aylesford’s charms. The only reason I succumbed in the first place was curiosity. Now that my curiosity has been satisfied, I shall never let him kiss me again.”

  “Or grope you,” Eugie insisted, her tone stern.

  “It was not groping so much as it was caressing.”

  “Grace,” all four of her sisters chastised at once.

  “No more,” she reassured them. “You have my promise that I will carry on with this bargain, continue with this feigned betrothal for as long as it must last, and then I will regain possession of The Tale of Love. I will never again allow the viscount to do anything improper with me or to me. Are you happy now?”

  Pru’s eyes narrowed. “I supposed we shall have to be.”

  “Good,” Grace said. “Now please let us seek out another topic of conversation.”

  Christabella started talking excitedly about a book she was reading, and the rest of the sisters reluctantly allowed the topic to be guided into much safer waters. Grace heaved an inward sigh of relief at the reprieve.

  All she had to do was keep her promise.

  And to do that, all she needed to do was stay as far away from Lord Aylesford as she could.

  Chapter Seven

  Staying away from Lord Aylesford would have proven far easier to accomplish if he were not awaiting Grace in her chamber when she returned there from Pru’s. She stepped over the threshold, snapping the door closed at her back, and blinked, certain her eyes must be deceiving her.

  Certain the inert form on her bed could not be real.

  But his handsome profile was unmistakable, as were the wavy, raven locks falling rakishly over his brow. He was dressed in his shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and a loosened cravat, and his lower half was clad in nothing more than his breeches and his stockinged feet. His shoes had been neatly toed off at the foot of her bed.

  He looked as if he belonged there. Someone had made himself quite at home, but she girded her heart against the sudden pang there. Entirely unwanted. Foolish and reckless and wrong.

  As wrong as the viscount’s presence in her chamber.

  “Lord Aylesford,” she said quietly, lest someone overhear her. “What are you doing in here?”

  Still, he did not move.

  Good heavens, was he ill? Had something befallen him? Despite her pique with him from the evening before, and in spite of all her reassurances to her sisters, she found herself going to his side.

  Though, in fairness, the scoundrel was lying on her bed.

  She stopped when she reached him, heartened by the sight of the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest and the sound of his breathing. He was not ill, it would seem, merely—

  He let out a loud, undignified snore.

  Merely asleep.

  In her chamber.

  She poked his shoulder with her forefinger. The heat emanating from his big body seared her through the fine lawn of his shirt. So, too, the strong and delicious rope of muscle leading down his upper arm.

  “My lord,” she tried again. “What are you doing in my chamber?”

  He shifted. “Mmm.”

  The low sound of his voice was a pleasant rumble. Decadent to her senses. She could not deny the warmth it sent washing over her. The need unfurling from deep within her core. Nor could she seem to stop staring at his lips and recalling how they had felt, firm and masterful, moving over hers.

  One thing was certain.

  The viscount had to go.

  She gave him another firm prod. “Lord Aylesford.”

  “Mmm,” he murmured again, the sound so low and satisfied she could not quell the answering ache it produced within her. “Grace.”

  Her name.

  He had said her name.

  Was he dreaming of her?

  Half-awake and half-asleep?

  She was about to give him another poke when he shifted, his large hand going to the fall of his breeches. To the burgeoning fall of his breeches. Where his manhood was, to be precise. Where he was growing stiffer and harder by the moment.

  Lord help her, but the sight of those long, elegant fingers stroking over his—she searched for the wicked word from The Tale of Love and seized upon it—prick…

  She swallowed, frozen. Caught in the helpless throes of her own desire. Surely it was wrong to watch him thus. Just as wrong as it was for him to be in her bed. As wrong as it was for them to be alone.

  “Grace, love. Kiss me,” he said, his baritone nothing more than a velvet rumble. A promise of the wicked.

  Her cheeks were on fire as her gaze shot to his face. But he was still sleeping. It would seem he was dreaming of her. She ought to be irked. But somehow, she could not summon up a modicum of irritation or outrage.

  Another stroke of his hand goaded her into action at last.

  She shoved his shoulder with more force than necessary. But her mind was warring with her body. Telling her she had to act and fast, or she would be running headlong down the path she had so recently promised her sisters she would not tread.

  He jerked awake with a start, his eyes blinking open to reveal those sky-blue orbs that haunted her in her own sleep. His expression was confusion mixed with irritation—no doubt at being jostled awake so rudely.

  “Grace? What the devil are you doing in my chamber again?” he demanded.

  The utter rogue. His hand had not even strayed from the fall of his breeches.

  “You are in my chamber, Lord Aylesford,” she informed him, doing her best to infuse her voice with disapproval. “And that is a question I should be posing to you. How dare you sneak in here and make yourself at home upon my bed? If my lady’s maid or anyone else had ventured in here and found you awaiting me, our feigned betrothal would turn into a real one all too soon.”

  “I am in your chamber, you say?” he asked, at last lifti
ng his hand from where it rested over his manhood and scrubbing it along his jaw.

  “Yes,” she hissed. “And you must go. At once.”

  “Must I, though?” He flashed her a lazy grin that made a frisson lick down her spine.

  Even dissolute, likely half in his cups, and trespassing in her chamber where he decidedly did not belong, the man was irresistible. And he knew it, which made her reaction to him all the more maddening.

  “Yes, you must go now,” she told him, shaking the spell he cast upon her from her mind. “Make haste, and do not allow anyone to see you. I refuse to allow myself to be forced into marrying a reprobate who has cozened me into accepting a feigned betrothal.”

  “A reprobate, am I?” He frowned at her, still looking flushed and sleepy and oh-so-alluring. “A cozening reprobate?”

  Well, perhaps she was being a trifle harsh. But in fairness, she was desperate to distract him by how discomfited his presence in her chamber left her. And she was equally desperate to see him out of her chamber before the temptation he presented got the better of her.

  Before she lost control and joined him on the bed. Before she kissed him again.

  “A scoundrel,” she amended. “But still, a scoundrel who must leave.”

  He stretched his arms over his head. “But this bed is so deuced comfortable, Grace. And I confess, waking up to your lovely face is dashed enjoyable. I could grow accustomed to this.”

  She flushed to the roots of her hair; she swore she did. There was something so intimate about the notion of Aylesford waking up to her face…it meant they were in bed. Together. And that other things—wicked things, the sort of things she had only read about in The Tale of Love or heard about from the talk with Lady Emilia—had happened.

  There was that awful, burning curiosity roaring to life inside her once more.

  The curiosity she had turned to the book to quell.

  The very book Aylesford had thieved. She must not forget about that.

  “You had best not grow accustomed to it,” she snapped, shoving rudely at his shoulder once more. “You will most certainly not be making a habit of sneaking into my chamber and falling asleep in my bed. Do get up, Aylesford.”