Willful in Winter

by Scott, Scarlett

  The sight sent a pulse to her core. To the place where he had licked and kissed and sucked her with such inspired abandon. That old curiosity was back. She could not help but to wonder what he must look like. The engravings in The Tale of Love were only so detailed.

  She licked her lips before modesty returned to her. She was naked. Lying next to the viscount. Hastily, she plucked up a corner of the counterpane and drew it over her body, covering herself.

  “You have no need to be shy, love,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her temple.

  The gesture was so tender, very much like one a true betrothed would give to the woman he intended to wed. Her foolish heart gave a pang before she reminded herself none of this was real. Rand still had no desire to marry her. As soon as he had Tyre Abbey, their betrothal would be over.

  Tonight had been a lapse of reason.

  A momentary abandoning of her wits.

  For a rake who had seduced and charmed his way through the ladies of his acquaintance, tonight had likely meant nothing at all. Nor could it mean anything to her. And neither could it be repeated, she admonished herself sternly.

  “I am not accustomed to…this,” she managed to say.

  He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her face toward his. He was so unfairly handsome, it almost hurt to look upon him.

  “You had better not be accustomed to any other man but your betrothed making himself so familiar with you,” he said, his countenance grave.

  “Feigned betrothed,” she reminded them both.

  His gaze searched hers. “I have never disliked the word feigned more than I do now.”

  Her breath caught in spite of herself. “And yet, that is the truth of our circumstances, is it not? Eventually, our betrothal must come to an end, and you and I will part ways.”

  His lips tightened. “That is the truth, yes.”

  “Will you ever marry?” she asked him on a rush, before she could withhold the question.

  He said nothing for a time, the silence stretching between them so long she feared he would not answer. And yet, for all the quiet, he still remained at her side, their bodies touching from hip to shoulder. He still held her chin captive. Nor had he left her bed.

  “I do not know the answer to that,” he admitted at last, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “I suspect I will need to one day, to carry on the Revelstoke title. For now, it is a needless concern as my father, the duke, is hale and hearty.”

  For some reason, the notion of him marrying someone else, a nameless, faceless lady no doubt born to nobility and bred to be a duchess, irked Grace. Even though she knew it should not. Even though she had known, all along, that her betrothal to Rand was feigned. Even though she had not even wanted to be betrothed to him.

  Little wonder ladies lost their hearts to rakes.

  She had thought herself made of sterner stuff than this. But she was as weak-willed as anyone after a handsome man turned up in her chamber and made her drunk on pleasure.

  Not just any handsome man, said that horrid voice inside her, the one which never relented. Rand.

  “Were you dreaming of me, earlier?” she asked next, because it would seem there was no limit to her foolishness and recklessness this evening.

  She had ruined herself. Allowed a man who was not her husband—who was not even her real betrothed—to undress her and take her to bed. To make love to her with his mouth.

  And his tongue.

  Her cheeks flushed.

  “Yes,” he told her. “If you must know, I was dreaming about you, Grace.”

  And then he did another thing most unlike a feigned betrothed. He tenderly brushed a tendril of hair away from her cheek and kept his hand there, caressing her as if she were precious to him. As if she were someone important.

  Someone, even, he cared for.

  “I know you were,” she confessed before she could think better of the revelation.

  He raised a brow. “How do you know that?”

  “You were saying my name,” she admitted. “When I first came into the chamber. You were saying my name and…”

  “And?” he prompted, his tone going wicked once more.

  All her good intentions faded. The heat inside her that had never died roared back into a pulsing, raging flame.

  “And you were touching your…” She paused, allowing her words to trail off, not certain she could say the word aloud. It was too wrong.

  “My?”

  “Your prick,” she said on a rush.

  He stared at her, his expression unreadable. “Say it again.”

  She bit her lip, hesitating.

  “Damn, Grace, you are not making it easy to remain honorable.”

  “Prick,” she said.

  He groaned softly. “I like it when you say naughty words. And when you bite your lip. And when you look at me that way.”

  “What way?” she asked, even though she knew she ought not.

  “As if you want me to debauch you.”

  His words made a new wave of desire wash over her. The flesh he had brought to life seemed to be the center of her being. She was pulsing, aching. From nothing more than a sentence from him coupled with a ravenous look.

  Because she did want him to debauch her.

  Heaven help her, she wanted Viscount Aylesford—Rand—to debauch her in every way. But that would be more foolish than allowing him to remain in her chamber. More foolish than kissing him and letting him kiss her between her thighs.

  “Maybe I do,” she said.

  After all, she did not ever need to marry anyone, in spite of her brother’s aspirations for her. When she came into her majority, a sizeable portion of the Winter fortune would be hers. She could live as she wished. Not tending to orphans as Pru longed, and not as an accoucheuse bringing babies into the world as Bea wanted. She had not yet seized upon her path in life.

  But when she found it, she would know, she was sure.

  “Bloody hell, Grace,” he growled, and then his lips were on hers. He kissed her long and deep and hard.

  There was a new undercurrent to this meeting of mouths, an acknowledgment of what had passed between them. She tasted herself on his lips and tongue. It was at once both shocking and erotic. If he wanted to debauch her thoroughly all night long, she would not offer up one word of protest.

  She ought to feel shame, and she knew it. But she could not summon up a modicum of it. All she knew was the vibrant, fiery need for him.

  But he broke the kiss sooner than she would have liked, and without rolling atop her and stripping her of the counterpane as a wicked part of her had hoped he might. Instead, he pressed his forehead to hers, his breathing ragged.

  “A new bargain is in order, it would seem,” he said.

  “Oh?” she asked.

  “I will debauch you.”

  The dark promise in his voice was undeniable. But he had said bargain, had he not? Which meant he wanted something in return.

  “And what do you require of me?” she dared.

  He appeared to ponder her query before deciding upon his price. “A favor.”

  “Just one?”

  “Yes.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

  “What is the favor you seek?” she could not help but to question. After all, it would be foolish indeed to agree to any sort of bargain with him before she knew the precise details.

  Would it not?

  What would be the harm? The voice inside her—the one she ought to ignore, the one that did not belong to Pragmatic Grace—asked.

  “I shall tell you when I decide upon it.” He disentangled himself from her and rose into a sitting position.

  She rose as well, clutching the counterpane to her chest, hating for him to go. “That is hardly fair, my lord.”

  “Rand,” he countered, “or no debauching.”

  “Rand,” she agreed. Far faster than she ought to have. But her body had made her decision for her.

  The curiosity he had brought t
o life needed to be answered.

  By him. By Viscount Aylesford, jaded rake, handsome lord, wicked scoundrel, by Rand, who kissed her and made her melt. No other man would do.

  He dropped a hasty kiss on her lips. “I must go now, for lingering here is a risk I dare not take. After all, we have tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” she repeated before she could even think better of the bargain she was agreeing to. Before sense or reason could weigh in and divert her from her course. “Yes.”

  He gave her a beautiful, wicked grin. And then he rose from her bed. She could do nothing but admire the muscled plane of his back as he sauntered off in search of his shirt and waistcoat.

  The man was the very devil, she was sure of it.

  But being wicked had never felt so right.

  Nor had anything in her life outside of being in his arms.

  Chapter Nine

  Rand was a fool. That much was utterly certain.

  He was also thinking with his cock rather than with his brain.

  That was why, he told himself the next evening, he had once more slipped into Grace’s bedchamber. Why he was once more tempting fate. That was why he had returned for more of her, even when he knew he was putting his future in grave danger by sneaking into her chamber.

  Also, why he had managed to wheedle some information about her from the servants belowstairs. His valet, Carruthers, had done a damned fine job of ferreting out all manner of facts.

  She was an early riser.

  She deplored the color yellow.

  She adored savoy biscuits.

  She took her tea with sugar and milk.

  She also enjoyed sketching.

  And certainly, it was why he had managed to procure a gift for her from the village. Not as fine as what he could obtain in London, it was certain, but the handsomely bound leather volume with its blank, creamy pages would have to do.

  He had not been this determined to please a woman since…

  Christ, not even Georgina had inspired him to go to such lengths. And any of the women he had known since had required precious little wooing. With his reputation, bored wives and demimondaines were eager to share his bed. Their relationships had been predicated upon the need to slake their mutual passions and nothing more.

  None of those women had been Grace.

  None could even compare.

  He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached as he stalked the length of her chamber, clutching his gift for her as if he were some sort of lovelorn suitor. What the devil had he been thinking? And was it his imagination, or had she been paying far too much attention to Lord Ashley Rawdon during their earlier drawing room game of Forfeits?

  He growled just to think of it.

  The door clicked open at last, and there she was. Her eyes went wide, as they lit upon him, almost as if she had not expected to find him within. She did not hesitate, however. She swept over the threshold and closed the door at her back.

  “Rand,” she said softly, a tentative smile on her lips.

  Lips he could not wait to feel beneath his again.

  He forgot he was the experienced rake. In her presence, he felt as if everything was new. As if each look, every touch, each kiss, was unlike any other.

  Belatedly, he realized he was still standing in the midst of her chamber, clutching the gift he had bought her, looking the fool.

  He stepped forward, calling on all his charm. “I brought you something.”

  Christ. What manner of charm was that?

  In her presence, he felt more like a callow youth attempting to woo his first lady love rather than the hardened rake he had become. He suppressed a wince as he held out the volume for her.

  “A gift?” she asked, her smile changing. Deepening. “For me?”

  “It is deuced improper, I know,” he said, for it was considered de trop to gift an unwed female anything, and he knew it. Even one’s betrothed. “But surely not any more improper than offering you a daily debauching.”

  She accepted the book from him. The rich green gown she wore this evening made her eyes an even darker hue, rather the color of moss deep in the forest. “Thank you, Rand.”

  “It is for sketching,” he said needlessly, feeling suddenly awkward.

  “It is lovely,” she said, tracing the cover with her fingertips. “How did you know I like to sketch?”

  He cleared his throat. “Do not all females like sketching?”

  “I do not know,” she said, glancing back up at him. “Perhaps they do.”

  Her gaze searched his, and once more, that strange sensation rose within him. The urge to please her. To make her happy. To see her smile. To be the man who put the color in her cheeks and the fire in her eyes.

  “I may have inquired after your likes,” he admitted, clasping his hands behind his back so he would not be tempted to touch her.

  Debauching her would be slow and steady and delicious. He could not fall upon her like a ravening beast. No matter how much he longed to.

  “And what did you learn about me?” she asked, a new smile flirting with those luscious pink lips of hers.

  “You prefer to rise early,” he said, “you do not like to wear yellow, you like savoy biscuits, and you take your tea with sugar and milk.”

  She raised a brow. “Were you interviewing my lady’s maid, my lord?”

  He grinned. “My valet may have posed a question or two. Nothing at all untoward in a gentleman seeking to learn more about his betrothed, is there?”

  “His feigned betrothed,” she corrected him.

  Blast. He did not need reminding. He already knew his time with her was limited. The more he thought about it, the more it nettled, in fact.

  “No one else knows I am your feigned betrothed, however,” he pointed out.

  Her cheeks went red.

  “Do they?” he prodded, suspicion blossoming inside him like a flower.

  “No,” she said quickly. Far too quickly. And then she licked her lips.

  It was a nervous habit of hers he had noted before. Partially because staring at her mouth had become an obsession of his. Partially because he paid far too much attention to everything about her.

  Enough to know when she was lying to him.

  “Who knows, Grace?” he demanded.

  She winced. “Only my sisters.”

  Her sisters? As in more than one? As in all of the bloody Winter females?

  “Curse it, woman, you mean to tell me there are five other females in this household who are aware of the nature of our betrothal?” he asked.

  “Only four,” she dared to correct him. “There are five of us sisters in all, not six.”

  “It certainly seems as if there are more of you,” he muttered. “A legion, at least, with all the troublemaking.”

  “That is unfair, and you know it,” she said, sounding wounded. “None of us have made trouble.”

  He gave her a pointed look, sweeping from her auburn curls to her dainty, slipper-shod toes peeping from beneath the hem of her gown. “You are nothing but trouble, Miss Grace Winter. Look at you. You are the loveliest, most vexing, tempting creature I have ever beheld. You had but to ask for me to debauch you, and here I am in your chamber, your willing slave. At great risk to my reputation and future, I might add.”

  “I am trouble?” Both her brows went up. “You are a rake who forced me into being your feigned betrothed. You have me doing all sorts of things I promised myself I would never do. Also, at great risk to my reputation and my future.”

  When she was in high dudgeon, she was a sight to behold. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, one hand firmly planted on her hip in defiance. The stubborn, willful, wonderful woman.

  She had cast a spell upon him.

  Perhaps all the Winter females were witches.

  That had to be the answer to this maddening effect she had upon him.

  “Why did you tell all your sisters?” he asked. “You know very well that this charade of ours will only be eff
ectual if everyone believes it is true.”

  “My sisters will not tell anyone,” she said. “This, I promise you. Our secret is safe with them.”

  He did not particularly relish the notion of his future resting in the hands of five Winter ladies. For yes, he was including Grace in the count in this instance.

  “It had better be safe,” he warned, “or not only will I refuse to debauch you, but I will also be forced to turn your bawdy book over to your brother.”

  She smiled then, the minx. “Something tells me you would still debauch me just the same.”

  She was not wrong.

  There would never come a day when the sun would rise and he would not also want Grace Winter. It was a devil of a realization to make.

  Especially when he was standing before her in her bedchamber at close to midnight where he most definitely did not belong. And while she held the gift he had given her in her hands and looked so damn beautiful, his chest hurt just to gaze upon her. His heart was thudding fast. Another realization, one that was far more damning, loomed.

  He dismissed it with action.

  Silenced it with a kiss. His mouth on hers. How easy it was. How familiar and right, the way their lips fit together. As if this one set of pretty pink lips had been made by God just for Rand to claim and plunder and make his. More dangerous thoughts.

  He chased these by sinking his hands into the silken web of her hair. Pins rained on the carpet. Her mouth opened. His tongue swept inside. He was here to debauch her, he reminded himself. Not to feel anything. Emotions were not for him. He had learned his lesson in bitterness and betrayal. Had learned the most difficult way possible that love was not real. That only lust was true.

  Except…

  Except, this did not feel like mere lust now, when he was kissing Grace. When she was kissing him back with a fervor and an innocent ardor that had his cock throbbing and standing at aching attention. One kiss. One melding of their lips. And he was rigid, his ballocks drawn tight.

  He ought to have stroked himself to a spend this afternoon instead of submitting himself to silly games. Thinking of her that morning and taking himself in hand had clearly not been enough.

  He forced himself to end the kiss.

  She blinked up at him, her lips darkened and swollen, her expression dazed. She still held the sketchbook he had given her, and it was between them like a shield.