“A man,” he said, “who is in love. That is all.”
The way he felt for Grace eclipsed the way he had ever felt for another. The love he’d believed he had for Georgina could not even compare. A wife had been the last thing he had wanted when he arrived in Oxfordshire, and now, he could not fathom anything but making Grace his forever.
He admired her wit, her resilience, her boldness. He appreciated her beauty, her giving nature. The bond she shared with her sisters, the impishness that led to her seeking out The Tale of Love, the natural sensuality she embraced.
All of it, and all of her, he loved.
“I believe he is telling the truth,” said Miss Beatrix, her tone solemn.
“Of course I am telling the truth,” he bit out. “Why else would I humble myself before you? She has told me she is intent upon ending our betrothal, but I am equally intent upon stopping her and making her see reason.”
“How is your confession to us going to help with that?” Miss Prudence queried coolly.
“Because I need your help,” he admitted. “I need you to tell me what I must do to win her heart.”
Her sisters were behaving strangely, and Grace knew it. All four of them descended upon her chamber that afternoon, interrupting her solitude and misery both. She opened the door at the strident knock, half expecting and half hoping to find Rand there on the threshold, his handsome face etched with determination and wicked intent to seduce, to find the four of them standing shoulder to shoulder in the hall, rather reminiscent of a battle formation.
“Are you ill?” Pru demanded, taking stock—no doubt—of her red, watery eyes and puffy nose.
“I think I may have developed the ague,” she lied, sniffling.
“You look wretched,” Christabella observed, her tone sympathetic.
“Why are you hiding?” Eugie asked.
“Do you feel as if you are feverish?” Bea prodded, the only one amongst them to evince even a hint of proper concern.
“Why are all four of you here at once?” she asked, suspicion slicing through her.
“We came to check upon you, of course,” Pru said, her tone even and neat. Laden with reason.
“Lady Emilia asked us to,” added Eugie.
“Your absence has been noted,” confirmed Christabella.
“Your cheeks do not appear flushed, nor do your eyes look glazed, as if you are feverish,” noted Bea, who found great purpose in science and medicine.
On a sigh, Grace stepped back, gesturing for her sisters to enter her chamber. “You may as well come in, all of you. There is no sense in you lingering in the hall.”
All four of her sisters bustled into the chamber, and Grace closed the door behind them before turning to face them at once.
“Well?” she demanded. “What is the reason for you coming here in the midst of the afternoon? I should think one lady attempting to take a nap is hardly of note.”
“Of course not,” Pru agreed shrewdly, “but you do not look as if you were napping, darling.”
“You look as if you were sobbing,” added Christabella.
“Is there a reason you are upset?” Bea asked.
“Or is there perhaps a gentleman in particular who has upset you?” Eugie prodded.
Her heart was broken. She had fallen in love with a man who would never love her back. She had engaged in acts with him that were too wicked to speak aloud. And then she had told him she could not bear to continue with their feigned betrothal, and he had not even bothered to stay her with a protest.
Likely, he had already found another feigned betrothed in the hours since she had last seen him. The arrogant, handsome devil would have no trouble, she was sure, finding her replacement.
Most hurtful of all was the realization that everything they had shared had been commonplace to him. No more special than a breath or a step he took. While for her, their every kiss, touch, interaction had been everything.
“Grace?” Pru asked, her tone gentling. “Are you well?”
She inhaled, trying to calm herself. Trying to stave off the rising tide of misery. But the hurt was too great. It was devastating. The grief threatened to consume her.
“I,” she began, only to falter as a sob stole the rest of her words.
Tears were running down her cheeks before she could stifle them.
At once, her sisters gathered around her, taking her in an embrace from all sides until she was in the middle, and their arms were banded in an unbreakable circle around her.
“Tell us, Grace,” said Bea.
“If Aylesford hurt you, I will break his arm,” Eugie vowed.
“I will punch him in the eye,” Christabella offered. “He will not look nearly so pretty with a bruise.”
“If he hurt you, we will hurt him,” said Pru calmly. “You must tell us, Grace. What has you so upset?”
“I am in love with him,” she managed to admit, in spite of the sobs clogging her throat and in spite of her own embarrassment. “I am in love with a man who does not want to marry me, who is a rakish thief of hearts and books, who only wanted to pretend to be betrothed so he could gain an estate in Scotland. I am in love with a man who shall never love me back. Dear God, I am the greatest fool who ever lived.”
“Certainly not the greatest fool, darling,” said Pru, patting her back. “That title has been reserved for another far more deserving soul. Come, let us go for a walk, shall we?”
“A walk?” She frowned at her sisters. “Looking as I do? I cannot bear it.”
“You can and you shall,” Christabella told her softly. “Trust us, Grace.”
“You shan’t be sorry,” Bea added.
“You are in love with Lord Aylesford?” Eugie probed. “Truly?”
“Truly,” she said, her misery complete. “I know how foolish and ludicrous it sounds. That is why I have been hiding in my chamber. I have ended our feigned betrothal. I have yet to muster up the daring to tell Dev, because he caught us alone in the gardens the other night…”
“Come with us, if you please, Grace,” Pru insisted. “We have just the thing to lighten your mood.”
It was devilishly close to dinner by the time Rand had procured each of the necessary items the sisters had assured him would please Grace. The scratches on his cheek were still smarting. The cursed fat cat he had wrangled from the stables was stalking somewhere about the salon—likely lurking beneath a settee, plotting her next attack.
The pear tartlets were arranged nicely on a china plate. He also had, at the ready, a set of watercolors he had easily coaxed his sister into forfeiting—Lyd preferred science to art, always. He had managed to thieve some hibiscus blossoms from the orangery. And, he had written her a poem.
The poem was abysmal.
The angry, fat cat was old and disagreeable.
The pear tartlets were remnants from dinner the night before.
The watercolors had been used.
But he had done his best to acquire all the items the Winter sisters had assured him would please Grace and aid in his attempts to woo her. He had never even courted a lady since Georgina. There had been no need. And now that he wanted to do things the right way, the proper way, he found himself unaccountably nervous.
What if the sisters would not fetch Grace as they had promised they would?
What if Grace refused to see him?
What if he could not change her mind with wooing?
Worst of all, what if she could never return his love? If she would not marry him?
He could not bear to contemplate such an unbearable notion. He had to believe he could win her heart. The passion between them was real and undeniable. Surely, they could build upon that. Even if she did not harbor tender feelings for him, certainly the pleasure they shared could grow and blossom and deepen over time.
Could it not?
He was spared from further tortured musings when the door to the salon opened and there was Grace on the threshold. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed with pink.
Her nose was as red as a holly berry. She looked as if she had spent the last few hours weeping.
And even with her rumpled gown, auburn ringlets worn loose from her coiffure to frame her face, her countenance pale, her mouth drawn, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. She was beloved to him. The only woman he wanted.
Forever.
It was a word that would have sent him fleeing not long ago. Before he had met Grace, he had never even contemplated the thought of marrying again in truth. He had simply been so consumed in his life of endless, meaningless pleasure. His thoughts had been for gaining Tyre Abbey and for little else.
But she had changed all that.
She had changed him.
And she had most definitely changed his heart, for she owned it now. It was hers, and hers alone.
“Lord Aylesford,” she said, her tone shocked.
He wished she had called him Rand, but there was no hope for that.
He was treated to the vague glimpse of four sisters’ faces in the hall behind her before the door closed at her back, leaving them alone.
“Grace,” he greeted, bowing.
She dipped into an abbreviated curtsy but did not smile. “What is this about? You have somehow cozened my sisters into aiding you with this feigned betrothal nonsense? Are you holding the book over their heads as well? I have told you already that I will claim it. It is mine, and mine alone. The blame must be laid solely upon me. Go to my brother as you must, but I alone am the guilty one.”
“This is not about the book, Grace,” he told her, striding forward. Closing the distance between them because he had to. Because he could not bear to be so near to her, and yet unable to touch her.
But she shied away from him, flitting to the periphery of the salon as if she were a butterfly chased from a blossom. “What is it about then, Lord Aylesford? Why must you insist upon plaguing me? I have already told you I am done with this feigned betrothal. I want no more of it.”
“That is perfectly fine by me,” he told her, stalking to where she stood. “I do not want a feigned betrothal with you either.”
Her brow furrowed. And Christ, it was adorable.
“You do not?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I do not. I want a real betrothal.”
She stiffened, her chin tipping up. “I wish you and whatever lady you have chosen well, in that case. I am sure she will make a lovely duchess one day.”
“Yes, she will.” He moved closer still. Until he was near enough to touch her. “No other lady could possibly be as perfect as she.”
“Finding a replacement did not take you long, did it?” She laughed, but he did not miss the bitterness hidden within her levity, and it gave him hope. “Several hours, and she is such a paragon that you have already decided you will make her your wife in deed rather than your feigned betrothed. How fortunate for you, my lord. You see? I did you a favor in setting you free of our odious bargain.”
“You did do me a great favor,” he said, sliding an arm around her waist and drawing her lush body against his. Lord, how perfect was her fit to him. How right. How wonderful. His cock sprang to life.
The scent of glorious summer blossoms and Grace hit him, directly in the heart.
“What are you doing, Aylesford?” She began to squirm, as if intent upon escaping his hold. “I cannot think your betrothed would appreciate your freedom with my person.”
“Do you mind?” he asked pointedly, kissing the upturned tip of her nose.
Curse it, did he spot a few errant freckles there? How glorious. Why had he not noticed them before? And what other mysteries did she hold? He could not wait to unlock them all, one by one.
“Of course I mind, my lord.” Her palms came to rest upon his chest, and she gave him a solid push. “I will not dally with you when you are intent upon marrying someone else. Have you not heard a word I have uttered to you, you arrogant jackanapes?”
“I rather think it is you who are not hearing me, my love,” he told her, searching her gaze. “I do not want a feigned betrothal with you, Grace Winter, because I want our betrothal to be real. I want to marry you. You are the woman I have chosen. You are the only woman I want.”
He paused then, pondering what she had just said to him. “Even if you do think me an arrogant jackanapes,” he added.
She went still, all the fight seeming to drain from her. Her green eyes were wide, searching his frantically, as if seeking the slightest hint of deceit. But she could look all she liked, for she would find none.
“You want to marry me?” she asked. “In truth?”
“You,” he said, grinning. “To hell with the feigned betrothal. You are the one for me, Grace. I have realized something profound during my presence here. For so long, I believed love did not exist. But in fact, my love was misplaced. All along, I was waiting for the right woman to come into my life.”
“The right woman,” she repeated, sounding dazed.
“The perfect woman,” he agreed. “Perfect for me in every way. You are the only lady of my acquaintance who has looked down her nose at me. The only one who ever dared to put me in my place.”
“Anyone could have corrected your high opinion of yourself,” she said swiftly. “That alone is not reason for marriage.”
“Is love?” he asked.
“Love?” she repeated, such longing in her voice, it nearly broke him then and there.
“Yes,” he persisted, past the lump in his throat. “Love. I love you, Grace Winter, and you are the woman I want to marry. A feigned betrothal with you cannot be enough, because only a real betrothal will do. I aim to make you mine. To keep you mine. Will you be mine, my love? Now and forever?”
Her lips parted. For the second time since he had first met her, he was so desperate for a yes from her he could practically taste it.
Instead, all he heard was an ear-splitting yowling, emerging from somewhere in the chamber.
Christ.
The fat cat.
Her brows snapped together, her expression fast changing into one of befuddlement. “What was that wretched sound?”
For a beat, he felt as if he had returned to that enchanted night in the gardens when she had caught him smoking a cigar and she had asked him what the wretched smell was.
“Your cat,” he told her, wincing when the yowl turned into a howl.
What the devil was the matter with the creature?
She blinked, looking more befuddled than ever. “I do not have a cat.”
“Correction,” he told her, trying to make the best of his admittedly lackluster attempt at procuring her the feline she had always longed for, according to her sisters. “You did not have a cat before. But you do have one now, just as you have so desperately wanted.”
Grace frowned. “I never wanted a cat. When I was a girl, a cat I rescued from the streets scratched me horribly, and I have not trusted felines since.”
He frowned right back at her as another terrible meow filled the chamber. “But your sisters…”
Her sisters had led him on a merry chase, he was beginning to realize.
Troublesome minxes, every last one of them.
“My sisters told you I wanted a cat?” she asked. “Why would they do that?”
“I am afraid I am beginning to suspect their purposes were nefarious,” he said grimly. “May I also suppose you do not like pear tartlets, watercolors, or poetry?”
Her lips twitched. “Good heavens. Did you truly acquire a demonic cat, pear tartlets, watercolors, and poetry just for me?”
“The cat is not demonic,” he argued as another yowl tore through the chamber. “Aggrieved would be a better choice of words. Apparently, the little lass prefers her bed in the stables to this salon, though I cannot fathom why.”
Grace’s fingertips caressed his cheek lightly.
He was so starved for her touch that his reaction was instant. Blistering. His cock went stiff, and he caught her wrist, holding her in a gentle grip while he
pressed a kiss to her palm.
“Did the aggrieved cat do this to you?” she asked.
“Trundling the creature from the stables to this chamber was no easy feat,” he said, rather than admit he had been bested by a feline.
He would do it all over again. Anything to convince her how serious he was about spending the rest of his life with her. He would even allow her vexing sisters to make a fool of him once more.
“Oh, Rand,” she said. “I cannot believe you did this.”
“You cannot believe I amassed a whole lot of things you do not like?” He raised his brows, aiming for comical effect. “I am afraid I have mucked this up quite badly by seeking the counsel of your sisters. I should have simply told you what I felt for you in the orangery. I would have, but I was too bloody scared.”
“I was scared too,” she told him. “That is why I ended it between us. Because I knew I could not bear to continue spending time with you, pretending to be your betrothed, all while falling more in love with you each day. I had to put an end to it to protect my heart.”
This was promising indeed.
He swallowed down a knot of emotion. “You are in love with me?”
Her smile was tremulous. “Yes. Somehow, I lost my heart to an arrogant scoundrel who coerced me into being his feigned betrothed. Who stole my book…”
“I returned it to your sisters,” he told her. “Your secret is safe. I was an utter cad for using it against you. Can you forgive me, my love?”
The cat made another low, keening sound.
“Of course, I forgive you.” She searched his gaze. “Do you truly mean it, that you love me?”
“Would I have brought you a demonic cat if I did not?” he quipped.
“I am still right about your sallies,” she told him solemnly. “Say it again, Rand. Tell me again.”
That was easy. The words left him, unfettered and true.
“I love you, Grace Winter.”
“Oh,” she said. Tears glistened in her dark-green eyes. “I love you too.”
“Thank Christ,” he hissed, dipping his head until their foreheads touched. “I am settling upon the favor you owe me from our debauchery bargain. Tell me you will marry me.”
Willful in Winter Page 13