The final thread holding her patience in place broke. “Why are you dancing with me when you so plainly have no wish to do so, my lord?” she demanded, piqued.
“Who says I have no wish to do so?” he asked softly, his tone still formal.
“Your countenance,” she returned, forcing a bright smile to her lips. “It speaks for you, Lord Hertford.”
He arched a brow and sent a quelling look in her direction. “And what is it saying now, Miss Winter?”
She stared back at him, a surge of defiance making her bold. “It is saying you are a pompous bore.”
A handsome, pompous bore.
His lips twitched, almost as if he were about to laugh. “Perhaps I might return your question to you. Why are you dancing with me when it seems you have no wish to do so, Miss Winter?”
But there was the problem. She rather did want to dance with him, and she did not like the urge. Thankfully, she was saved from having to answer when they took their positions in the lines, opposite each other. Their gazes met and held, and she could not help but to read a challenge in his. She inclined her head in acknowledgment.
The orchestra struck up a lively reel in the next instant, and the time for talking was done.
Chapter Two
“I think I shall ask the chit in the red dress after all, in spite of her somewhat sullied reputation,” Aylesford told Cam the next morning as their mounts trotted beside each other in the sprawling park of Abingdon Hall.
For reasons he did not care to examine, the proclamation disturbed Cam. He found himself frowning into the frost-kissed grass undulating before them, then beyond to the tree-lined horizon. “Miss Eugenia Winter,” he said.
Eugie, Mr. Winter had called her, and the diminutive suited her far better than Eugenia did. The name Eugie had a sweetness to it, like a confection one could not help but devour. Fitting, he thought. She was soft and lush, curves everywhere a man could want, and when he had danced with her the night before, he had realized she was prettier at proximity than she had been from afar.
Even if she had gazed upon him as if he were a thief she had caught in the act of filching the family silver. Most vexing, that. What had she to disapprove of in him? He was the Earl of Hertford. Even drowning in debt, he was a catch. Whilst she was decidedly the opposite.
“That is the one,” Aylesford said cheerily. “If I am to have a betrothed, I have decided I should like one who is not averse to a spot of fun, now and again.”
He clenched his jaw. Of all the Winter sisters, Eugie seemed designed, by the Lord Himself, for just the sort of fun Aylesford referred to. Her berry-red lips were a perpetual pout a man could not help but want to kiss. Her breasts would more than fill his hands. And her chocolate-brown eyes…
Dear God, what was he waxing on about? Had the unseasonably cold December air infected his mind? Surely it had. That was the only reason to find his thoughts lingering upon such an unsuitable female. He had come to Abingdon Hall to secure himself a bride and a fortune, not to lust over the Winter with the most scandal-tainted reputation.
“Here now, Aylesford,” he still felt compelled to admonish, “when I proposed the idea of you taking on a counterfeit fiancée, I never intended for you to seduce the girl. Whoever she is, you must leave her just as she was upon entering into the arrangement when you sever it.”
Especially if you choose Miss Eugie Winter, said a voice inside him.
Aylesford, however, was undeterred by his censure. He grinned. “I said fun, old chap. What is the harm in a few kisses, here or there? Perhaps a chance encounter in the garden?”
“No,” he bit out before he could rein himself in or wonder why the notion of Aylesford stealing away with Eugie Winter into the garden might fill him with a possessive surge of protection.
Protection? For a female who had not smiled at him once as they shared a dance, and who had already thoroughly ruined herself?
How foolish.
How mutton-headed.
Aylesford was eying him with a knowing look. “You want the red dress for yourself, do you?”
“Cease referring to her as that, will you?” he grumbled in spite of himself. “She has a name.”
“Ah, yes. Euphemia, was it?” his friend asked.
He compressed his lips, refusing to accept Aylesford’s bait. “You damn well know what it is.”
“Forgive me, Hertford,” the viscount drawled. “I had not realized you had settled upon her yourself. Perhaps I shall take the sister who was standing beside her, the lovely one who looked at me as if I were an unavoidable mud puddle. Her breasts are not as large as your future countess’s, but as they say, any more than a handful is a waste.”
Cam reminded himself to aim for Aylesford’s eye the next time they were sparring together at Grey’s Boxing Salon. “You have it all wrong. I am not about to offer for Miss Eugie. Her reputation speaks for itself.”
“As does her figure,” his friend added with a wicked grin. “If Cunningham truly did get beneath her skirts, he was a fortunate man indeed.”
“You will never fool the dowager into believing you are a reformed man with this sort of attitude,” he felt compelled to point out, aware he sounded as if his valet had tied his cravat too tightly that morning.
“Fortunately for me, you are not my grandmother.” Aylesford winked at him. “But you do sound rather a lot like the old bird, the more I think on it. Little wonder they call you the Prince of Proper.”
“Go to hell, Aylesford,” he told his friend before spurring his mount into a gallop. With the bracing winter wind against his cheeks, he headed for the horizon, putting some much-needed distance between himself and the taunting laughter of his friend.
There was something about the Earl of Hertford that made Eugie incredibly suspicious of him. Gathering her pelisse about her to stave off the chilly nip of the wind, she turned a corner in the gardens, rounding a beautifully manicured wall of holly.
One of the loveliest aspects of the Abingdon Hall grounds—to her mind, at least—was not the immense limestone edifice with its two hundred rooms and picture gallery and entry hall large enough to house an entire London tenement. Rather, it was the massive amount of outdoor space. Having been born and raised in the city, Eugie appreciated nature, even in its frozen, wintry state. The lack of buildings, the absence of sound, the beauty of the land and vegetation, held her in their thrall.
But not so much that she forgot the task at hand. Namely, deciphering which of her sisters the Earl of Hertford and his ne’er-do-well friend, Viscount Aylesford, had settled upon as matrimonial prospects.
After what had happened with Baron Cunningham, Eugie was no longer the naïve girl she had once been, who blindly believed the best of everyone. She did not resent her former self for believing a man who had looked her in the eye and sworn he loved her with an undying fervency.
Rather, she wished she could be that lady once more. Oh, how she wished she could look upon perfectly groomed, handsome lords like the earl and the viscount and believe they truly wanted to align themselves with one of the Winters. That their intent was honest, their purpose true.
But she could not.
All it had taken was one letter from Cunningham’s former betrothed, the one he truly loved, the fine lady he had thrown over because she did not possess the wealth he required, to make her realize how foolish and unreliable her own judgment had been. And then, when she had ended their betrothal before it was public knowledge, Cunningham had waged a ruthless campaign against her. Spreading ghastly lies, courting gossipmongers as if it were his profession.
Leaving her reputation sullied.
She was tarnished, though she had never done anything wrong, aside from believing in Cunningham’s lies. She knew it. Everyone she loved knew it.
Her beloved sisters, protected and doted upon by their older brother Dev, were every bit as vulnerable as she had been. Every bit as in danger of being taken advantage of and subsequently ruined by fortune-hunting sc
oundrels who smiled with their lips and lied with their tongues.
Her sisters were lambs for the slaughter, as it were. With the possible exception of Grace, who did not suffer fools and who saw through everything and everyone. And of course Bea, who Eugie had only just discovered was set to wed their brother’s right-hand man, Merrick Hart. Though Eugie was not yet entirely convinced Merrick himself was not a fortune hunter…
But that was another matter.
On a sigh, Eugie turned yet another corner in the holly maze, only to discover she was not alone. There, at the other end of the narrow corridor in which she found herself, was the Earl of Hertford, the man who continued to intrude upon her thoughts.
Only to fret over how unsuitable a match he would prove for her sisters, of course.
He, too, was in the act of walking. Striding toward her, his large, powerful body a symmetry of masculine strength. Muscled thighs clad in breeches which did nothing to hide his form, polished riding boots to his knees, his broad shoulders hugged by a well-cut greatcoat.
Beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat, he was undeniably handsome. Too handsome, really. Why could he not have a lumpy middle, or a missing tooth? Why did he have to make her heart thump faster?
She stopped where she was, boots crunching in the frozen gravel, watching him warily. Though the day was a bright one, clouds overhead produced a small torrent of snow flurries, falling from the sky in a smattering of wisps. It was all rather idyllic, except for the man.
“My lord,” she greeted, injecting some of the frost of the air into her voice as she dipped into a curtsy. “What are you doing in the gardens? I believed all the gentlemen otherwise occupied with sport and leisure.”
He bowed in return, his expression solemn. “Is not a turn in the gardens both sport and leisure?”
She ought to make a hasty escape, and she knew it. Lady Emilia had been stern with her lectures about observing propriety, especially on Eugie’s part. There was to be absolutely no time alone with gentlemen. Certainly not handsome gentlemen who were unexpectedly lingering in gardens, far out of sight of the rest of the house party.
“Perhaps it is,” she allowed. “Though I do believe it depends upon one’s preferred sport and one’s preferred leisure.”
The moment she had spoken the words, she wished she could recall them.
Although spoken in innocence, given her reputation, they now hung in the air like sordid invitations. She only realized it too late, and felt her cheeks flush, much to her chagrin.
He said nothing. Simply stared at her for so long she feared she would be the first to break. Until, at last, he saved her. “I enjoy gardens. There is something so peaceful about them. Was it not Cicero who said if you have a garden in your library, everything will be complete?”
“He was right.” She had always liked gardens. Until they had moved to the home next door to her sister-in-law’s, the Winter siblings had never dwelled in a home which had boasted gardens, true gardens. “Gardens and libraries are two of my favorite places to be.”
A sudden gust of cool wind whipped past her then with such force, it caught her bonnet and lifted it from her head. The smart little piece of millinery—newly acquired with her sister-in-law’s approval—sailed through the air and landed at the earl’s feet like nothing so much as a felled bird.
Eugie started forward, determined to catch it lest another burst of air send it flying once more. She sank to her knees, reaching for it at the same time as Hertford, and their heads knocked together. The surprise pain sent her to her rump in an undignified heap.
“Are you injured, Miss Winter?” the earl asked solicitously, something in the tenor of his voice changing and deepening.
For the first time, he sounded sincere. She could not shake the impression she was hearing and seeing the real him for the first time. It was as if the polite mask he wore had been momentarily lifted.
His concerned face loomed before her.
“I…” There was his luscious mouth again, taunting her. She forgot what to say for an indeterminate span of time as heat unfurled inside her, chasing away the early winter’s chill. “Yes. That is to say, no. I am not terribly injured. Forgive me, my lord. I have always had a bad habit of forgetting to tie my bonnets in place.”
He stood and held his gloved hand out to her.
She stared at it for a moment before accepting his aid. The earl pulled her to her feet with a fluid ease and grace that left her feeling weightless. And all too aware of how near to each other they suddenly were. She could see the striations of gold, green, and cinnamon in his gaze, the fine shadow of whiskers on his angled jaw.
Even his eyebrows were handsome, perfect slashes above his unique eyes. Strange she had never noticed such a feature on a man before, unless the brows in question were bushy as twin caterpillars.
Something was wrong with her, surely. The knock to her head had addled her wits.
He settled her hat where it belonged with ginger care. “There you are, back in place.”
But instead of taking a step in retreat and putting some much-needed distance between them, he lingered. Their eyes held. She forgot to breathe.
Eugie could not have been more startled when his fingers grazed the underside of her chin as he tied the ribbon for her. She inhaled suddenly, the cold air sharp and almost painful in her lungs. A welcome distraction from the unwanted sensations he made her feel.
“Thank you, Lord Hertford,” she forced herself to say.
A strange, wicked notion occurred to her, from out of nowhere. It was the perfect solution to the problem which had been plaguing her ever since her brother Dev had gotten this misguided notion into his overprotective mind that all his sisters must marry noblemen.
She could determine for herself which of the suitors present at the house party were worthy of her sisters and which decidedly were not. She could discern the fortune hunters from the gentlemen, the scoundrels and the rakes from the genuine and honest. She could distinguish between those who were truly appreciative of her sisters and the men who simply needed to marry their fortunes. Each potential suitor she investigated and found deficient would be one less fortune hunter her sisters needed to guard their hearts and reputations against.
Since her reputation already hung in tatters, she was the one who must do the deed.
She saw it all clearly now.
Yes, it must be her.
And she would begin here and now, with the Earl of Hertford.
She rose on her toes before she lost her daring and pressed her lips to his.
The contact was startling. His mouth was warm, smooth, and supple. Softer than she had expected. The only other man she had kissed, Baron Cunningham, had been thin-lipped, his mouth wet. Her first reaction to this kiss was that the Earl of Hertford’s lips felt as fine as they looked.
Her second reaction was dear, sweet Lord, I am kissing the Earl of Hertford.
She inhaled swiftly. A mistake, as it happened, because she breathed in his scent. Shaving soap and man. And she liked that scent. Liked it far too much. And that scent initiated a wave of something wicked crashing over her.
In the next moment, everything changed.
Because she was not merely pressing her mouth to his. He was kissing her back. His gloved hands were on her face, holding her as if she were made of gossamer. His lower lip was fitted between hers as if it were where it belonged. Everything about this kiss, this moment, felt right in an instinctive way. Even in the depths of her scarred heart.
She told herself it was because this man, unlike Cunningham, allowed her to retain the power while seductively asserting his own. He kissed her, and yet the moment, the kiss, was hers to break. One step backward, and it would all end. But she did not want it to end.
She wanted it to go on.
And on.
Somehow, her hands found his shoulders. His mouth angled over hers, deepening the kiss. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, begging entrance she could not deny. Sh
e opened for him, and then he was licking into her mouth, and the taste of him invaded her much the way his scent had. Deep and dark and mysterious, sweet with a bitter hint of coffee.
This kiss was not like anything she had experienced before.
This kiss, she knew instinctively, would ruin any others that would come after it. This kiss was air, it was sunlight, it was a heartbeat.
Necessary.
He made a low sound in his throat. A soft hum of acquiescence escaped her. She was kissing him back, learning how to mold her lips against his, how to move her tongue, to dip it inside his mouth. Somehow, her hands were no longer on his shoulders, but rather in his hair. The thick strands felt delicious to her fingertips beneath the barrier of her own gloves.
She had never before touched a gentleman’s hair, but the Earl of Hertford’s glossy light-brown locks were soft and thick. He kissed her harder as she caught the strands in her grasp and tugged. He liked it, she discovered, and she liked it too.
She liked it too much.
She liked him too much.
This was meant to be an exercise in aiding her sisters, she reminded herself as her tongue forayed into his mouth. She was kissing him to strike him from the list. Testing him. She did not like him. This kiss meant nothing.
Nothing at all.
“Eugie!”
In the end, it was not the practical concerns of her rational mind which made her end the foolishness to which she had succumbed, but rather the sound of her name echoing through the garden. The sound of her name called in the voice of one of the sisters she intended to protect.
Grace, as it happened.
A sobering reminder, indeed.
Eugie took a step backward, abruptly severing the kiss, although it was the last thing the most sinful part of her truly wished to do. She knew her sister, and if Grace was looking for her, it meant her sister was in trouble of her own.
She pressed her fingers over her tingling lips, staring at the earl who had just radically altered everything she thought she had known about herself. “I must go. I should never have…”
Wanton in Winter Page 2