Lord Ashley Rawdon had been eying her sister Pru as if she were a dessert course and he could not decide if he wanted to consume her in small bites or eat her all at once. Dreadful fellow, with a reputation that preceded him as one of the worst scoundrels in all London. Indeed, her brother Dev would have never sanctioned his invitation were it not for his brother, the Duke of Coventry, who was also in attendance.
The handsome duke was awkward and quiet.
His equally gorgeous brother did all the talking for him.
“And now for a game of charades,” Lady Emilia announced to the assemblage, who had gathered in the drawing room, awaiting the next round of entertainments she had prepared for them.
Her sister-in-law was doing a tremendous job of amusing the guests assembled. Indeed, Eugie could not find fault with the parlor games she had arranged. It was to her credit that such a massive assembly could be easily shepherded from one diversion to the next.
But charades was one of Eugie’s least favorite games. So much guessing. So many people who were lackluster at mimicry. So much time wasted. Fortunately for her, Lord Ashley appeared to be making his way to the doorway of the drawing room, all the better to secure his exit.
He had the right idea, even if she did not trust him one whit when it came to Pru. Or any of her other sisters, for that matter. Slowly, Eugie worked her way through the crowd, maneuvering herself to the door. She had been making a habit of escape recently. And it never failed to surprise her just how easy it was.
Casting her gaze about to make certain no one was watching her, she slipped through the door. Charades could go to the devil for all she cared. What did concern her was her sisters and their hearts. Lord Ashley was a scoundrel of the first order, she was certain of it. All she had to do was find him…
Down the hall she went, but Lord Ashley’s legs were longer than hers. And he was quicker. He was disappearing around the bend in the hall by the time she was following him.
“Miss Winter.”
A voice stopped her.
A familiar voice.
Warmth unfurled, settling in her core. She spun about, and there he stood. The Earl of Hertford.
She could do nothing more than stare at him, wondering what he wanted. Why he was so handsome. Why she could not kiss him again.
But then she realized she was standing about like a ninny, gawking at him in silence. How odd she must appear. How awkward. Once more, they were beyond the bounds of propriety, standing alone in the hall. The drawing room was not far from them, filled with revelers. At any moment, one of them could exit the chamber, walk into the hall, and find the two of them alone.
She should go.
Follow Lord Ashley. Make certain he was not the heartless fortune hunter she suspected he was. Kiss him.
But the thought of kissing the rakish Lord Ashley, in spite of his undeniable good looks, only left her feeling hollow and cold inside. Perhaps she could attempt to kiss him another day, she told herself. There was no reason to begin her plan today.
“My lord,” she said to the earl. “Forgive me, but I have a headache. I was about to seek my chamber and have a restoring nap.”
“Oh?” He eyed her, his gaze raking her form in a fashion that was far more familiar than it had been before.
She liked it.
“Yes, I was,” she said stupidly.
Because he was looking at her with such intensity she could scarcely form a coherent word. Fire burned to life within her. And there was his mouth, that perfectly formed masterpiece she had not been able to stop thinking about after she had last felt it moving against hers.
She had told Grace the kiss had been passable. What rot. Nothing she had ever experienced in her life deserved to be described in such an unenthusiastic fashion less.
“Allow me to escort you, my lady,” he offered, sounding perfectly polite.
An utter gentleman.
But no gentleman escorted a lady to her chamber. She may be a wicked Winter, but she knew the rules. She knew propriety. Lady Emilia had made certain of it.
She ought to deny him. Tell him she was fine. To leave her alone.
She opened her mouth. “Very well,” said her traitorous tongue. “To the west wing, if you please. That shall be far enough.”
It was a tradeoff, of sorts, she supposed. A nod to propriety, however small.
And then her equally traitorous hand settled upon the crook of his elbow, and off they went, into the intricate web of Abingdon House halls.
Cam was behaving very much out of character for himself, and he knew it. But he had not been able to excise the taunting, dulcet voice of Miss Eugie Winter from his mind after inadvertently playing the eavesdropper the day before.
It was passable, I suppose.
Passable?
She supposed?
The words still nettled. It was those words, he told himself, and surely not the desire to feel her lips beneath his once more, that had set him upon the ruinous path down which he now marched. Her hand upon his arm was as light as a butterfly, and yet he felt it through the layers of his coat and shirt like a brand.
Her scent invaded his senses like a charging cavalry brigade. Christ, she smelled like a hothouse in verdant bloom. Floral, rich, and exotic.
Desire, unwanted and fierce, surged through him. His breeches were suddenly too tight as he strode at her side, and he could honestly say he had never in all his thirty years gotten a cockstand whilst promenading with a lady.
Until today.
But Eugie Winter was no lady, as her reputation proved. Nothing had made that more apparent than her forward behavior yesterday in the garden, when she had all but flung herself into his arms and kissed him. To say nothing of the plan she had revealed to her sister in the library. Kissing every gentleman in attendance, indeed.
The reminder filled him with a rush of possessiveness so strong and unexpected, he directed them through the nearest door. As it happened, the chamber was thankfully unoccupied. A cursory glance suggested it was a writing room.
“Lord Hertford,” she protested, “what are you doing? I thought you were escorting me to the west wing.”
He closed the door at their backs and took her in his arms. Never mind her arms slid around his neck as if that were where they belonged. He did his best to ignore the delicious swell of her breasts crushing into his chest. Her eyes widened. The lashes were long and thick.
He thought of her in another man’s arms like this. In that scoundrel Lord Ashley’s arms, whom she had been following when he had interrupted her and her ludicrous plan both. And then he remembered his own plan, the one he had formed in the darkness of his chamber last night whilst he had been plagued by thoughts of her lush lips.
He was going to give her the best damned kiss of her life.
A kiss to make her swoon.
A kiss she would never forget.
“I have heard,” he told her, his voice low, “the best cure for a headache is a kiss. Mayhap we ought to try it. I should hate to see you suffer, my dear Miss Winter.”
Her nose wrinkled, the most adorable expression of befuddlement crossing her features. “You have?”
He nodded. “Of course. It is not common knowledge, you know. But I thought perhaps to give it an attempt.”
“Oh.” She blinked, then the pink tip of her tongue flicked slowly over her ripe bottom lip. “Yes, that would be agreeable. How solicitous of you to offer your aid, my lord.”
Anchoring her to him with one hand at her waist, he drew the other to her face. His thumb passed over her lip. Just once. He was not supposed to be enjoying this. He was supposed to be teaching her a lesson.
Instead, he was teaching himself one.
In desire.
Because now that he had Eugie Winter in his grasp, her head tipped back, her lips his for the taking, need slammed into him, full force. It took his breath. It took his will. And he could do nothing but stand there, astounded.
She was everything he should n
ot want. Being here with her, alone, touching her, about to kiss her once more, was wrong. If they were caught, he would have to wed her. He had lived his life without the tiniest blot of scandal to his name. He was the Prince of Proper. He had never sought an unmarried lady in such a bold manner. He had never wanted to.
What was it about this dark-haired, dark-eyed merchant’s daughter that made him so bloody weak?
“Are you going to do it?” she whispered, her gaze dipping to his mouth.
“Yes,” he said thickly, barely managing the word past another raging wave of pure, unadulterated lust. “I was giving you the chance to acquaint yourself to the notion.”
He had never wanted another woman in the way he wanted her. It was visceral and real, pumping through his veins, warming his blood, hardening his cock even more. It was elemental, the sort of raw desire he had only ever allowed himself to entertain toward ladies of the demimonde. But it was more than that. So much more.
“Lord Hertford,” she said, sounding breathless.
He lowered his head a fraction, unable to resist inhaling her addictive scent once more. “Yes?”
“I am acquainted,” she said. “You may kiss me now.”
Damnation. He was meant to be the one wooing her, and yet she was doing all the wooing. For the first time in his life, he wished he had been a devoted rakehell. But then he forgot to think. Because Miss Eugie Winter rose to her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his once more.
It was the only spur he required.
The spell she cast over him broke, along with the reins of his control. His fingers plunged into the upsweep of her hair, the place where all her curls were tidily kept trapped. He wanted them free and wild.
His mouth crushed hers. On a groan of pure desire, he swept his tongue over the seam of her lips, and when she opened, he surged inside. She tasted of the sweet desserts of luncheon. Berry custard and cream and something else he could not define.
Something that was specifically, deliciously, Eugie Winter.
Full stop.
Hair pins were raining to the floor in a hail of dull little thumps. He hated the gloves he wore, for the way they inhibited him from feeling the texture of her hair. Spun silk, he was sure. The hand on her waist traveled to her back, coasting up her spine, pressing her closer to him as he ravished her mouth.
Her tongue toyed with his, unabashed. It was the most carnal kiss he had ever shared. Not even his mistresses had kissed him with such wild abandon. No, indeed, theirs had been precise, measured. They had known how to control the pace with the pressure of their lips, the soft, subtle response of their desires.
But not the woman in his arms.
She kissed him as if she wanted to consume him.
And, Lord God, he wanted her to do just that. He could not think of another thought but her. She was all he wanted, all he tasted, all he felt, all he desired. His plan dissipated. Nothing else mattered but the need to claim her, to make her his.
Kissing her still, he moved them as one. Across the floor. He had spied a settee upon their initial entrance, and he instinctively aimed for it now, backing her up, leading the way one step at a time as he plundered her lips. How sweet her response was. How intoxicating her curves, pressed against him.
He thought it was possible she was the most desirable woman he had ever met. Not because of her beauty, but because of the fiery passion within her. The way her body seemed to be made for his. He had never before felt such a connection with a woman as he did with her. He felt it to the marrow of his bones, to the heart of him. There was only one word for it…right.
Perfectly right, even when it was all wrong.
Even when everything about it was wicked. Improper. Even when he was going further than he had intended. He broke their kiss when they reached the settee, gratified to find her cheeks flushed, her brown eyes dark and glazed, her full lips delectably swollen from his kisses.
“How is your headache?” he felt compelled to ask for the sake of politeness, leaning his forehead into hers.
“It is…fine,” she said on a sigh.
“I lied about kisses curing headaches,” he admitted before kissing her again. Just one more drugging sip from her lips. She was like an elixir, and he could not get enough.
He withdrew at last, breathless and aching for her.
“I lied about having a headache,” she whispered, her gaze unwavering, burning into his.
“We are both of us liars, it would seem,” he said softly. “Sinners.”
“Yes,” she agreed, tipping up her chin and rubbing her lower lip along his in the most erotic half kiss he had experienced.
In the only half kiss he had ever experienced. When had half kisses become something one did? He did not know. None of his mistresses had ever done so, he was sure of it. All he did know was that it made him more desperate for her than before.
Bloody hell.
He had to slow down. In truth, he had to leave this chamber.
But he could not. He could not leave her side. And not just because of his plan. Not just because he wanted to thwart her. But because of her.
Because she was mouthwatering and breath-stealing, and she was fire to his ice, and he wanted to melt.
“We should go,” he told her anyway, the small part of his mind still capable of reasoning chiming in. “I should escort you to the west wing as I promised. As a gentleman would do.”
“What if I do not wish for you to be a gentleman?” she asked.
Fuck.
One question from her, and his cock was more rigid than ever, straining at the falls of his breeches.
“Sit,” he rasped.
It was the only word he could manage.
She stared at him for a beat, looking as if she wanted to challenge him. Indeed, part of him expected her to. But in the end, she settled upon the settee. And not with a bit of grace. Here was evidence she was not as practiced in the art of seduction as her kisses would suggest. She had dropped to the cushion with such force, the gilded wooden frame slid into the wall with a loud thump.
Some distant part of his mind wondered if anyone would overhear and come to investigate. But the rest of him only saw Miss Eugie Winter in a diaphanous billow of seafoam-colored skirts. Her dark curls were coming undone, trailing over her shoulders. Her red lips were parted. She was the most alluring sight he had ever beheld, even set against the backdrop of dark-green walls and hunting pictures.
And there was only one thing he could do.
He sank to his knees before her.
Chapter Five
The Earl of Hertford was on his knees before her.
Surely, nothing good could come of this.
She was old enough to know better. World-weary enough—thanks to the odious Baron Cunningham—to understand just how great a risk she took. One kiss was all she had given the baron, and he had turned that anthill into a mountain of pain and shame. Allowing liberties to any man, let alone another fortune-hunting peer, was the last thing she ought to be doing.
She had her plan to see through, she reminded herself.
Or, at least, she tried to remind herself. Thinking anything at all was becoming dreadfully difficult. Especially with a man as beautiful as the earl staring at her. And especially when he slid his hands beneath the hem of her gown.
Definitely when he settled his hands upon her ankles and caressed a path upward, over her calves.
Eugie stared at him, hunger coursing through her, a throbbing ache pulsing from between her thighs and drawing outward, overtaking everything. Their gazes were locked upon each other. She had never in her life been more painfully aware of the unwanted barrier of a gentleman’s gloves and her own silk stockings.
How she wanted his bare skin on hers.
Even if this was wrong.
And it was wrong, she reminded herself as his wicked hands traveled to her knees, caressing the sensitive dips behind them.
Very wrong indeed, she scolded herself as he gently guided her le
gs apart.
Horridly wrong. But he had lifted the hems of her gown and petticoat so they rested in her lap in a soft heap, and still, she could not muster one word of denial. Because she did not want to deny him.
He was stiff and proper, gentlemanly and aloof. And yet, when he came to life, he was an inferno. And she wanted to get burned.
“Miss Winter,” he said.
His voice was a caress. Low and liquid.
“Call me Eugie,” she implored, because she could not bear for such formality between them when he was seeing her limbs encased in stockings and garters.
“Eugie,” he repeated, as if trying it out on his tongue.
She liked it. Liked the way it sounded. Liked the intimacy it gave them. Liked everything about this forbidden moment and this equally forbidden man far, far too much.
But then, his hands were moving higher, over her thighs, and she forgot to think entirely. Words were elusive. All she could do was feel. His head dipped. And his mouth, his beautiful mouth, laid a kiss upon her inner thigh. Who would have imagined a kiss upon such a place? Or how glorious it felt?
A soft moan escaped her as hunger built. Tension drawing into a knot in her core.
But in the next moment, all that dissipated when the door to the chamber opened and her sister stepped over the threshold. Lord Hertford was quick in his reaction, but not quick enough that Grace would have no doubt something untoward had been occurring.
“Eugie, what in heaven’s name are you about?” Grace asked, her tone scandalized.
The earl had flipped down her skirts, but now he stood, offering an abbreviated bow to Grace. “Miss Winter. I am afraid the other Miss Winter was suffering from a h—”
“Splinter,” Eugie interrupted before he gave further legs to her initial prevarication. Grace was intelligent. She would not be swayed by the suggestion Lord Hertford had been attempting to ease her headache by rucking up her skirts. “I had a splinter in my heel. A heel splinter.”
Wanton in Winter Page 4