Her sister-in-law’s expression grew pained. “His father, the former earl, was a notorious wastrel.”
Everything inside her froze. “He would need to wed a wealthy bride, then, would he not?”
“Yes, I would suspect it, but why, Eugie?” Emilia searched her gaze. “Surely Hertford cannot be the man responsible for the marks on your throat? One of the reasons I chose to invite him is that he has always been above reproach as a gentleman. His sobriquet is the Prince of Proper.”
He had most certainly not been the Prince of Proper last night.
Her ears went hot as she recalled what he had done to her, his tongue between her legs, his manhood inside her. And to her shame, a dull throb pounded to life at her core. A traitorous ache that told her she would gladly have more of the pleasure he had given. Despite what she had just learned about him.
Foolish, foolish body. Stupid, wounded heart.
“It was not the earl,” she lied. “It was another.”
“Who, if not Hertford?” Emilia asked shrewdly.
“I would prefer not to say.” She paused. “I promise it will not happen again.”
“I am afraid your promise is not good enough, Eugie.” Her sister-in-law sighed. “You are my sister now, and I love you. I want to protect you. I cannot do that if you do not tell me what happened and with whom.”
She knew Emilia was right. Still, she could not bear to reveal the full extent of what had happened. “It was reckless and unwise on my part, and I am so sorry for my actions. But please, Emilia, do not make me tell you the name of the gentleman. It was a mistake which shall not be repeated. I promise you.”
“Did the gentleman in question force you?” Emilia pressed. “If you were coerced or manhandled, your brother must hear of it at once.”
“No,” she reassured her sister-in-law. “My foolishness was purely voluntary. A moment alone, and I gave in to my weakness. It was a few kisses, nothing more. As I said, it shan’t be repeated.”
“It cannot be repeated,” Emilia warned gently. “You understand that, do you not, my dear? We are working so hard to restore your reputation after what that regrettable little toad did to you. We cannot afford to cause a scandal. It will affect not only you, but your sisters as well. Promise me you will not do something so reckless again, Eugie.”
She closed her eyes once more, unable to look at the kindness on Emilia’s face any longer, knowing she was lying to her sister-in-law, knowing just how great a scandal was already in the making.
“I promise,” she whispered, guilt curdling in her gut and making her misery complete.
She would do everything in her power to hold true to that promise.
Everything.
One fact was becoming painfully apparent to Cam: Miss Eugie Winter was avoiding him.
Not just avoiding him. Hiding from him.
An entire day had gone by without a single sighting of her. And he had looked for her. Everywhere. All whilst attempting not to be too obvious in his search. He had not asked after her directly, for fear his interest would become suspect. She had not been present at breakfast, nor for any of the festive afternoon diversions occupying his fellow guests. Dinner, too, had come and gone without her.
This morning, he was once again riding with Aylesford at his side, hoping the chill of the bitter December air would give him some much-needed clarity on what he needed to do. Thus far, it had not.
“You look remarkably grim,” his friend noted, his breath making wisps of fog as he spoke.
“As do you,” he observed. “I have yet to hear word of your betrothal.”
It was a relief to settle upon the problems of someone else, at least for a moment. Distracting himself from thoughts of Eugie was proving more difficult by the hour.
“That is because I have yet to secure the acquiescence of my betrothed,” Aylesford noted, his jaw tensing as he made the admission. “She says she is not certain she wishes to be tied to a scoundrel such as me even in a feigned courtship. Do you believe the airs of the minx?”
Perhaps the viscount had met his match in Miss Grace Winter.
“Your reputation is black,” he pointed out.
“More like dun,” Aylesford argued.
“And you are a scoundrel,” he continued, ignoring his friend’s interjection.
Then again, so was he. What manner of gentleman stole a lady’s innocence in the midst of a house party? Or ever, for that matter?
“I am not a scoundrel.” Aylesford scowled at him. “Devil take it, Hertford, whose side are you on?”
“Yours, of course,” he said, bracing himself against a sudden, cold gust of wind. “Which is why I am pointing out how the lady must feel about things.”
He could have been speaking to himself.
Indeed, he was speaking to himself.
And he realized how much of a cad he must seem to Eugie. Or perhaps—worse—a fortune hunter. Which he was. Both of those things. Yes, he was.
“The lady is not required to have feelings on the matter,” Aylesford was saying. “The vexing wench is proving more difficult to woo as a feigned betrothed than a true betrothed would be. If I actually wished to marry her—which I most assuredly do not—I would simply go to her brother and ask the devil for her hand. It would be as simple as that.”
“Why do you not do that?” he asked his friend, and once more, the question was one he should be asking himself as well. “Go to Mr. Winter directly. It is hardly a secret he is attempting to secure noble husbands for his sisters. I should think he would be more than happy to accept your suit.”
Mayhap he should do the same: approach Mr. Winter. Ask for Eugie’s hand.
“I would if I was assured the lady in question would agree to the match,” Aylesford grumbled. “But although I have no intention of ever shackling myself to anyone, and she knows it, she may refuse to agree to the feigned betrothal, just to spite me.”
True. There was that possibility for him as well. Eugie had been angry with him when she had fled his chamber two nights ago, and with good reason. Cam stared into the field that stretched out before them, wishing he knew what the hell to do next.
Eugie had once more been absent from breakfast. How was he to induce her to give him another chance when he could not find her?
“You will have to persuade her,” he told Aylesford.
“Of course I will,” the viscount agreed. “But I do not know how.”
He was not alone in that sentiment. Cam frowned. “Perhaps you could convince her using the same methods you have employed with others. How do you woo a woman into becoming your mistress, for instance?”
“I have but to look at women and they leap into my bed by the legions,” his friend drawled.
Damn Aylesford and his sarcastic wit. “What an extraordinary talent to have,” he returned.
“Don’t be daft, Hertford.” Aylesford gave him a look. “I give them gifts. Baubles. Pay them attention. Smile at them. Nibble at their necks in darkened alcoves. That sort of thing.”
“It sounds as if you have been reading Minerva press books.” He grinned. “Little wonder you are not having any luck with convincing Miss Winter to be your pretend betrothed.”
“Go to the devil,” Aylesford told him without heat.
“I rather suspect I already have,” he said grimly, thinking of what he had done. How far he had allowed himself to go beyond the bounds of propriety.
He had to make this right.
Somehow.
But first, he had to find Eugie.
“The Prince of Proper?” Aylesford raised a brow. “What could you possibly do that would land you in eternal damnation?”
Kiss an unwed lady senseless in a dark hall. Take her into his chamber. Strip off her dressing gown and night rail…
From there, he had to stop his thoughts.
Because they were decidedly wicked. And wrong. And it was a hell of a thing to sport an erection whilst one was riding a horse with Viscount Aylesford as c
ompany.
“All manner of sins,” was all he said.
But he was going to atone.
And to do so, it was becoming apparent to him he had only one choice: sneak into Eugie’s chamber and confront her, face-to-face.
Chapter Nine
His tongue was in her mouth, and his hands were traveling all over her body. Cupping her breasts, playing with her nipples until they hardened into distended peaks. Lower, following the curve of her waist down to her hips. And then, his fingers touched her. Where she was wet for him, throbbing for him, aching for him.
She moaned into his kiss, writhing against him.
This was all wrong.
He was all wrong.
And yet, she never wanted it to end.
A decadent spiral of desire was twisting through her, making her every sense more potent and powerful. He worked over her flesh harder. Faster.
But still it was not enough. She wanted more…
“Eugie.”
“Go away,” she muttered, half-asleep, trying to get back to the place she had been, on the brink of the most delirious, mind-shattering climax.
“Eugie.” There was the voice again, deep and delicious.
His voice.
Slowly, her eyes opened, blinking into the darkened chamber. Surely, it had been a dream. Surely, the Earl of Hertford was not truly in her room. She turned her head on the pillow and let out a shriek when she found him standing beside her bed, illuminated by the flickering glow of a small brace of tapers.
“Damnation,” he muttered, scowling at her. “No screaming unless you want the entire wing at your door demanding to know what is going on in here, and then you will truly have no choice but to wed me.”
Her body was instantly aware of his nearness. Undoubtedly the dream she had been having about him did not help matters. Her nipples were hard. Her skin was flushed. Why, oh why, did she have to be so responsive to the scoundrel?
She clutched the bedclothes to her neck as if they were a shield. “What are you doing in my chamber?”
“Lower your voice, Eugie.” He settled his rump upon the edge of her bed.
“Get off my bed!” she whispered furiously.
“I need to be nearer to you so no one will overhear us,” he returned.
“The only thing you need to do is go away,” she countered.
“I want to speak with you.” His low voice was as delicious as ever, sending an unwanted trill through her.
She ignored it. “Speak with me elsewhere.”
“I would have.” His jaw clenched. “But you have been hiding away in here for two days. I had no choice but to come to you.”
“I am not hiding.” Her cheeks went hot. “I am ill.”
A shadow flickered over his face. “Is it because of me? Because of that night? You are not in pain, are you?”
Only internal agony, but she was not going to admit that to him.
“No,” she snapped. “Now do get out of my chamber, Lord Hertford. You do not belong in here, and if this is some sort of stunt to entrap me into marriage, I can assure you, I will not go through with it. I will not be forced into marriage with a fortune-hunting cad. One man tried it before you, and he was not any more successful than you will be.”
His nostrils flared. “I am not attempting to force you into anything.”
“I distinctly recall your words the other night.”
“Admittedly, my delivery was lacking. I merely wanted to reassure you I would take care of you.”
“I do not need to be taken care of,” she returned.
“Allow me to rephrase.” His tone was as grim as his countenance as he paused. “I wanted to reassure you I would not bed and then refuse to wed you. While my actions have suggested otherwise, and I do not blame you for reaching such a conclusion, I am a man of honor.”
“And why would I wish to wed any man, least of all you?” she demanded, still unimpressed by his efforts.
Dev could not make her marry anyone.
She could go somewhere, take her disgrace elsewhere. To the deepest, darkest recesses of the country, where no one knew her name and she could not taint her family. She could buy a cottage and plant roses in her garden and live off her fortune and take care of herself.
It did not seem a bad plan.
Perhaps lonely.
She would miss her sisters and her brother, certainly.
But she could do it. She was strong.
“Because you could be carrying my babe,” he said then, a fervent note in his voice she had not heard before. “I took measures to ensure my seed would not take root, but nothing is certain.”
The dream of the cottage and the roses—the cottage was made of limestone and it overlooked a meadow filled with wildflowers and dotted with the occasional cow—suddenly changed. She imagined herself sitting in a rocking chair, a babe in her arms.
A babe with the Earl of Hertford’s blade of a nose and proud chin.
And a strange, new warmth crept over her, from the inside out. Unfurling like the bud of a rose, tightly packed at first, before blossoming into a luscious burst of petals beneath the heat of the sun.
A mother.
She had never before thought of having a child. Of a babe growing in her womb. The prospect was not at all upsetting. Nor, to her dismay, was the thought of the earl as the child’s sire.
“Eugie,” he prodded, sidling nearer to her on the bed. Near enough he could find her left hand, which had been resting idly in her lap while the right held her bedclothes to her chin.
Their fingers tangled, and his skin was hot and smooth, his touch firm and reassuring. She ought to withdraw.
She did not.
“My babe could be growing within you now,” he said.
And she, fool that she was, laced her fingers tighter in his. Just for a moment. Just for a beat. Until she recalled he was a fortune hunter.
She withdrew her hand at last. “It does not signify. I will not wed you, Lord Hertford.”
“Cam.” His hazel gaze flitted over her face, studying her, searching, it seemed, for something.
She knew not what.
“Lord Hertford,” she repeated. “Remove yourself from my bed and from my chamber at once. You are not welcome here.”
“I am not going anywhere until you agree to become my countess.” His fingers stroked the top of her hand.
She liked the touch too much, so she delivered a sound little smack to him, as if she were a governess and he her naughty charge. “Do stop touching me, Hertford. I do not like it.”
A lie.
A blatant, horrible lie.
Because the weakness inside her could not resist this man for long, and she knew it. Which was why he had to get out of her chamber. Out of this wing. Out of Abingdon House altogether, if possible. Far away. She would send him to the moon if she could.
And even then, she would yearn for him.
What was wrong with her? He is a fortune hunter, she reminded herself. Pockets to let. Manipulating you. Making you feel cherished. Bedding you to force your hand. Think of the cottage, the roses.
She thought of the babe who looked like Cam.
Cam.
Yes, that was how she thought of him now. He had been inside her, after all. He had lain with her and given her pleasure she had never imagined existed. And now, he had invaded her chamber the way he had invaded her body.
“You do not like my touch?” he asked silkily.
And she realized, oh how she realized, that of all the prevarications she could have attempted with this man, she had chosen the worst. For it was a challenge. The gauntlet had been dropped.
There was no retrieving it now. So she tilted up her chin, meeting his gaze, and lied some more. “No.”
“Eugie.” His deep and delicious voice was knowing.
“I am Miss Winter to you,” she corrected. “And you must go.”
He did not go. Instead, he inched nearer. His long, strong leg was hooked at the knee, hi
s breeches drawn tight. She would have been grateful he was fully dressed, wearing shirtsleeves and even a waistcoat and cravat, but for the loving fit of those breeches. She could see all of him.
The sinews of his thigh muscles, earned from riding. The strength of his calf. The bulge of his manhood beneath the falls of his breeches. Long and thick. The memory of how it had felt, sliding inside her, produced a burning throb deep within. He had stretched her, known her body in ways she could have never dreamt.
Naughty books, wicked words, engravings—none of these could compare to the visceral experience of being claimed. And he had done that. Cam had done that. He had claimed her. Possessed her.
Filled her.
He was staring at her lips, his gaze hooded. She should not want him as she did. Should not feel the hunger firing to life deep within her. But she did. Something was wrong with her. He was wrong with her. Yes, this affliction was all his fault. She would bury herself in the country where he could never find her. Never look at her with those hazel eyes, those well-molded lips.
“Tell me again,” he said.
And his voice, his words, they were a dare.
She stared at his mouth, longing to feel it on hers although she knew she should not. “Tell you what, Lord Hertford?”
“To go.” He slid closer. She was trapped in the spell of his eyes. His potent maleness. His beauty. “Tell me you do not like my touch.”
Her lips were parted. Her sex felt heavy. The throb turned into an ache. A hunger. The burning within her intensified. His possession of her had been exquisite, a marriage of discomfort and pleasure, terrifying and delicious all at once. The pain had turned into the most flawless thrill.
A thrill she longed for again now.
Dear God, in spite of everything, she wanted him again.
“Tell me,” he repeated. “Do it, Eugie. Make those pretty red lips tell me to go.”
She stared at him. The words would not come. The strangeness which had overtaken her was potent. Confusing. She felt as she had once when she consumed too much wine. Glowing. Warm. But something more…
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