Wanton in Winter

by Scott, Scarlett

  It was all quite cozy and festive. But the beauty of it was lost upon her, for she was too caught up in her own musings. For several days now, Cam had been courting her. There was no other word to describe it. He was charming her.

  Wooing her.

  And her heart was having a difficult time resisting him.

  As was the rest of her.

  “I thought I may find you here.”

  The deep timbre of his voice was unmistakable, setting off a shiver of awareness she could not fight. Eugie turned to find him striding toward her, unfairly handsome in his evening wear. He had been the perfect gentleman ever since the night he had trespassed in her bedchamber.

  The Prince of Proper in truth, always impeccable, always above reproach. She missed his kiss. Part of her—perhaps all of her, even—liked him wicked.

  “You followed me,” she accused without heat.

  For in truth, something inside her came to life at the sight of him. After little time alone over the last few days, the chance to be with just him appealed.

  “I did.” The grin he sent her was unrepentant. Boyish, almost. He stopped, near enough to touch. “But not before securing a handful of raisins at the expense of my fingers.”

  “Did you burn yourself?” Without thought, she reached for his gloveless hands, turning them over for her inspection.

  Just as quickly, he flipped her hands over, clasping them in his warm grip. “It stung, but I shall live.”

  His scent washed over her, and her body’s response was instant. She was falling into his eyes. And she was oh-so aware of everything—the space separating their mouths, the crackling of the fire in the distance, the blowing of the wind beyond the walls of Abingdon House, the heat rolling off his big body.

  “Do you realize where you are standing, Eugie?” he asked softly.

  Unwisely near to him, but she could not bear to take a step away. Could not bear to break the connection of their hands or gazes.

  “Right here,” she said.

  “Look up,” he told her, his sensual lips curving into a smile so tender, she felt it in her core.

  There was such promise there, so much delicious intent.

  For a moment, she could do nothing other than stare at him, drinking in the sight of him in the candlelight, this man with whom she had shared such shocking intimacies. This man who felt so familiar and right.

  But then she forced herself to look up at last, and when she did, it was to find a sprig of mistletoe hanging overhead, suspended from the beam supporting the second floor of the library. Hunger flared to life. Desire began as a throb between her thighs and turned into a great, pulsing need that threatened to consume her.

  She glanced back to find him watching her in a manner that stole her breath.

  “Oh,” was all she could think of saying.

  Not even a coherent sentence.

  Because she felt unaccountably shy in this moment. It was different. Their other kisses had been sudden and reckless, or hidden in darkness. They had been covert and secret. They had not been in the well-lit library where anyone could come upon them at any moment. They had not been after he had declared his intention to marry her.

  “I am obliged to steal a kiss,” he said.

  “And then my dowry,” she quipped, forcing herself to recall all the reasons why he was wrong for her. Why this was wrong.

  Why she must not allow a kiss with him to cloud her judgment.

  “I am the best kind of fortune hunter you can find, Eugie Winter,” he told her, drawing her nearer by their linked hands. “An honest one.”

  Yes, he had been truthful with her, had he not?

  He had been candid about his debts, his scoundrel father. He had promised her a mutually beneficial solution to their problems instead. She had no idea why that seemed so appealing to her.

  Cottage, she reminded herself. Think of the cottage. The roses.

  “There is no good kind of fortune hunter,” she forced herself to say.

  But she did not break their entwined hands. Nor did she step away.

  “Mayhap you might think of me as a man instead,” he suggested, his gaze dipping to her lips. “A man who wants you very much. A man who wishes to be your husband. A man who is going to kiss you.”

  And then, his mouth was on hers.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was all the fault of the mistletoe.

  That, and Eugie’s berry-red lips, beckoning him. He missed them beneath his, the plush suppleness of them, so pliant and sweet. Better than dessert. He was kissing her now, consuming her really, like the delicacy she was. She tasted of punch and Christmas and delicious woman, and he could not get enough.

  He could never get enough.

  Why had he allowed so many days to lapse between the last time he had owned her soft mouth and now? He did not know, but the instant his tongue swept past the seam of her lips, he vowed to make up for the lost time. The same fervor that overcame him whenever he touched her returned, stronger than ever.

  Taking his breath.

  Robbing his ability to think.

  He released their entwined fingers so he could touch her as he longed. Everywhere. His hands traveled up her waist, higher still, over her thudding heart, to the pulse pounding on the soft column of her throat, burying in her nape. Her hair was silken.

  Everything about her was rich and lustrous, so vibrant. Her fragrance of blossoming summer garden enveloped him. All his good intentions vanished, along with his need to maintain propriety. Because she was in his arms where she belonged, and her tongue was playing against his, the bounty of her breasts crushed into his chest.

  And Christ, but he could feel the hardness of her nipples prodding him like twin diamonds through all their combined layers. He could not resist finding them and tweaking the buds, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger until he earned a moan from deep in her throat. Husky and mellifluous, that sound made him want more.

  He sucked on her lower lip, then nipped it with his teeth, overwhelmed by the voracious need to claim her. And then he licked away the sting before kissing her deeper, then finding his way down her neck to her ear. He nuzzled the hollow there, pleased to discover how sensitive she was when he used his tongue to advantage. A few well-placed licks, and her hands were on his shoulders, her nails digging into his muscles like a kitten’s claws.

  Yes, he wanted her ferocious. He wanted her as desperate as he was. Now that he had begun, he could not stop. He had intended to take one kiss from her beneath the mistletoe ball. He ought to have known better. Ought to have understood he could never stop at just one kiss when it came to Eugie Winter.

  He was desperate to be inside her again, his cock rigid and aching, as he recalled the heat and grip of her, the feeling of sliding home. He bit the fleshy lobe of her ear, then kissed the shell, rocking into her softness with his hardness. Letting her feel how much he wanted her. And he could tell the moment she understood, for she emitted a gasp, and then moved nearer to him, until every part of their bodies was flush, from head to toe.

  “Marry me,” he whispered into her ear.

  He could not take her again until they were wed, he told himself. Though he had been making every effort to earn her trust and win her hand, she had yet to let down her walls. But now, he could almost feel something inside her shifting. Could feel the same response in himself.

  He was changing.

  She had changed him.

  And he welcomed that, just as he welcomed her. Because he wanted roses in his gardens and Eugie in his bed. He wanted the woman in the red dress who had looked upon him with such scorn when they had met. He wanted the lady who loved gardens and libraries in equal measure. The lady who was wicked. The lady whose reputation was altogether wrong.

  He had always wanted her, from that first night on, although he had known he should not. And he wanted her now, more than ever. More with each kiss. Each breath.

  But she had not answered him. He raised his head and stare
d down into her upturned face, into those warm, brown eyes with their impossibly thick lashes. Into the face of the woman he wanted to make his countess.

  The woman he wanted to spend every night with for the rest of his life.

  The woman he loved.

  “Eugie,” he rasped, needing to fill the silence that had descended between them with something. Needing to chase away the realization he was not yet ready to accept.

  Love? Could it be?

  “I…” Her words trailed off, and she frowned, looking away from him. “I am not ready to accept such a fate yet.”

  Such a fate.

  He stiffened, inwardly grasping the vexation her words inspired in him with both hands. “The notion of becoming my countess still displeases you?”

  She swallowed. “I scarcely know you.”

  “What do you wish to know of me?” he asked, frustration rising, mingling with the desire, warring for supremacy.

  “Everything,” she said, her eyes wide. “I need more time, Cam. The notion of binding myself to you, knowing you are in need of my dowry…it frightens me.”

  He was going to beat Cunningham to a pulp when he returned to London. And then he was going to personally launch a campaign to restore Eugie’s reputation. Not because she was his wife—as long as he could convince her to wed him, of course—but because she deserved to shine. She deserved to hold her head high and sail through society like the goddess she was. He would silence the whispers, by God.

  “Look at me, Eugie,” he said softly, cupping her face in his hands. “You can trust me. Believe what you will of me, but I promise you I am a man of my word. I may need your dowry to save my estates from ruin, but I, too, have something to offer you in return.”

  “I do not need a title to be happy,” Eugie told him softly.

  He knew she was being utterly truthful. But he had come to understand her well enough to know being a countess was not enough lure to sway her. There was something else, he felt certain, which was.

  He had witnessed, firsthand, the closeness of the Winter family. Devereaux Winter loved his sisters with a ferocity he had not often seen. Cam had found much to admire in the man during his stay at Abingdon Hall.

  And he knew Eugie cared for her brother and her sisters with a love that was rare and generous and altruistic. Another rarity in his experience.

  “What of your family, Eugie?” he pressed. “Do you think your family would be happy to see you hide yourself in shame in the country, living your life alone in some godforsaken cottage? I have seen how much you all love each other, and I cannot believe they would accept such a lonely fate for you, even should you want it for yourself.”

  She stared up at him, and he wished he could hear her thoughts.

  “Who says my cottage shall be godforsaken?” she asked at last, a small smile upon her kiss-swollen lips. “I will have roses there, after all. Perhaps a small library of my own. And no one will ever whisper about me again.”

  It was like her to jest. He was beginning to know her. To understand her. And he wanted the chance to continue. He was not willing to give her up. He was determined.

  “You will have roses wherever you live when you are my countess,” he promised. “And you may replace all the books in the library with volumes of your choosing. If anyone whispers about you, they will have me to answer to. Most importantly, you will never need to hide. You will hold your head high.”

  Her countenance turned sad. “I already hold my head high. I do not need a champion, Cam.”

  He begged to differ, but he would not press the matter. “Think of your sisters, Eugie. If we wed, it will go a long way toward enabling them to secure good matches as well. Your brother is hungry for the respectability marrying into the nobility will bring him and his family. I can give you that.”

  “Cam.”

  “White roses, Eugie. Wherever you wish,” he prodded, using her words against her.

  “Cam,” she said again, but her voice had softened, along with her expression. She looked almost tender. “I can already have white roses wherever I wish.”

  Of course she could. She was a Winter, and the Winter family was one of the wealthiest in all England.

  He ran his thumb over the proud line of her cheek. “But you cannot have my kisses whenever you wish.”

  Her eyes darkened. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, and he had to suppress a groan at the sight.

  “I already have them whenever I wish,” she countered.

  “I will not follow you to your cottage,” he said, and then he could not resist lowering his lips to her forehead. “I will not do this.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Or this.” Then her cheek. “Nor this.” He settled upon her lips at last. “Definitely not this.”

  And then he was kissing her again, kissing her with all the passion once more flaring to life inside him. Because he could not stop. Did not dare stop. He would persuade her by any means he had, and if she would not listen to reason, perhaps she would listen to the fire burning between them.

  Eugie could not resist that mouth.

  His mouth.

  Cam’s.

  Cam. Oh heavens, he knew how to kiss. Or perhaps he just knew how to kiss her. Or his lips were made to fit hers perfectly. He was trying his best to convince her to marry him, and she knew it. She could not be certain if it was her dowry he wanted most or the erasure of the guilt he must carry around with him for taking her virtue.

  And not only did he know how to kiss, but he also knew how to persuade. Knew when to persuade with his lips and tongue instead of his words.

  She kissed him back, of course she did. And her hands were in his hair now, cradling his skull, fingers tunneling through the short, thick locks that were softer than they looked. And she was breathing him in, and his tongue was in her mouth, one of his hands settled on her hip, the other on the small of her back, guiding her into the prominent ridge of his manhood.

  He wanted her.

  And to her shame, the knowledge sent an answering throb to her core. She was wet for him. Aching for him. Deep within her, she longed for the unparalleled sensation of her body joined with his.

  Because she wanted him, too.

  She should not. She did not dare accept his suit. There was still so much she needed to learn about him. So many questions. But with his mouth devouring hers, she could not think of a single query to pose. Nor could she recall one opposition to becoming his countess.

  The Countess of Hertford.

  How strange, how silly to imagine herself owning such an appellation. A quivery sensation slid through her. A lightness mingled with heaviness, as though she were flitting outside her body and yet trapped within it, all at once.

  She had never aspired to become a nobleman’s wife.

  That was a dream of her brother’s, a misguided notion he maintained that they would all be happy if they could free themselves of the ties which bound them inextricably to their sordid past. Their father had been a cruel man. A ruthless man. A tyrant. And the basis for their wealth had been accumulated in all the wrong manners. Dev tried to make up for it now. They all did.

  But the scars of the past lingered. Every now and then, the skin drew taught. The wounds opened.

  Dev thought marrying into the quality would change things for them all.

  She was not as certain it could, but when the Earl of Hertford’s tongue was in her mouth, she was not certain of anything. Even her own name.

  “Cam,” she whispered against his lips, his name, a plea.

  “Tell me yes,” he murmured back, and then he was sucking on her lower lip once more, licking into her mouth. His hands were roving over her body in a welcomed claiming. He found her breasts with one; another cupped her rump, angling her body to his so he could press his length into the heart of her.

  She wanted to tell him yes.

  Mayhap she should.

  But the word would not arrive on her lips. Perhaps because she was so consumed in him. By him. With
him. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, and an answering burst of need fired to life deep inside her. The act was so sinful, so carnal, and she had never experienced anything like it.

  The Prince of Proper had untold wickedness. And she liked that, too.

  In truth, she liked him. She liked the wildness in him that had made him kiss her in the darkened hall that night. The way he had kissed her all the way across his bedchamber. The passion that had led them to fall together in his bed. She liked the tender way he touched and held her, the way he kissed her. She liked the way he looked at her, from across a chamber. As if she were the only woman he saw.

  He made her feel that way, too. As if she alone stole his attention. As if she alone was the one he wanted, the one he needed above all others, and not just for her dowry but for her, on an elemental level. For herself as a woman. No man had ever made her feel thus. Not even Cunningham, though he had put on a grand show of affections in the beginning, all the better to manipulate her.

  The reminder of her past and what it had cost her should have hit her with a renewed surge of bitterness. But instead, she felt transformed in Cam’s arms. For the first time, she felt as if she were clipping the weights of what had happened in the past.

  She was lighter. Freer.

  And she grew bolder. Braver. Her teeth found his lip and bit, drawing on him as he had done to her. Her reward was a groan, emerging from deep within his broad chest. And then, his hands clamped on her waist. He lifted her into his arms. She clung to him.

  “Say you will be my wife,” he said again, as he settled her upon a settee with great care.

  He handled her as if she were fashioned of finest china. As if she were something breakable. Something precious. And it made her want to weep and kiss him all at once. Instead, she remained where he had placed her, sitting on the edge of the settee, the skirts of her gown billowing around her.

  Cam towered over her until he sank to his knees on the thick carpets, placing his hands upon her knees. “Eugie, please.”