Wanton in Winter

by Scott, Scarlett

  Eugie swallowed. Cam wanted to speak with her. Now.

  She was not sure she was ready to face him yet. Her armor was not in place. And she was confused. So terribly confused. “I do not know what to do,” she confessed to her sister-in-law.

  “Follow your heart,” Emilia told her. “Trust it to make the right choice.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Fifteen minutes,” Devereaux Winter breathed down his neck.

  Thankfully, the man’s wife was a far gentler creature. Cam was already nervous enough at the notion of convincing Eugie to agree to marry him with a time limit and an audience awaiting her decision.

  Lady Emilia smiled at him reassuringly. “We will be just down the hall, my lord. Miss Winter awaits you. No improprieties shall be tolerated.”

  No kissing Eugie, that meant.

  He could accept this as his penance if it meant the chance to spend the rest of his life with her. He inclined his head. “I will conduct myself as a gentleman.”

  “Or face my wrath,” Winter prompted in a protective, brotherly growl.

  “You have my word I shall not ravish your sister whilst you are within listening distance,” some inner devil could not resist prodding the man.

  Winter’s brows snapped together. “Did I say you are daring earlier, Hertford? I do believe I meant you are stupid. That, perhaps even, you harbor a secret death wish.”

  Lady Emilia intervened, laying a staying hand on her husband’s coat sleeve, which was all it required for the surly giant to calm. The besotted look he cast his wife was not lost upon Cam.

  Because he well understood the sentiment.

  “One quarter hour,” Lady Emilia reminded him firmly. “No more.”

  He bowed to the both of them and then did not waste another moment in slipping through the door of the salon and finding Eugie. She was within, at the far end of the chamber, her back to him. He took a moment to admire the sweeping lines of her figure, the graceful curve of her neck, the flare of her hips outlined beneath her gown, as he approached her.

  From any angle, she was stunning.

  He almost did not want to speak and ruin the moment. Almost feared facing her until she turned. And Christ, the full effect of her loveliness was like running into a wall. Her eyes were wide, and she was pale, but her lips were as berry-red as ever.

  Had it truly been only a smattering of hours since he had last kissed her? Since he had last held her in his arms? It seemed, all at once, as if an eternity had passed.

  “Eugie,” he said, recognizing he was already wasting precious minutes by lingering at the threshold.

  “Lord Hertford.” Her voice was hesitant.

  He noted her use of his title. But he would not allow it to shake him. He stalked toward her, closing the distance keeping them apart.

  He stopped just short of her, recognizing the compressed line of her ordinarily lush lips. “I am sorry,” he said.

  “Did you plan for us to be seen?” she asked, her dark eyes searching his.

  “Is that what you think of me?” He studied her, noting the confusion, the sternness, and yet the tenderness of her eyes. “Do you truly believe I hold you in so little regard that I would arrange for Aylesford and a pair of gossips to witness our kiss just to entrap you into marriage?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I do not know what to think, my lord. You have had me at sixes and sevens since we first danced at the welcome ball.”

  He knew the feeling. “Surely you know me better than that by now.”

  “But I scarcely know you at all,” she said, her tone troubled. “I know you like gardens and libraries and that you have an estate in Lincolnshire. I know your father was a scoundrel who left you in debt. I know you are friends with that reprobate, Lord Aylesford.”

  He found himself smiling at her insult. “Aylesford is not a reprobate. A rake, perhaps, but not a reprobate.”

  Her lips tightened. “I do not trust him.”

  “Let him be your sister’s worry,” he said. “Why are we talking about Aylesford when I am attempting to ask you to be my wife?”

  She stilled. “Is that what you are doing?”

  “I was trying,” he said, taking another step nearer so the warmth of her soft body burned into his and her gown brushed his legs. “But you suggested you do not know enough about me.”

  “I do not,” she insisted, her chin tipping up.

  He caught that chin in his thumb and forefinger, though he knew he should not touch her. That to do so was courting further ruin, and perhaps a severe drubbing by Devereaux Winter.

  But to hell with it. She was his, Miss Eugie Winter, and he would not stop until she realized it too. “What do you want to know about me?” he asked.

  Her tongue flicked over her lower lip, and it required every last speck of his restraint to keep from chasing it with his. “What do you like to eat?”

  “You.”

  She colored furiously. “For dinner.”

  “You,” he repeated softly. “And for dessert. Breakfast. With afternoon tea. You are all I want, Eugie Winter.”

  “My dowry,” she corrected, still flushing. “My fortune is all you want.”

  “No.” He cupped her face now, admiring the elegance of her bone structure, the silken smoothness of her skin. “Only you. I have spoken with your brother, and he has informed me of the stipulations. I have agreed I will receive no dowry. No fortune. Not a shilling until the birth of our first child, should your brother allow it.”

  The furrow returned to her brow. “What?”

  “We shall have to make some sacrifices,” he told her. “I will not be capable of giving you the life to which you have become accustomed. I was already in the process of deciding which estates must be sold to save the entail. But we shall manage. You will still have your white roses in Lincolnshire, if you will but have me as well.”

  “You promised me red ones too,” she said.

  “To match your sweet lips,” he agreed. “So I did, and those, too, you shall have.”

  “You do not want my fortune.” Eugie’s hand closed over his, and she moved nearer. A half step. Their lips were almost touching.

  “All I want is you,” he said. And it was true. His plans for marrying a fortune to save himself from ruin were done. There was only one woman he could wed. One woman he loved. He would sacrifice everything else he had, if only he could have her.

  “Me,” she repeated, her voice hushed, tinged with wonder.

  “You.” He paused, knowing he needed to reveal himself to her completely. “But I must make a confession to you now. Two, actually.”

  She raised a brow, watching him with an indecipherable expression. “What is your confession?”

  “First is that I knew about your plan,” he admitted. “I was on the second floor of the library and overheard you speaking with your sister. I knew you were determined to kiss Lord Ashley, and that is why I followed you the day I kissed you in the writing room. I could not bear the thought of anyone else having your kisses. Because they are mine.”

  “You scoundrel,” she accused without heat. “I knew I heard the floor creaking that day.”

  He rushed on, determined he must make his second confession, which was far more damning than the first. “And the other thing I must tell you is that I love you, Eugie. You stole my heart, and it is yours now. Yours to keep forever. Will you marry me?”

  He loved her.

  Eugie was frozen, a violent burst of joy holding her suspended in the moment, unable to move. Unable to speak. She could do nothing but look up at his handsome face through eyes made hazy by the sudden prick of tears.

  Cam loved her.

  Follow your heart, Emilia had urged her.

  And she felt that heart now, felt it beating in her chest, felt it swelling and filling with hope. Felt the bitterness which had dwelled inside her falling away. Felt the truth of his words deep within her. It was there, in the tenderness in his face, in the look in his eye, in the gentle
way he touched her, as if she were precious. And, oh, that look. He looked at her as if she were beloved to him.

  He was willing to give up her fortune. She was certain Dev had told him those things to test him. That Dev would not withhold her dowry. That Cam would not be required to sell off his estates.

  But she would worry about all that later. For now, all she cared about was the brutal honesty of such a gesture. Her doubts fled, like rain clouds chased by the sun. And in their wake, the sky was glorious. Everything was brighter. So much brighter than she had imagined possible.

  “There is something I must tell you,” she said at last.

  He frowned. “Eugie, let me make this right. Let me fix the wrongs I have done to you. You do not need to love me back. I love you enough for the both of us. But please, do not deny me. I cannot fathom my life without you in it.”

  “Cam,” she began, but he pressed his thumb over her lips, stilling them when she would have continued.

  “Hush,” he said. “I know you do not want to marry me. I know you do not trust me, and I cannot blame you. Lord knows I have not acted the part of the gentleman since I have met you. I have been selfish and greedy, and I have not given a thought for your reputation. But I can make amends. Aylesford is my friend. He will make certain his mother says nothing, and the marchioness will be silenced as long as we wed. This scandal does not need to happen. All you have to do is say yes.”

  She could not quell the smile curving her lips behind his thumb. “Cam.”

  His thumb was rubbing over her lower lip slowly, languorously. “Eugie, I beg you.”

  Warmth flickered to life, pooling in the form of molten desire between her thighs. Just his touch brushing over her mouth. Just his nearness. His scent flitting over her. That was all it required.

  “I love you,” she said against the fleshy pad of his thumb.

  He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I love you,” she repeated. “It is just as well that I stole your heart the night of the welcome ball, because you thieved mine then too. We can take care of each other’s hearts now. Because I have decided there is nothing I would like more than to be your wife.”

  “You do? You will?” His grin was breathtaking. He was gorgeous.

  And then his lips were on hers. The kiss was hard and fast, one of possession but also one of discovery. “I will,” she said into his mouth. “And I do.”

  “Thank God,” he said on a sigh, and then she was in his arms in truth.

  They were around her, surrounding her, closing over her with such tight strength. And she clutched him back with just as much need. They kissed and kissed, smiling as they did it, and then Eugie’s feet left the carpet.

  They were moving in a circle. For a heady moment, she actually believed her happiness had given her the delusion of weightlessness, but then she opened her eyes and realized Cam was spinning them. Their gazes locked, their mouths fused.

  When he slowed them to a stop and returned her feet to the Aubusson, they swayed together, grinning at each other like drunken fools.

  “If you were insistent upon that damned cottage of yours, I was going to find you there,” he growled then. “Because you are meant to be mine, Eugie Winter.”

  “I am not certain I will be a good enough wife for the Prince of Proper,” she said against a sudden fear of inadequacy. “My reputation is darkened with scandal. And I have been known to act recklessly beneath the mistletoe with the Earl of Hertford.”

  “You are the perfect wife for me,” he reassured her solemnly. “And together, we will restore your reputation. You will sit society on its arse.”

  “Are you certain?” She studied him, worrying. This was still so new, so strange.

  “I have never been more sure of anything in my life, darling,” Cam said. “There is but one more thing, however.”

  She looked up into his beautiful face, love for him radiating through her. “What is it?”

  He grinned back at her. “I insist you act recklessly with me as often as possible. Mistletoe is not a requirement.”

  Epilogue

  There was one sight Cam loved more than his wife lingering beneath the mistletoe, he decided, and it was Eugie on her knees, those luscious red lips he could not get enough of wrapped around his cock. The Countess of Hertford was going to kill him with pleasure before she was through, he was certain of it.

  But damn, what a way to die.

  “Eugie,” he said on a groan, his hands finding their way into the silken strands of her hair.

  He intended to tell her to stop.

  To carry her to the bed and take his turn ravishing her with nothing but his lips and tongue. But his wife’s mouth was driving him to the brink of sanity. And when she hummed with satisfaction and took him deeper, he felt the sinful vibration of that sound in his ballocks.

  He was helpless to do anything but grasp handfuls of her mahogany curls and push farther into the warm, wet depths of her heat. One of her hands gripped him at the root, and the other was caressing his thigh, her nails digging into his bare skin with almost painful pleasure.

  “Damn it, wife,” he gritted, surging into her mouth again, this time reaching her throat.

  She withdrew and settled back on her heels, looking up at him with her slick red lips as his erect cock stood between them, shiny from her saliva, a bead of moisture leaking from his tip. “You do not like it?”

  Damnation, what a carnal picture she presented, clad in nothing but an almost sheer night rail of silk and lace which had been cleverly designed by some enterprising modiste to tempt the most stoic of saints among men. Through it, he could see the hard peaks of her breasts, red as her lips, the lush globes begging for his hands. The curves he loved so well.

  For a moment, he could not find the words to speak, as overwhelmed as he was by desire. They had been married for just a few months, and his hunger for her only grew with each passing day. Each hour. Each minute.

  “I love it,” he growled, “but this was not what I had in mind for the evening when I suggested we leave the ball early.”

  “Oh?” She pouted up at him in a way that never failed to make him desperate to have her. “But this is what I was thinking of, especially after what you did for me tonight.”

  What he had done for her was see to it that Baron Cunningham, that spineless, vile weasel of a man, apologized to her. Devereaux Winter had granted them full use of a handsome dowry upon their wedding day, and Cam had set aside a portion of it to buy up the rest of the man’s vowels. He had offered complete forgiveness of them in exchange for the baron bowing and scraping to Eugie before some of the most esteemed members of the beau monde.

  “I did not do it to bring you to your knees, my darling,” he told her, the mere thought of Cunningham enough to make his cock go soft. “I did it so you could hold your head high. Higher than all the rest. Higher than those who would have given you the cut direct and scorned you, higher than those who believed the rumors and perpetuated the lies.”

  It was not lost upon him that once, he too, had believed the worst of her. Until he had met her. Danced with her. Been charmed by her in a garden. And a library. And a darkened hall.

  Until he had come to realize there was something far more precious than being the Prince of Proper, and that was being the man who loved Eugie. Full stop.

  “I already held my head high before tonight,” she said softly, and then, she ran the tip of her tongue down the length of his shaft. “I held my head high because I am your wife. Because you made me realize I was stronger than I knew and braver too. You made me realize I could be more than a scandal. More than a darkened reputation.”

  He cupped her beloved face. “You are the strongest, bravest woman I know. The way you faced them all tonight was nothing short of marvelous.”

  “I was ready for them.” She smiled slyly, giving his prick a slow and steady stroke with her hand. “I had you at my side, and I knew none of them were any match for us.”

>   Tonight’s ball had been the official beginning of the Season. And it had marked the arrival of the Countess of Hertford in society. She was no longer a merchant’s daughter, whispered about and scorned, excluded from the most fashionable society invitations. Now, she was sought after. He had seen the way everyone had watched her this evening. Everything from her gown to her hairstyle would be copied.

  He had no doubt she would be the talk of Town, but for an entirely different reason than she had previously been. And he could not be more proud of her, nor happier for her than he had been the moment she had stared down the baron and given him the cut following his apology.

  “You are the Princess of Proper now,” he told her, enjoying the disparity between the impeccable countess she had been at the ball this evening, above reproach, and the way she looked now, tousled and flushed on the floor before him.

  He found it thrilling, actually. And he wanted more. Bloody hell, he would take her to a dozen balls and force Cunningham into a hundred more apologies if this was the response it garnered him.

  “I am afraid the Princess of Proper is about to get very, very improper. You do not mind, do you?” Her tongue found the slit at the tip of his cock, licking over it. “Mmm. I like the way you taste, husband.”

  Just like that, he was hard again. Ready. Dear God, this woman was meant to be his, and there was no question of that. He half-suspected she had to but lick him one more time, and he would spend.

  He bit down on his lip to rein in his enthusiasm. “The baron did not get what he deserved. Not by half.”

  If Cam had been the sole deciding factor in the matter, Cunningham would have been horsewhipped. How badly he had wanted to answer for the pain she had been dealt with force, with his fists, by any means necessary. But Eugie had been the voice of reason. She had forbade violence. And so, he had settled upon the apology and the baron’s public humiliation instead.