by Julia Keaton
She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. “You are overstepping your bounds, my lord.”
“As you have?”
She didn’t answer, knowing he was right.
He chuckled, easing closer and placing his hand on her thigh. “I have a solution to this, though I begin to think you may not like it.”
Winter stared down at his hand as if a snake had crawled into her lap, so stunned by his gall she couldn’t even think how to respond to it. How dare he even think that she might consider his outrageous proposal, or insinuate that she might merely ‘not like’ it! She sputtered and stood up. “I wish to go ... NOW.”
Logan sighed. “You’re fortunate that I’m even willing to grant you this boon.”
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or sorry that he didn’t pursue the proposal further. Instead, he stood and walked her to the front entrance, his hand on the back of her waist for guidance.
He opened the door but blocked her escape, turning her to face him, gripping her shoulders firmly. “It should be obvious to you by now that I have no intentions of either giving you the painting, nor allowing you to steal it. If you come again without invitation, I will assume you have come with the intention of fulfilling my proposal and sharing my bed. Am I being clear enough for you?”
Winter pulled away from him, squared her shoulders and pushed past him to walk outside before facing him again. “Crystal,” she said, regarding him coldly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Winter kept her “promise” to Logan, if blackmailing a person into compliance could be called that. She did not make any more attempts to retrieve the painting herself. He’d effectively blocked that avenue, and she didn’t like to think how narrowly she had escaped each time. If he’d chosen to, he could have had her arrested ... or done something far worse while she was under his power. He hadn’t, and that had mystified her as much as it aggravated.
She could do nothing now but wait to see what surprise he would contrive for her.
For a week, Winter lived in a state of gut-wrenching suspense, refusing to go out, contriving an ‘illness’ to stave off her mother’s questions, and suspicions so that she could hide in her room—in truth, her illness wasn’t entirely contrived, for she could neither eat, nor sleep, nor even rest for the anxieties plaguing her as she awaited her doom. She felt certain he intended something public and horrible, but days passed and no whispers of scandal were printed in the papers or spread through the streets. The servants didn’t begin to look at her with knowing smiles, or thinly veiled sneers. There were no illicit visits. Nothing happened.
When another week went by, Winter’s nerves began to ease. Perhaps she’d been wrong and Lord Remington had forgiven her transgressions and foolishness, she thought a little hopefully.
Then the invitation arrived by messenger, and the dread came back full force.
There was to be a ball in honor of Lord Remington’s return, in honor of his new title. The crème de la crème of society would be in attendance.
Winter was expected to be there—as directed by a personal note from the devil himself. She would almost have preferred a firing squad, but it occurred to her that she had no choice but to obey the summons. She must do whatever it took to get her hands on that painting and trust that the ball itself was not to be the ‘surprise’ he’d threatened.
It occurred to her, naturally, that she might be underestimating Logan again, that it might have been his intentions all along to make as public a spectacle as he could manage, setting the painting on prominent display and summoning all of society to his home for a viewing, or unveiling it at some point during the evening. But she was rather more inclined, given his behavior thus far, to believe that he was not done toying with her yet, that he had a far more wicked plan in mind.
He’d made absolutely no secret of the fact that he expected her to purchase her reputation with her virtue. He might merely have been toying with her even in that, trying to see if he could make her yield so that he could then reject her offer on the grounds that it was not enough, and proceed to display the painting, annihilating her reputation. He might dangle it over her head indefinitely, demanding she remain his mistress until he tired of her.
The possibilities seemed virtually limitless and ultimately destructive to herself, but she could see no point in trying to figure out his eventual goal. It would not help her in any way that she could see to know his intentions, other than, possibly, giving her some peace.
It seemed enough, for the moment, to assume that it would be relatively safe to attend the ball she’d been summoned to with the belief that the ax was not to fall on that occasion.
At any rate, it seemed unlikely that she would get another opportunity to search for the painting.
As useless as hindsight was, she realized she should not have said the things she had that night long ago, should not have done what she did. Young and foolish went hand in hand, but she saw now she had been unnecessarily harsh, too wrapped up in her own fear of failing, her confusion about the feelings he aroused in her, and her father’s good opinion to spare a thought for the effect her behavior would have on him. And she would pay for it. The bloom of bliss and wealth had shriveled into awful awareness and powerlessness … the inability to stop her fate from rushing to greet her. Would that she could undo the past....
A small box addressed to her and signed by an admirer arrived the day of the ball. Winter knew immediately who had sent it. She was tempted to throw it away without looking inside, but curiosity got the best of her and she opened the box. Enclosed in the velvet depths was a silver chain.
Drawing it out, she saw the chain held a charm: a silver snowflake that glittered with the brilliant fire of white diamonds … the ice princess.
Winter stared at it, feeling anger surge through her as she looked on it. Unconsciously, her hand curled into a fist around it. She was on the point of hurling it across the room when a thought occurred to her and stopped her.
She opened her palm, staring down at it once more. He was so certain she was cold, calculating…unfeeling, only because she had thoughtlessly injured him once.
Perhaps she should be an ice princess? Perhaps she should show him just how cold she could be. She held it up, allowing it to sway gently, smiling as she studied the cold glitter of the diamonds. Let it be a talisman against him, she thought. She smiled at the thought.
Despite her bravado, the moment she put it on she felt immediately like a noose had tightened around her throat.
She dismissed her misgivings, deciding he would not find her an easy target to humiliate or ruin. A painting and jewelry did not mean he owned her, regardless of what he might think. He would regret ensnaring her in his designs. She would make certain of it.
The night of the ball arrived, warmer than the day had been, as if the fires of hell worked in accordance with Logan Cordell, awaiting her entrance to their depths with open arms.
She was as prepared as she could be, given the situation. She wore her best gown. It had been fashionable two seasons ago, and she knew full well that all of society would consider it a sign of her poverty that she had worn it again, but there was nothing to be done about it.
She and her mother did not have the coin to spend frivolously on new gowns when the old ones were still of some use. And, in truth, she had long since ceased to suffer a great deal of anxiety over what her peers thought … or, at least that was what she regularly told herself, hoping that, eventually, it would be true.
On this night, it was. She had far too much to worry about already to spare much thought to her impoverished situation. Her family’s straightened circumstances was a known fact, impossible to hide anymore. It was one thing, however, to find oneself in straightened circumstances, and quite another to have one’s morals called into question. She might not be considered a good matrimonial match, but at least, if she could keep her reputation intact, she was still considered genteel, and relatively safe from indecent proposals.
The deep wine gown she wore was daring. At the time she’d had it made, she had been protected by her father and his wealth and had known that no matter how audacious, no one would dare question her wearing it. That was no longer the case, of course, and she was not entirely comfortable about her choice, but her options were extremely limited. In any case, she was determined to look her best, to taunt Logan, to tempt him with something he could never have.
The square cut neckline enhanced her cleavage and the burgundy velvet made her fair skin and pale, silvery hair seem almost luminescent in contrast. She wore the mass of her hair piled atop her head, with several long strands free to curl enticingly down her bare neck. The necklace nestled just above the valley of her breasts like a snake awaiting its prey.
She hoped Logan would not be able to take his eyes off of it.
Her mother noticed the necklace, but refrained from comment, merely casting Winter an inquiring, worried look. Winter said nothing, neither to confirm or to ease her mother’s fears. She hated to add to the lies she’d already told her mother. Ignorance was bliss in this matter.
She and her mother reached the ball fashionably late, along with the multitude. Not surprisingly, Lord Remington’s home was thronged with society, and, despite the cool winter weather, the house was almost stiflingly hot with the press of so many bodies inside.
Strains of music streamed through the air, fighting the bustle and noise of the masses dancing and talking in every inch of space. It was unusual to have such a grand ball at this time of the year, and everyone was enjoying themselves immensely. Hot house flowers in crystal vases decorated the tables about the room, cloying the air with their sweet fragrance.
Lit with hundreds of candles to the brilliance almost of daylight, the house was larger than she’d remembered.
What insanity had led her to believe she could search the entire house without being caught? God take her for a fool.
“Isn’t this exciting, Winter?” Abigail Stevens beamed at her daughter, enchanted by her surroundings and the sense that all was right with her world.
Winter knew better but nodded in agreement. The noise and heat of too many bodies was already making her head spin, and she had not had the first dance or the first sip of wine. She needed to breathe fresh air before she collapsed. She pressed a cool hand to her cheek. “Mama, please forgive me, but I must take some air.”
Her mother’s face fell. Winter didn’t want to ruin the rare outing for her.
“Perhaps it was a mistake we came.”
“No, I only need a moment,” Winter assured her. “Look, there comes Mrs. Moxley.” The stout matron waddled toward them, beckoning them to approach.
Her mother still didn’t look certain leaving her alone was a sound idea.
Winter smiled gently. “I have been to balls before, Mama. I can handle myself alone for a few minutes. You enjoy your talk with Mrs. Moxley, and I will find you later.”
Leaving them, Winter made her way through the throng to a set of French doors, discovering it opened out onto an empty balcony. Relieved that she wouldn’t have to share it, she leaned on the railing, imagining she could almost see the river from her vantage point. The brisk air cooled the flush of her cheeks and fingered through her hair, loosening its binding pins.
A sense of peace settled over her.
The doors opened behind her, releasing a torrent of light before they closed once more and the curtains fell back in place. Winter turned, expecting to see her mother.
“I thought you would not come,” Logan said, his voice low, seductive as a purr ... and dangerous as a panther on the prowl.
Her heart quickened its pace, thumping in her chest. She strove to reign in her emotions. “I didn’t think I had a choice—after receiving your summons.” She turned away from him, striving for that icy composure he was constantly taunting her with.
Logan watched her struggle to regain calm, but then he had suspected from the first that she was not the ice princess she would have the world believe.
He couldn’t help but be pleased to know that no one, save him, had ever managed to shake her from her icy composure.
She was breathtaking tonight. The dull glow behind them limned her silvery hair with a pale gold, burnished her flushed skin, the curve of her cheek. She was more enticing than he’d remembered—her body that of a woman full grown. Around her neck, she wore his gift, a mark of possession, his brand.
It pleased him endlessly that she had acknowledged his victory by wearing it.
Desire flooded through Logan in a debilitating tide at the images that conjured, of complete possession, of her total surrender. The blood rushed into his groin, his shaft growing hard with need, with the ache to impale her virgin flesh and claim her completely.
He had not entertained such thoughts in years. That he was willing to compromise his morals to possess her caused him a fleeting pang of regret that he quickly suppressed. Her innocence could not save her any more than it could save him. He could not free himself from her until he had possessed her.
Logan moved closer, crowding into her, eager to feel her unconscious response to his nearness. He stopped just short of touching her, but less than a hand span separated them. Her scent invaded his senses. He could almost feel the brush of her body against his with each labored breath. It was delicious torture. He welcomed it ... welcomed the risk of losing his hard won control.
Heat leapt between them almost instantly, awakened, and he nearly groaned with the wanting of her. He knew he could take her right now with none the wiser, and she would welcome his touch like the wanton he knew lay buried inside her. “Is it so terrible to obey a man’s demands?”
Winter ignored the tremble of her body, the heightened awareness of his heat, his unmistakable scent as he leaned close. “I’ve walked that road before. It did not ... turn out as I had hoped.” She swallowed painfully before continuing, “I want to know what your intentions are, Lord Remington.”
“You would not wish to know my intentions.”
“I do. My reputation is in jeopardy.”
“You suggest the fault is mine? You went to Giovanni quite willingly.”
“It would not have happened had you not laid your trap, my lord.”
“It would not have happened if you were, in truth, the virtuous woman you present to the world.” He paused a moment, then said. “Do you not think formalities between us somewhat absurd, under the circumstances? You must call me Logan. Surely we have passed a stage where some familiarity is called for?”
Winter shook her head. “No. I will concede no more than I must. I do not wish to know you, now or ever.”
Anger flashed through him, dousing his desire like ice water thrown into his face. She wielded her icy composure with the deadly precision of a blade, giving no thought to the consequences of her actions.
Any doubts that Logan had harbored regarding the advisability of continuing as he’d begun vanished. She had not changed. He had wanted her heart—still did—but he acknowledged a doubt that she had a heart to possess. If he could have nothing but possession of her body, so be it. He would have that much, at least. He would melt the ice she wore like armor, knew, despite her protests, that she was not impervious to him.
“You will know me all too well before I am through with you.” He withdrew from her and went to the doors, his anger barely contained. “I expect you to come to my study within the next ten minutes. If you do not, you will forfeit your chance at regaining the painting you so desperately want.”
* * * *
A servant showed Winter how to gain discreet entrance to Lord Remington’s private study. Tentatively, she knocked lightly on the door and entered with a cautious step when he bade her come in.