Wooed in Winter

by Scott, Scarlett

  He had never been the sort of man who needed to find his hastily discarded garments in the morning and flee from a lady’s bedchamber. But here he was, retrieving his rumpled shirt from the floor and slipping it over his head. His first mistake had been in kissing Hannah. His second had been in thinking he could make love to her and that it would somehow put an end to the irrational longing he had for her. That it would vanquish all the yearning eating him alive.

  He slid on his breeches next, slipping the buttons into place on the falls. His third mistake had been spilling his seed inside her. His fourth had been remaining in her bed, dozing lightly, only to wake with a raging erection and the need to have her again. And his fifth had been falling asleep with her in his arms.

  He cast another lingering look toward the bed. If he remained here much longer, he would easily commit a sixth by tearing off all his clothes, getting back into her bed, and waking her up with his tongue between her legs.

  He ground his molars against an impending rush of desire and crossed the room to her side. Deriding himself as a fool all over again, he pulled the counterpane over her, all the way to her chin. She still slumbered on, likely exhausted after the night they had shared. Before he could stop himself, he bent and pressed a kiss to her brow.

  She made a sweet murmur and shifted.

  Damn it, he could not afford to wake her. He straightened, gathered up his stockings, and left her before he could not bear to walk away. In the even chillier gloom of the hall, he discovered the Latin treatise he had dropped last night. How right he had been that the volume would not aid him in his attempts to sleep, he thought grimly, as he retrieved it as well.

  Hastily, he made his way back to his own chamber, reminding himself of the unnecessary scandal should he be discovered prowling the corridors at this time of the morning, wearing half of yesterday’s attire. He had come to this house party to do what he had promised his brother he would do on his deathbed: to find a proper wife so that he could secure an heir and see to it that the Dowling family continued to hold the marquessate.

  Familial duty had been important to Gervase, but he had died before he had married himself. As the last living Dowling in their line, Graham could not help but to feel the heavy weight of the responsibility upon his shoulders. His search for a bride had only recently begun.

  On a sigh, he entered his chamber, closing the door at his back.

  Thank God no one had seen him. He could not very well court a lady when he was wandering about the halls after bedding the widow he could not forget. No matter how hard he tried. Tossing the book and his stockings upon his bed, he stalked across the room to the wash basin and pitcher.

  A splash of cold water on his face did nothing to replenish him. Nothing to help him forget. He could still taste her on his lips, for God’s sake. And when he tried to envision the unattached ladies present at the house party, all of whom had seemed excellent prospects for a future marchioness before he had spied Hannah across the crowded ballroom, he could not even see their faces.

  All he saw was her.

  All he wanted was her.

  But he could not marry a woman he could not trust, even if she was free once more. And he most certainly did not dare trust her, he reminded himself. She had chosen a title over a second son. And now she could rot with the choices she had made.

  He would find someone else. He would forget all about her. He would dance attendance on every eligible lady he could bloody well find at this house party. Because he had to. Last night was an aberration which would not—could not—be repeated.

  If only he believed those words.

  Cold afternoon air kissed her cheeks as Hannah trudged on the snow-packed path. The day was cold and gray and grim, the perfect reflection of the storm rioting within her. The need to escape the company of the revelers had been overwhelming.

  She had risen that morning to the memories of what she had done in the night. To the scent of Graham on her pillow. Alone.

  He had left her.

  She had told herself it was just as well. That what had happened had been a rare deviation from the moral, proper path she had been walking for the last five years, first as Fawkesbury’s wife and now as a respectable widow. But the desire he had brought to life within her belied those words. She was so very vulnerable when it came to him. Nothing had changed. Worst of all, she knew if he came to her again tonight, she would have a difficult time turning him away.

  Even after this morning’s disastrous breakfast.

  He had not even glanced in her direction. Indeed, he had acted as if she did not exist. Instead, he had danced attendance upon Lady Octavia Wilmore. Later, when the drawing room entertainments had commenced, he had been flirting with Miss Constance Shipley.

  Hannah had told herself she did not mind. That she had no wish for him to ever look in her direction again, let alone speak to her or touch her. He was here, as all the unwed gentlemen were, to find a bride. She was here in Oxfordshire to watch over her sisters and make certain they did not make the same mistakes she had, both five years ago and again last night.

  However, no matter how many times she had sternly admonished herself, she had still found her gaze drifting toward him. Finally, assured of her sisters’ participation in the afternoon’s entertainments, she had excused herself from the day’s drawing room games. In need of distraction and some bracing winter air, she had donned her pelisse, hat, gloves, and boots, and she was now walking.

  The path she trod led to the false ruins. But if there were other guests within seeking solitude or—worse—an assignation, she would simply turn around and return to the main house. She was not fit company for anyone at the moment.

  As if sensing her inner turmoil, the skies opened, and a freezing rain began to fall, adding to her misery. The false ruins loomed ahead, her only hope of escaping the wrath of the storm as the rain began to fall in earnest. Hurrying her pace, she made her way inside the entry hall just in time for the skies to open, unleashing a grim torrent of icy deluge.

  “Is anyone there?” she called out, her voice echoing in the silence.

  No one answered.

  “Is anyone within?” she tried again, raising her voice.

  There was a fire burning at the other end of the hall and a trio of rooms on the first floor. If anyone was within, it seemed they were either upstairs or holding their tongues. Thank heavens the hosts—Mr. Winter and Lady Emilia—saw to it that their servants kept fires burning in the ruins lest any of their guests sought it out as a haven.

  She took off her pelisse, gloves, and hat, then made her way deeper into the charming space, which had been carefully designed to look as if it were centuries old from the outside, but which was in truth quite comfortable on the inside.

  She slipped into a small salon, where she found another happily crackling fire and a low-burning lamp. It seemed the ideal space to settle down with the book she had brought from the massive two-storied Abingdon House library. And to spend a half hour of blissful solitude, shutting out from her mind all thoughts of Graham and the night of spectacular passion she had spent with him.

  A night which would not be repeated.

  A night which had been a terrible mistake.

  Just as she settled into a chair at the hearth, the sound of the outer door opening and closing reached her, a prelude to the end of her peace. She rose, clutching her book, and faced the door, wondering who else would have ventured this far from the afternoon’s activities. Lady Emilia had proven herself an excellent and most gracious hostess.

  Footsteps drew nearer, sounding boot-clad and far too heavy to belong to a lady in the gathering. For a wild moment, some rebellious part of her hoped it was indeed a gentleman. One who was unattached. One who might kiss her soundly and erase all traces of Graham from her mind and heart.

  But she knew that was utter folly. Sheer ridiculousness. She could no more countenance kissing another man than she could taking the risk of such a scandal. For her sisters�
� sakes, she had to behave with caution, circumspection, prudence…

  There, on the threshold, stood the source of all her inner consternation.

  He wore a tall hat, a greatcoat, and perfectly polished boots, and even though he had clearly been caught in the rains and was soaked, water dripping from him to create a fast puddle on the floor, he stole her breath. He was so handsome.

  How she hated him.

  “Han,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  She did not think she mistook the longing vibrating in it. The sudden rush of heat his appearance and his baritone sent through her was most unwanted. If only he did not affect her.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, attempting to keep her voice cool. “Did you follow me?”

  Her hands trembled, and she found herself grateful for the book she had brought with her. She held it now as if it were a shield.

  He said nothing for what seemed an interminable span of time. He merely stood there, dripping, staring at her. His jaw was rigid, his expression unreadable. And then, suddenly, he tore his hat from his head and shrugged off his greatcoat.

  “I tried to stay away, damn you,” he growled, striding toward her.

  Her instinct told her to run. To flee him. To save herself.

  But the rest of her refused to obey. Hannah remained rooted to where she stood, leather-bound volume in hand, watching as he closed the distance between them.

  Chapter Ten

  Sixth mistake: leaving the warmth of the drawing room and all his prospective brides behind to follow Hannah through the afternoon’s looming storm.

  Seventh mistake: trailing her footsteps here to the false ruins, far from reason and propriety and all the other house guests.

  Eighth mistake: following her inside.

  The ninth was walking toward her instead of turning away. The tenth was taking her in his arms. She had been holding a book in her hand upon his entrance, and in an echo of his actions the night before, she dropped it to the floor now. It landed with a disregarded thump.

  Hannah’s arms went around his neck too, and he could not help but admire the press of her lush curves against his chest. His hard cock nestled into her softness. Instantly, he remembered how it had felt to be buried deep inside her tight heat. To lose himself. To spill his seed.

  He had dismissed all the lessons he had learned five years ago for one night of indulgence. For one night in her bed. He had been reckless last night. Careless.

  Stupid.

  And he was going to be all that and more, again. Mistake number eleven… He claimed her lips with his. This kiss was fast, furious. A testament to how desperately he wanted her.

  His determination to ignore her and to turn his mind instead to the task of wooing a bride had dissipated the moment she had entered the room at breakfast. His every good intention had fled. He had done his damnedest to listen to Lady Octavia’s chatter. But secretly, Hannah had commanded all his attention. In the drawing room, he had been attempting to pay heed to Miss Shipley. But he had not heard a bloody word she had uttered.

  He had spent all the time since leaving Hannah’s bed that morning thinking about her. Longing for her. Needing to take her all over again, in spite of everything. In spite of logic, reason, past pain, her betrayal. Despite the fact that he could not trust her.

  She did not taste like betrayal now as she opened for him on a sensual moan, her lips clinging, her tongue moving against his. She tasted like the sweetest, most decadent dessert he had ever tasted. She tasted like everything he had ever wanted.

  Because she was.

  Damn her, she was.

  How could he not desire her? How could he have believed one night would ever be enough? What was it about her that made her so different from all the rest, even when he resented her, even when he knew she was no good for him?

  Love, said the bitterly taunting voice within.

  The same voice that had led him to her yesterday in the gardens. The same voice that had lured him into her chamber last night. It was the voice that had told him to stay in her bed, the voice that had instructed him to trail her here. An old voice. A voice he had not heard since he had seen her last.

  They crossed paths in a ballroom, and he was right where she had left him.

  Hers.

  But she had never been his, had she? asked that voice, in an echo of the question he had posed her the night before.

  No, she had not. He had no reason to be here, holding her now, kissing her… Except he could not be anywhere else. He was drawn to her as he had never been drawn to another. It was irrefutable. Undeniable.

  She smelled of lavender and lemon and the earthen freshness of rain, the crisp air of the outdoors. She kissed him back with the same ardor, clutching at his shoulders, drawing him closer. He may as well admit it. He had never stopped loving her. All his rage and resentment had sprung up from that lost love, which had festered within while she spent years as another man’s wife.

  He stopped kissing her then, staring down at her, his cock pulsing with need, ballocks drawn tight, heart racing. Her expression was as dazed and befuddled as he felt. Her gray eyes were dark with desire.

  “Why?” he asked her, the one question he had promised himself he would never ask her.

  The one question that had been haunting him ever since the day he had learned she had become Fawkesbury’s wife without warning. A special license, a hasty marriage, and she had been forever out of his reach, when he had believed they had time, all the time he would need to persuade her overzealous papa that he could make an excellent husband to her, second son or no.

  “I might ask you the same question,” she said at last, blinking, as if lucidity were slowly returning to her after she had been slumbering. “Why did you follow me here? Why do you keep kissing me?”

  He wondered if she had deliberately misunderstood his query or if she was entrenched in the present while he was still tormented by the past.

  Instead of answering her, he issued another question, a far more pertinent one, to his mind. “Why do you keep kissing me back?”

  She could not deny that her response to him was every bit as strong as his was to her. How transparent she seemed, and how odd it was. In this moment, he could not help but to feel no time had passed at all. That she was the same Hannah she had always been, the Hannah he had sworn he had known better than he knew himself.

  “I…” She faltered, her gaze searching his. “Because you rob me of my wits.”

  He knew the feeling. By God, he did. It was the same for him. Graham supposed it was fortunate indeed Fawkesbury had kept her to the country. If they had crossed paths when she had been married to another…

  But he could not think of Fawkesbury now, that damned pompous villain who had devoted his life to drink and losing his coin at the tables. Because the earl was gone. And Graham’s initial question of why to Hannah—why she had chosen Fawkesbury over him—did not matter for he already knew he would not receive the answer he wanted.

  Instead, he kissed her again, tenderly, taking his time. He sucked her lower lip, kissed the sweet bow curving the upper. He kissed the corners, traced the seam with his tongue. On a sigh, she opened, her head tipping back. Her hands were on his face, burning him like the most seductive brand. She held him in such a gentle touch, as if he were precious to her. He wanted more. He slid inside, intent upon a clever seduction.

  He did not want to rush. He wanted to savor every moment of this encounter. Because this one, he promised himself, would have to be the last. After this, he would tell her goodbye. He needed to start anew. To find a Lady Octavia or a Miss Shipley and make her his wife. To devote himself to being a good husband, a good father, to securing the future of the Haven title. To forget all about lost loves who could not be trusted.

  The woman who had chosen another over him.

  By God, it still rankled, knowing she had chosen to marry an earl when he had been set to wed her himself. When he had taken her innocence. She had den
ied him the chance to make things right between them. To be her husband, as he should have been.

  He would worry about all this later. When his mind could fathom something beyond Hannah’s warmth in his arms, her mouth beneath his, her body his for the taking.

  When he had entered the chamber, he had scarcely taken note of anything but her. But now he was on a mission. He needed to find the most comfortable place to make love to her. Because make love to her, he would. There was no other way this interlude could end. He would remind her who had loved her first. And in so doing, he would finally have his goodbye.

  He kissed along her jaw, settling his lips on her ear. “Am I robbing you of your wits now, Han?”

  She shivered, and he had his answer. But he wanted to hear her admission. He licked the whorl, then caught the upper shell in his teeth, gently nibbling. As he did so, he cast a cursory glance around the chamber. What a pleasant discovery—a fur rug of some sort laid before the hearth. The fire crackled in the grate, but it was no comparison to the fire raging deep inside him. He had to have this woman.

  One more time.

  It was a spell, a curse, echoing in his mind.

  One more time.

  “Say it,” he demanded, kissing the hollow beneath her ear, a secret place that smelled deliciously of lavender and her. A place where he knew she was especially sensitive. “Tell me, sweet. Do you have your wits about you now?”

  “No,” she admitted at last, breathless, clutching his shoulders. “Damn you, I do not. This…we…I cannot…”

  He ignored her denial, kissing down her throat, gratified when her words trailed off in favor of a delicious moan instead. Yes. Surrender was what he wanted. What he demanded from her. She had thought she could control him. Rule him. And perhaps she had once. But not here. Not now.

  He used his teeth on the sensitive nerves of her neck, recalling with ease just where she was most responsive. Her skin was delicious, smooth as velvet, an erotic art all itself. He found her pulse, hammering a staccato against the hollow at the base of her throat. His tongue traced over that vital thrum.