Willful in Winter
The Wicked Winters Book Four
By
Scarlett Scott
Rand, Viscount Aylesford, needs a fiancée, and he needs one now. His requirements are concise: she must not embarrass him, and she must understand he has no intention of ever marrying her.
Miss Grace Winter is the most stubborn of the notorious Wicked Winters. When her brother decrees she must marry well, she is every bit as determined to avoid becoming a nobleman’s wife. She would never marry a lord, especially not one as arrogant and insufferable as Aylesford.
But pretending is another matter entirely. She has to admit the viscount’s idea of a feigned betrothal between them would not be without its merits. Until Aylesford kisses her, and to her dismay, she likes it.
Soon, their mutually beneficial pretense blossoms into something far more dangerous to both their hearts…
Dedication
Dedicated to my wonderful editor. It’s been a joy working with you all these years. Thank you for making each book the best it can be.
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Book
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Excerpt from Wagered in Winter
Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!
About the Author
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Oxfordshire, 1813
“While your offer is tempting, I must regretfully decline, my lord.”
Surely Miss Grace Winter, undeniably the most stubborn chit Rand had ever met, had not just turned down his proposal. No female had ever turned down a proposal he had made.
Ever.
Granted, his proposals were ordinarily of a far seedier nature, and the females in question were demimondaines, but still.
He must have misheard her.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Winter,” he said, frowning at her from where he stood in the Abingdon House library, “but I do believe I mistook your acceptance for a rejection.”
She sighed, almost as if she found him tedious. “You did not mistake anything, Lord Aylesford. I told you no.”
He frowned at her. “Women do not tell me no.”
Miss Winter’s lips twitched. “On the contrary, I stand before you as evidence they do.”
Her lips were soft and full and the most maddening shade of pink. Every time he stared at them, he wondered if her nipples matched. But now, that mouth was laughing at him.
Laughing at his proposal.
Mocking him.
The daring of the chit was not to be borne. He ought to kiss her, he thought. Or turn her over his knee and spank her delectable rump. But he would do neither of those things. Because she was an innocent, virginal miss, decidedly not the sort of lady he preferred. And she was denying him.
“Why will you not agree to be my feigned betrothed?” he bit out.
“Because you are a rake,” she said. “And one with an insufferable sense of his own consequence. If I am to be your betrothed, even your feigned betrothed, I will be required to spend time in your presence. To dance with you, to pretend as if I find your sallies amusing, that sort of nonsense. I would rather read a book, to be perfectly honest.”
The devil.
She thought he was a rake.
Well, to be fair, he was. He had earned his reputation—that nothing in skirts was safe from him—the delicious way. He had bedded more women than he had bothered to count. The list of his conquests was longer than the Thames.
But she found him conceited? She did not want to dance with him?
“What is wrong with my sallies?” he demanded. “Why would you need to pretend to find them amusing?”
He was vastly amusing. All the ladies in his acquaintance told him so. They laughed at his every quip. Quite uproariously.
“I am making an assumption, of course,” she said, waving a dismissive hand through the air, rather in the fashion of one chasing a bothersome fly. “I have never heard you tell one. But you do not look like the sort of gentleman who would tell clever sallies. You look like the sort who expects everyone around him to be easily wooed by his face and form.”
Here, now. The baggage was not truly suggesting there was something amiss with his face? With his form? He engaged in sport whenever he could—riding, boxing, fencing, rowing. He was lean and tall. His muscles were well-honed from his exertions. And as for his face? Why, he was widely considered one of the most handsome men in London.
“I do not expect them to, Miss Winter,” he informed her, his voice frosty with indignation for the series of insults she had paid him. “They are wooed by my face and form. With good reason.”
She cast a dubious glance over him. “Your face and form are acceptable, I suppose. If one does not mind dark hair and blue eyes. I have always preferred blond hair and brown eyes, myself. There is something so delightful about the combination. And you are a bit thin, my lord. You might consider eating pie more often.”
His face and form were acceptable? She was bamming him. She had to be.
He scowled at the impertinent chit, and in all his ire, he could only seem to manage one word. “Pie.”
“Yes.” She smiled sweetly. “Any pie you like. Consuming sweets ought to help you appear more substantial and far less gaunt, over time.”
Rand had been careful to maintain a respectable distance between them for propriety’s sake, even if the hour was late and there was nothing at all proper about arranging for a clandestine meeting with the unwed sister of his host. But he was not accustomed to doing anything the proper way. He was a scapegrace, it was true, and besides, everyone knew the rules of London eased at country house parties.
Did they not?
He decided they did. They had to. Especially when a man was as desperate as he was. And as irritated.
“Pie,” he repeated, stalking toward her. “You recommend I eat pie, Miss Winter?”
She stiffened as he neared her, but she did not retreat, and nor did her goading smile fade. “I do, Lord Aylesford.”
He stopped only when he was close enough for her gown to billow against his breeches. Her green eyes flared, and he noted the flecks of gray and gold in their vibrant depths. At this proximity, in the warm glow of the lone candle brace illuminating them, her auburn locks seemed as if they were aflame. And damn her, she was beautiful in an unconventional way. Tempting. Need roared to life inside him, sending an arrow of lust straight to his hardening cock.
“I am not hungry for pie,” he told her softly.
And now, he was forgetting all the reasons he must maintain his distance. Forgetting he could not afford to compromise her if he wanted to remain free of the parson’s mousetrap. Forgetting he wanted her to agree to become his feigned betrothed, and that none of this—the way he had been courting her at the house party, the way he felt now—was real.
Think of Tyre Abbey, he reminded himself. The wealthy Scottish estate would be his upon his betrothal, thanks to his grandmother, the dowager duchess’ stipulation. He would convince Miss Winter to agree to his plan one way or another.
He had to.
“What are you hungry for then, my lord?” she returned, her gaze dipping to his lips.
His honed rake’s instincts told him Miss Grace Winter was not as unaffected by him as she pretended. Not if the way her lips had parted, the sudden huskiness in
her tone, and the manner in which she had swayed toward him just now were any indication.
Perhaps the means to convince her of the wisdom of his plan was not words at all.
“You,” he said, and then he drew her soft body against his.
Her hands came between them, twin shields uniting to keep him from his prize.
“I am not something which can be eaten,” she argued mulishly.
He could not keep himself from grinning. “I beg to differ, my dear.”
Oh, how delightfully innocent she was. Seducing a virgin was more entertaining than he had imagined it could be. Not that Rand was seducing her, mind you. He was merely inducing her to agree with him. To see the infinite wisdom of his flawless plan.
With the aid of his lips.
And perhaps tongue.
Her eyes narrowed and she gave him the most fetching scowl he had ever beheld. Most definitely with his tongue, he decided.
“I do not appreciate being laughed at, my lord,” she snapped. “Perhaps you ought to rethink your strategy for wooing unwilling females.”
“But surely you are not entirely unwilling,” he countered, his grin deepening, for he knew this to be true. Every sign, aside from her bewitching scowl, told him she was attracted to him.
That, and the fact that he had yet to ever encounter a female who was not. He could not help it. He had been born to sin, with a face and form every woman loved.
“I am most certainly opposed to your farcical scheme and foolish attempts at kissing me both.” Her lips pursed, as if she considered saying more, but forced herself to stop there.
Ah, amateur mistake.
She had revealed far too much.
“Who said I was going to kiss you, darling?” he asked, his grin subsiding as he stared deeply into her eyes.
They were the most riveting shade of green, he thought again. Deep and mysterious, like a dark, verdant forest.
She flushed. “You said…”
“Mmm?” One of her glossy auburn curls had slipped free of her coiffure, and he became mesmerized by it now. The hand on her waist slid slowly up her back, following the elegant line of her spine. The other brushed the curl from her cheek, his fingers lingering on her jaw. “What did I say?”
She did not shrug away from his touch, and he was thankful for it, because her skin was soft and warm and rich. She smelled of an English garden. A host of blossoms in summer. The sudden urge to taste the creamy flesh of her throat struck him. He had never been the sort to nibble on a lady’s neck. But Grace Winter’s neck was perfection. He did not think he had ever seen one finer. Just below her left ear, she bore a heart-shaped beauty mark that called for his lips.
Oh yes, he could consume her. For all that she was a virginal miss, she was utterly delectable. The notion of debauching her held more appeal than taking her as his feigned betrothed did in that moment. Which was saying a great deal, because Rand wanted Tyre Abbey, and he wanted it now.
“You said you were hungry…for me.” The last word emerged from her as little more than a whisper.
“I never said I was going to kiss you,” he countered.
She caught that luscious lower lip of hers between her teeth, revealing her uncertainty. “But you said I could be eaten.”
Damnation, he was not prepared for the almost violent surge of lust her words produced in him. Was he so much of a rakehell that the notion of despoiling an innocent, of hearing her utter wicked things, made his prick go hard?
If she only knew what she was saying. What she was doing to him.
He cupped her cheek. “Do you know what I think, Grace Winter?”
She was worrying her lip once more, and he was jealous of those teeth. He wanted to nip that lip himself. “I did not give you leave to call me by my given name, Lord Aylesford.”
No, she had not. And neither had she given him leave to take her in his arms or to touch her as he was now. But she had not pushed away from him or told him to stop, either. And her eyes had darkened. Her pupils were wide, obsidian discs. She was breathless. He knew enough about women to know when one wanted him, and this one most assuredly did.
Of course she did, said his rakish self-assurance. He had never wooed a woman who had not wanted him.
But still, there was a connection between them.
She felt it. He knew it. And now, she was going to pay for telling him he ought to eat pie, the minx.
“I think you want me to kiss you,” he told her. “That is what I think.”
Grace stared up into Viscount Aylesford’s unfairly handsome face. She had been having a great deal of fun at his expense. But somehow along the way, things had changed. She was flustered. Overheated. The fire in the library had not been banked properly by one of the domestics.
Or perhaps she had caught a lung infection and she was feverish.
Had she contracted some sort of nefarious ague?
Her mind stumbled over itself in an effort to find an explanation to the sensations coursing through her. All of them unwanted.
Think of the look of indignation on his beautiful face when you told him to eat pie, suggested Pragmatic Grace.
Let him kiss you, urged some inner devil she would not even lower herself to name.
That inner devil could go to the devil, as far as she was concerned, and it could take the rakehell before her with it.
He was looking at her, his expression almost triumphant. As if he had won. As if he had bested her. Of course, he had managed to rout her attack with his wicked brand of charm, and she had allowed him to gain the upper hand, even if momentarily. Oh, how insufferable the man was. Were all rakes this certain of themselves? This irritatingly lovely to look upon?
“I do not want you to kiss me,” she snapped at him. “Unhand me, if you please. I have already told you I shall not be a part of your scheme to feign a betrothal between us.”
“Grace,” he said slowly. His thumb swiped over her lower lip.
The pad of his thumb, nothing more.
And she was aflame. That lone movement sent her crashing into a wall of heat. If her gown burst into searing licks of fire, she would not be at all surprised. What was it about this man’s presence, his touch, that so undid her? Was it a rakish talent he had learned, or was it some wickedness he had been born with?
Dear heavens, what was wrong with her?
She broke herself free of his sensual spell and swatted at his hand as if he were an irritating bee buzzing about her on a lazy summer’s day. The only trouble was, he was nothing at all like a bee, because she had never been entranced by such a creature. And she was drawn to the viscount in a way she ought not to be. She needed to gird herself against his silver tongue. Against his blinding masculinity.
Of course, such a man would be sure of himself. Doubtlessly, no woman had ever looked upon him and found fault. He was just that singularly glorious to behold. But he was also an arrogant oaf, and an aristocrat, and for that combination, she could not forgive him.
“Lord Aylesford,” she said coolly, “I insist you conduct yourself with proper decorum.”
“You insist, do you?” He grinned, and it was decidedly roguish.
Knowing.
She would have taken a step backward in retreat, but she was afraid it would seem a weakness to him. As if she could not stay within his hold and remain impervious.
When she could.
Her spine stiffened. “Yes, I insist. Your plot will not work, and nor will it come to fruition. You would do well to foist yourself upon some other unsuspecting lady at this house party. Surely, there are others who would do just as well.”
“I am foisting myself on you, am I?” he asked, his grin disappearing.
Still, he did not release her.
And she wished his masculine scent of musk and amber and bay rum did not affect her quite so strongly.
“Can you doubt it?” she returned, her hands settling upon his upper arms.
A mistake, as it turned out, for they were well-
formed. Muscled and strong. She liked the way they felt beneath her touch.
“I doubt it very much,” he insisted. “If you were not interested, you would not have met me here in the library when I asked. Nor would you linger. Admit it. I tempt you.”
His grin was back in place. Only, this time, it was not so much a grin as a taunting smirk.
“You do nothing of the sort.” She attempted to fix her most fearsome frown upon her face. “As I said, you would be better served to find some other, far less intelligent and far more unfortunate female than I to play the role you seek, my lord. I have neither the time nor the desire to suffer your games.”
“Prove me wrong, then,” he dared her, his tone as provoking as his smirk. “Kiss me.”
“Kiss you,” she repeated, still clutching him as if he were saving her from plunging headlong over the edge of a cliff.
And perhaps, in a sense, he was.
“Yes.” He raised a brow. “Kiss me and show me you are altogether unmoved. A veritable fortress. Kiss me and tell me then you are not tempted.”
There was only one thing more foolish than agreeing to a clandestine meeting with a rakehell like Viscount Aylesford at a Christmas country house party. Only one thing madder than staying in his arms rather than fleeing.
That would be pressing her lips to his.
She stared at his mouth and swallowed, wondering—for the briefest of moments—what it would feel like against hers. Then she banished the unworthy curiosity. She had never been the Winter sister who longed for romance or swooned over men with wicked reputations. What was she doing here?
Run, said Pragmatic Grace.
But her pride would not allow her to go just yet, for the heated manner in which the viscount was looking upon her could not be missed. He expected her to kiss him and become so overwhelmed, she would agree to his madcap plan.
He was about to discover that Grace Winter was not to be dallied with, and that in a battle of wills, she would always emerge the victor.
She rose on her toes and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek. And drat him for the slight bristle of his whiskers that sent heat coursing through her. And drat him doubly for the delicious scent of him, which she very much feared would follow her like a ghost.
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