That revelation rather left Rand speechless for a moment.
He caught himself and carried onward. “I cannot fathom why, Mr. Winter. Your sisters are all ineffably lovely ladies. Any gentleman would be pleased to take one of them as his wife. Myself included.”
Mr. Winter’s lip curled. “Your reputation precedes you, however, Aylesford. You are a notorious rakehell.”
Devil take it.
He had not envisioned such outward hostility. Of course, he had never before asked for a lady’s hand in matrimony, either. He had never supposed he would, until Grandmother had decided to use her power over him as if he were a mongrel she must bring to heel.
“I am not a rakehell, Mr. Winter,” he defended himself. “Nor, surely, am I notorious.”
Mr. Winter eyed him dispassionately. “Do not argue with me, my lord. It will not aid your cause.”
He decided to try a different approach. “Mr. Winter, during the course of this house party, I have been charmed by Miss Grace Winter. I am determined to make her my wife, with your permission.”
“No,” said Mr. Winter flatly.
“No?” He sat up straighter, outrage stiffening every part of his body. “Mr. Winter, I am a viscount in my own right and the heir to the Duke of Revelstoke. What fault do you find with me?”
“There is much to find fault with from where I sit,” Mr. Winter told him, his lips compressed, jaw tight. “However, the reason I do not give you my immediate permission is that I must hear from Grace herself that this is what she wishes. Contrary to what some may believe of me, I am not simply seeking to obtain titles for my sisters. I am wishing to find them husbands who will care for them and who will lift them up rather than bring them low.”
“I am confident Miss Winter returns my feelings of deep esteem,” he said, wisely refraining from mentioning the reason for his confidence.
The bawdy book currently in his possession.
What Devereaux Winter did not know could not hurt him.
Winter gave a short nod. “If Grace confirms what you have told me, I see no reason to deny the betrothal. But know this, Aylesford: if you ever hurt her, if you ever make her cry, I will come after you.”
Relief filled him. Not at Winter’s threat, of course. But at his capitulation.
Victory would soon be his.
And not long after that, Tyre Abbey.
All whilst managing to escape the lifelong pain of the parson’s mousetrap.
He grinned at Devereaux Winter. “I can assure you, I will never make her cry.”
Winter remained as forbidding as an executioner. “I will see that you do not, my lord. Trust me on that score.”
“You are certain this is what you want, my dear?” asked Grace’s sister-in-law, Lady Emilia Winter.
They were in the yellow salon, surrounded by pastoral landscapes and the winter’s sunshine filtering into the room through the westward-facing windows. The viscount had apparently wasted no time in seeking out Dev to ask for her hand, once he had been assured of her cooperation.
She loathed being dishonest.
Detested misleading Dev and Emilia.
But Lord Aylesford—that handsome, unrepentant scoundrel—had The Tale of Love. And she had no choice but to carry on with his plan.
To be fair, his plan was not entirely despicable. She had not been pleased with her brother’s attempts at securing a match for her. Some part of her rejoiced at the notion of becoming betrothed. It would provide her with a respite from the attentions of suitors at the house party. Most of them were fortune hunters. All of them seemed to want to marry a Winter for the wrong reason.
“Grace, dearest,” prodded Lady Emilia. “You did not answer my question. Are you certain marrying Lord Aylesford is what you want?”
Of course not. But she was not marrying him anyway.
“Yes,” she said, pinning a smile to her lips that she hoped was bright and convincing. And deliriously happy.
She was doing her best to imitate the expression Lady Emilia wore whenever she spoke of Dev. Even if it made her want to gag, just a bit.
“Are you in love with Lord Aylesford?” her sister-in-law asked next.
“Of course,” she lied again. “He is so very charming and handsome. How could I fail to fall in love with him?”
“You seem the least likely of all your sisters to fall prey to a rake’s charm,” Lady Emilia observed. “If I am doubtful, that is the only reason.”
“You think Lord Aylesford is nothing more than a charming rake?” she asked before she could think better of the question.
In truth it mattered not.
She was not even wedding the viscount in truth.
This was all false. Feigned. Pretend.
One big deception, dreamt up by the silver-tongued devil in question.
“I think Lord Aylesford is exceedingly handsome,” Lady Emilia said with great deliberation, “and that he may easily turn a lady’s head. He will also make an excellent match for you, as he stands to become the next Duke of Revelstoke. However, I cannot help but to be concerned that his lordship will break your heart. His reputation is questionable.”
His chest, however, was not. It was delectable. Indeed, Grace could think of no other word to sufficiently describe it. And she had thought of precious little else ever since. Every other thought consisted of Lord Aylesford sans shirt, waistcoat, and cravat. Wearing nothing but those well-fitted breeches…
Grace wisely refrained from saying so, however. It was altogether inappropriate, anyway. She could never admit she had been alone in the viscount’s chamber with him. That he had begun disrobing before her.
Had she lingered, the breeches would have been next.
She was sure her face was aflame.
“His lordship is the man I wish to marry,” she said.
Strange how the words did not feel as foreign as she had supposed they would.
“You are utterly certain, Grace?” Lady Emilia asked, her tone one of sisterly concern.
Grace was heartily glad Dev had found such a kindhearted wife. Though she was an aristocrat and the daughter of a duke, she had warmed to Grace and her sisters almost instantly. Their bond was strong and true. And Lady Emilia’s love for Dev was undeniable. It was the rare sort of passion that seemed to only grow as time went on.
The sort that only existed in novels.
“I am certain,” she lied to her sister-in-law, reminding herself of all the reasons why this feigned betrothal with Aylesford was a good idea.
Listing the reasons in her mind…
The viscount would return the book to her, with Dev none the wiser.
She would no longer be required to suffer potential suitors during the course of her feigned betrothal.
She would be able to carry on with whatever she wished and follow her heart after the betrothal reached its inevitable end.
No more guilt and responsibility.
Being betrothed to Aylesford would not be entirely awful. He was ridiculously handsome, after all. And perhaps she would have the opportunity to kiss him. To touch him. If she wished, that was.
She did not wish, she told herself.
Oh yes, you do, said a voice from deep within. It decidedly was not Pragmatic Grace.
She chased the voice away.
Lady Emilia’s gaze searched hers, almost as if she doubted the truth of Grace’s words. “You are completely certain, Grace?”
Grace blinked. Was Aylesford truly that much of a reprobate? Her knowledge of his past was admittedly limited. All she knew was that he was a rake. And that he held an incredibly high opinion of himself. Not that such an opinion was unwarranted, but it went against the grain. She could not help but want to topple it.
“I am completely certain that I wish to wed Lord Aylesford,” she fibbed, smiling.
Her lips were stretched so wide, her cheeks ached.
Lady Emilia frowned at her. “Very well then, my dear. I will inform your brother of your decision,
and your betrothal will be announced this very night.”
“This very night?” she asked, before she could think better of the words.
In truth, if she were indeed pleased by the prospect of becoming Viscountess Aylesford as she had pretended, she would like nothing better than for the announcement to occur with all haste. Instead, the mere mentioning of it filled her with misgiving.
But it was a feigned betrothal, she reminded herself.
Nothing about it was real. She would cut the ties with Aylesford as soon as she could. And she would be all the better for it.
“The betrothal will be announced tonight,” Lady Emilia confirmed then, her expression sympathetic, her gaze searching. “You are still sure, my dear?”
“Sure,” she echoed.
Even though something deep inside her suggested she was anything but.
Chapter Five
The hour was late. The night was cold.
But Rand found himself outside, in the snow-covered gardens, just the same. Smoking a cigar. Pacing through the holly bushes. Wondering at his decisions. Confounded and elated and desperately wanting Miss Grace Winter all at once.
He puffed on his cigar, blowing smoke into the moon-bathed sky. The little clouds drifted heavenward, leaving him behind, mired as ever in his thoughts.
The entertainment of the evening had been a ball.
During which, Mr. Deveraux Winter had announced the impending nuptials of Rand and Miss Grace Winter.
He finally had secured his feigned betrothed, just as he had wanted.
And he had danced with Grace. They had taken their turn about the ballroom, but it had felt all wrong. As wrong as the announcement had felt. As wrong as every word of congratulations had felt. She had been somber and cool.
Something had nettled, deep within him.
Something that resonated even now, as he stood alone, in the unseasonably cold night air.
Something that felt a whole lot like guilt.
The unmistakable crunch of a footfall on snow behind him had him turning about. But the figure moving toward him was not masculine as he had supposed—a fellow gentleman seeking some night air after the ball’s conclusion. So many dancers whirling beneath the chandeliers, coupled with negus and freely flowing wine, meant all the revelers had been flushed and overheated. Rand had been no different.
Unless he was mistaken, however, the shadowy form moving toward him was distinctly female. And familiar. All too familiar.
“Grace?” he asked.
“Lord Aylesford,” she greeted in that husky voice of hers, which alone was enough to have his cock twitching to attention. “What is that wretched smell?”
Well, that was rather lowering. But his cock did not appear to mind.
“My cigar,” he said, grinning at her cheek, the saucy wench. “What are you doing out here alone?”
“I am not alone,” she returned, moving nearer, until the moon illuminated her sparkling eyes and her lovely heart-shaped face. “I am with you, my lord.”
“All the more dangerous for you and your reputation,” he countered, taking another long drag from his cigar before puffing it into the sky.
“Surely you are not any more dangerous to me now than you were before,” she countered, tilting her head back.
Her lips were delineated in the moonlight, luscious and full. Those lips had been taunting him all night long. Calling to him. Asking him to claim them. He did not think he had ever wanted to kiss a woman more.
Instead, he continued on with the cigar. Because he knew that if he kissed her once, he would not stop. And if he did not stop, he would be facing far greater problems than convincing his grandmother to surrender Tyre Abbey.
“It is unwise to be alone with a man, Grace,” he told her softly. “Especially when that man is me.”
“But you are my betrothed,” she protested, a tinge of bitterness in her tone.
“And if we are caught together, we will be forced to wed.” He inhaled once more, wondering why the notion of marrying Grace did not fill him with as much trepidation as he might have supposed it would.
She shivered. “That would indeed be a dreadful fate. Point well taken, my lord. I have taken all the air I need, especially since it is putrefied with the acrid scent of your cigar. If you will excuse me…”
She dipped into a hasty little curtsy.
But before she could flee, he caught her elbow in a tender grasp, staying her.
“A dreadful fate, Grace?” he repeated, her words nettling him in spite of himself.
To say nothing of her condemnation of his cigar. The wine had not been enough this evening, and sometimes when he needed to clear his head, a cigar was just the thing to bring him clarity and calm.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Dreadful. I cannot imagine being shackled to a rake such as yourself, Lord Aylesford.”
“Shackled?” He stubbed out the glowing end of his cigar in the snow lining a nearby statue of Apollo. “A strong choice of words, love.”
“Helplessly tied,” she suggested. “Chained. Inextricably bound. Which would you prefer, my lord?”
“I would prefer for you to call me Rand,” he said, leaving the cigar abandoned at the god’s feet.
She did not retreat, but held her ground. A cold wind blew, and she shivered again. He placed his hands on her upper arms. Her wrap was not nearly thick enough to weather the cold.
“Bloody hell, Grace, what are you doing out here without a proper pelisse?” He shrugged out of his coat and placed it over her shoulders.
Another gust of wind bit through his shirtsleeves, but he did not give a damn.
“I did not think to be out here long,” she said. “I was overheated after the ball, and I could not sleep. I thought to get some restoring air, but then I saw you out here, standing alone beneath the moon.”
“And you came to me,” he concluded, warmth hitting him somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.
“I saw something glowing,” she said. “I thought you were the devil himself. Do take your coat back, Aylesford. You’ll catch your death if you do not take care.”
The minx.
“You knew it was I when you came to me,” he pressed, needing, for reasons he had no wish to examine, to hear her make the admission. “And as a gentleman, I insist you keep the coat on. I cannot have my betrothed contracting a lung infection.”
“I knew it was you,” she admitted softly. “You must be cold, my lord. Please, do take back the coat at once.”
He had on gloves, a hat. But the wind was indeed beginning to cut through the wine-soaked warmth permeating his body. Then again, perhaps not all the warmth was down to the negus he had swilled at the ball. Likely, it had far more to do with the alluring woman before him.
He was still stroking her arms, he realized. She wore no hat, and with the next burst of wind came a torrent of snow flurries. Some of them caught in her auburn curls, glistening like tiny stars fallen from the heavens.
“Let us go inside,” he said. “The weather is worsening.”
“In a moment,” she said, her voice hushed, her face upturned. “It is beautiful, is it not?”
“It is,” he agreed, swallowing. But he was speaking about far more than the snow.
Flakes swirled around them in the darkness, gently falling. Kissing his cheeks, his nose. One landed on his lip. Gentle stings.
“Almost magical,” she whispered.
Any good intentions he might have had fled in that moment.
If he did not take her mouth with his, then and there, he would surely die.
“Grace.” Her name was torn from him. A warning.
“My lord?” Her gloved hands had come to rest on his shoulders.
She was in his arms. Where she belonged.
He struck that last thought away.
“I am going to kiss you,” he told her.
Miss Grace Winter did not say a thing. Instead, she wound her arms around his neck and tugged his head down to hers.
<
br /> Lord Aylesford’s mouth was on hers, his smooth, warm lips claiming. Sensation burst open. There was the cold of the night, the snowflakes falling all around them. The heat of his kiss. Fire licking through her.
He tasted of spiced negus and tobacco. Of sin and the forbidden. Dangerous and delicious.
All her good sense warned her to stop. Reminded her that kissing a rake like Aylesford could only lead to ruination. That she should not have sought him out in the moonlight. That they could be caught, and being caught was a risk far too ruinous to take.
But she had never felt more alive than she did now, beneath the wintry moon, the cold such a stark contrast to the fire heating her blood. She had kissed him. Or perhaps he had kissed her first? The moment had been so raw and visceral, awash with sensation, she could not be sure. Even now, her wits were jumbled, the only coherent thought rattling about in her mind him.
Whichever of them had sealed their fates, it had been a mistake, she was sure. But he had been so determined to warn her off, and since he had stolen the book from her, all attempts at putting a halt to the disturbing way he made her feel had failed.
This was his fault, really, she told herself.
And in fairness, he had made the announcement first. What was she to have done? Grace Winter did not flee from adversity.
The kiss changed. It deepened. He spun her around, and suddenly, her back was against the base of the statue of Apollo, which had been presiding over them. They were nestled between twin ivy hedges sculpted like obelisks. Trapped by his big body and with the surrounding foliage of the evergreens, she no longer felt the bite of the wind.
Instead, all she felt was him. His chest—the wall of muscle she had not been able to cease thinking about ever since she had first seen it the evening before—was flush against her breasts. He surrounded her. And then, he consumed her.
His lips were knowing, slanting over hers. She opened beneath his sensual onslaught, and his tongue swept inside her mouth. She had never before been kissed, but she understood now why Christabella would swoon over the affections of a rake.
If every rake kissed the way Lord Aylesford did, she would happily spend each and every day being kissed silly.
Willful in Winter Page 5
