Willful in Winter

by Scott, Scarlett

  At least, that was the way she felt now, in the madness of the moonlight, snow swirling around them, buffeted by holly bushes and midnight velvet sky overhead. That was the way she felt, in this man’s arms, his mouth upon hers. Not even the cold winter’s air could sway her.

  Not even her rational mind. Not even her natural distrust of all noblemen in general and all rakes in particular. Not even the sure knowledge that Lord Aylesford was wrong for her, that he was only using her in order to obtain a property. That their betrothal, like this kiss, was fleeting, nothing more than a chimera.

  But then, everything altered once more.

  Because his hand slid beneath the layers of his coat and the cloak she had hastily donned before slipping into the darkened gardens. And he found her breast. Cupped it gently, rubbed his thumb over her nipple.

  New heat sparked to life, traveling from the distended peak of her breast straight to the forbidden place between her thighs. A steady ache—the same that had plagued her whenever she thought of the viscount—turned into a pulsing throb.

  A sound tore from her throat, and before she knew it, she was behaving in the same fashion as one of the ladies in The Tale of Love. She was arching her back, seeking more of that divine contact. Needing more of the pleasure he promised.

  Kisses like this were why respectable ladies were ruined. Why sin was so promising a lure. Why resisting rakehells proved impossible for so many, despite all the warnings and tales of woe.

  Grace kissed him back, learning from him how to move her lips in unison with his. She even dared to flick her tongue into his mouth once. And then again, because he groaned, and pressed her closer. And because the telling rise of his manhood was pressing against her belly.

  She thought for a wild beat that she would not mind being wed to Aylesford. That surely there would be worse fates than tethering herself to a man who kissed so sweetly, who turned her body into flame by the mere touch of his lips to hers.

  But then, another gust of wind hit them from nowhere, and suddenly, the last voice she wanted to hear severed the moment.

  Her brother’s.

  “Grace!” her brother called. “Are you out here?”

  She wanted to ignore him. To pretend she had not heard.

  But Aylesford had heard it as well, and she knew it when he stiffened and tore his mouth from hers. His breathing was harsh, falling over her lips. Such warmth in comparison to the cold. Their eyes met and held.

  “Grace!” called Dev. “It is too deuced cold for you to be out in the gardens on a night like this.”

  “Bloody hell,” the viscount cursed. “Who is calling you, Grace? Another suitor? I will not have you making a fool of me during our betrothal. If that is your aim, you may as well cry off in the morning.”

  Indignation rose within her, swift and strong, chasing the dangerous desire which had been humming through her. She stepped away from Aylesford, wishing she had not fallen prey to his kisses quite so easily. Forcing herself to recall his impossibly large sense of his own attraction.

  “It is my brother, you bounder,” she whispered. “Stay here and say nothing. I will go to him.”

  “Grace,” he protested, reaching for her, regret coloring his voice.

  “Hush,” she hissed, sidestepping him once more. “If you alert him to your presence, my brother’s wrath will be the least of your worries.”

  How dare he suppose she would become betrothed to him—albeit a feigned betrothal—and then meet multiple suitors in the gardens? Why, did he not know it was winter? And snowing? And the midst of the night? No sane person would go about dallying in the gardens with multiple men on such an evening.

  Indeed, no sane person would go about dallying in the gardens with one man on such an evening. Particularly a handsome rakehell with the devil’s own reputation. Which meant she was mad.

  And she could not argue with herself over the reasoning.

  “Grace,” he said again, striding toward her once more.

  But she did not want to hear anything he had to say. And neither did she wish to linger in his intoxicating presence for another second more. To do so would be foolhardy.

  She turned on her heel and fled, rushing through the snow-covered path with such haste that she slipped and nearly fell. She caught herself just before she went careening into a holly bush, and almost slammed into her brother’s tall, imposing form as she rounded a bend.

  “Grace,” Dev said in his familiar, comforting baritone. He gripped her by the elbows, steadying her lest she topple over as another strong gust of winter’s wind hit them with full force.

  How cold the night was, and yet, she had scarcely noticed the frigid temperature mere moments earlier, when she had been in Aylesford’s embrace. Belatedly, she realized her toes were nearly frozen within her slippers. And Aylesford, the scoundrel, had assumed she had been meeting another suitor.

  Good heavens, she had not even wanted the one, feigned suitor. Er, betrothed. Er, feigned betrothed. This was growing more confusing by the moment.

  “Dev,” she said, out of breath from her flight.

  And guilty. Guilty as sin.

  She could only hope the darkness of the night—in spite of the full silver moon hung overhead—would hide her flushed cheeks from her brother’s all-too-knowing gaze. The last thing she wanted was for her brother to force her into nuptials with Viscount Aylesford.

  “What are you doing out here?” her brother demanded. “You will catch your death if you do not take care. Or at the least, you will find yourself hopelessly compromised. Since your betrothal was only just announced this evening, I cannot help but to point out how foolhardy and reckless such a lack of care on your part would be.”

  She knew her brother well enough to understand he was suspicious.

  “I was overheated in the wake of the ball,” she said, which was only one-half a prevarication. “I merely came out here to cool off. To get some much-needed air.”

  “Much-needed,” he repeated, his tone grim.

  Oh dear. This did not bode well.

  He offered her his arm, and she took it, allowing him to shepherd her back inside the sprawling manor home of Abingdon Hall. The door he chose entered into the study. When they were safely back inside, a wall of warmth hit her, emanating, no doubt, from the merrily crackling fire in the grate.

  She could not deny the pleasure of the heat on her icy cheeks, or the bliss of it curling around her frozen fingers and toes. Her gloves had been donned for the elegance of a ball, not for the fierce cold of the winter.

  The door clicked closed behind them, and she could not help but to think of the viscount, moored out in the gardens, all alone. Cold in the frigid winter’s wind. He would find his way back inside. Of course, he would. But some part of her she had not previously realized existed had emerged, fretting over him.

  After all, he had given her his coat.

  Dear God, Aylesford’s coat.

  She was wearing it now…

  Dev glowered down at her in the low light of the study. “Would you care to explain your foolishness tonight, sister dear?”

  She cleared her throat, hugging the coat about her. A hint of his scent—amber and bay rum with that elusive tinge of musk, clouded by the tang of tobacco smoke—washed over her. She could not help but to inhale slowly.

  The man smelled as delicious as he looked, curse him.

  But her brother was towering over her, fierce and forbidding, demanding answers. Where was the calm, collected influence of her sister-in-law when one needed it?

  “Where is Lady Emilia?” she asked, all too aware that her voice emerged as a squeak.

  “In her chamber, preparing for a night of rest,” he snapped, raising a dark brow of recrimination. “Just as you ought to be, Grace. Tell me, why are you not in your chamber?”

  Briefly, she wondered—nay, hoped—that perhaps he had failed to notice the coat hung about her shoulders. “I already told you, Dev. I was far too warm after the ball, and I
ventured into the gardens to seek some fresh, restorative country air.”

  “Indeed?” His nostrils flared as he posed the one-word question.

  “Yes,” she managed.

  But her brother was far too wise for her ruse. He tugged at the coat still wrapped about her shoulders. “This belongs to Viscount Aylesford, unless I am mistaken. And if I am mistaken, we have an even greater problem facing us now than I feared, Grace. So, tell me, if you please, which gentleman in attendance at this house party did you meet alone in the gardens? And which gentleman offered you his coat?”

  She stared at her brother, stricken by the turn of events. When she had gone into the gardens, she had not bothered to think about consequences. And when she had realized she was not alone, that the male figure in the distance, smoking a cigar and so handsome in the silver light of the moon, had been Aylesford, she had not stopped. She had merely gone to him. She had been drawn to him, it was true, in the same way she had been drawn to him from their first dance together at the Welcome Ball.

  “You are lying to me, Grace,” her brother said sternly.

  And he was, of course, not wrong.

  Her older brother was protective and wise. She should have known better than to suppose she could fool him, or to think he would fail to notice the coat draped over her shoulders as boldly as any battle flag.

  She sighed. “I am being truthful. I went outside for some fresh air. I was overheated. The wintry air quickly cooled me. But then, I noticed I was not alone. Lord Aylesford was already in the gardens, yes. However, we most certainly did not arrange for an assignation. I can assure you that nothing untoward occurred. He merely gave me his coat so I would not be cold. That is all.”

  Dev’s countenance turned stern. “Grace, I want the best for you.”

  She bowed her head. “Yes, Dev.”

  “Look at me.”

  She jerked her head up, forcing herself to meet her brother’s gaze. “I am looking.”

  “I am doing my damnedest to make our family—the reviled Winters, whose names are darkened by trade—proper. I want doors to open to us all. I want the beau monde to welcome us. I want happiness for us all, free of scandal, free of the shadows of the past.” Her brother paused, seeming to gain his stride then. “But this cannot be accomplished, and it cannot be done, if any one of us embroils the rest of us in scandal. Not myself, not Prudence, not you, not any of our sisters. It cannot be done. Do you understand, Grace?”

  She nodded, guilt weighing her down, sending any lingering traces of hunger for Aylesford scattering. She had been foolish and reckless tonight. She would not tread such dangerous ground again. That much, she vowed to herself, then and there.

  “I understand, Dev,” she said. “Forgive me, please. It was not my intention to cause a scandal or bring shame upon the rest of you. I would never have sought out the viscount in such a fashion. But since he was already there…”

  “I know the power of attraction, Grace,” her brother said wryly. “I am pleased that your feelings for Aylesford run true, because I had my doubts until tonight. But take greater care of your reputation for the duration of the house party. If not for your sake, then for the sake of your sisters. Please?”

  He’d had his doubts until tonight?

  For some reason, the urge to correct her brother’s assumptions hit her. She was not so helplessly attracted to the viscount that she could not observe the tenets of propriety. No, indeed. Why, she could prove just how in control she was. Quite easily. One arrogant, handsome viscount was not enough to undo her.

  Still, she knew now was not the time to argue.

  Instead, she dipped into a curtsy. “Of course, Dev. I hold you and our sisters highest in my esteem always. You have my promise that I will not act so rashly in future.”

  “Promise?” he pressed, searching her gaze, his jaws clamped tight.

  “I promise,” she echoed, meeting his stare, unflinching.

  At long last, it seemed he had the answer he sought.

  “Excellent. Now, if you do not mind, it would not do for you to be seen running about the halls wearing your betrothed’s coat.” Her brother paused, his expression shifting, growing even more solemn. “Unless you want a scandal and a hasty wedding.”

  “No,” she rushed to reassure him, moving to the side, before shrugging the coat from her shoulders and stepping away. “That is not what I wish. My only wish is for happiness for all of you.”

  “On that matter, we are in accord, dear sister,” Dev said, still studying her, as if he was not certain if he could trust her words, her actions. “All I have ever wanted for you all is to see you happy and settled.”

  Guilt, that constant pinprick within her, deepened.

  She was deceiving her brother. Because she would not be settled when her bargain with Viscount Aylesford was done.

  And neither, she was certain, would she be happy. Because those stolen kisses in the snow-drunk moonlight had changed something inside her.

  Had changed her.

  Forever.

  Chapter Six

  Late the next evening, Rand was still cursing himself whilst he played vingt-et-un with a small group of friends in an effort to while away both his time and his shame. He had made an utter arse of himself yesterday in the gardens with Grace. Not for the first time. Nor, he was certain, would it be the last time. His instinctive reaction had been to believe her false, and he knew the reason why.

  The reason was an old one.

  Started long ago.

  With the woman who had shown him first that love could not be trusted, that passion was never meant to last, and that he must always guard his heart. Lady Georgina Duckworth, now the Duchess of Linden, had taught him a lesson he had never forgotten in all the years since.

  Regardless of the reason for his assumptions, Grace had been giving him the cut all day long. He knew why.

  “Aylesford,” prompted Lord Ashley Rawdon, who was acting as dealer. “It is your turn.”

  He examined his cards, then flicked a casual glance over the cards of the players around him. The Earl of Hertford had already folded. The Duke of Warwick—Rand’s oldest and best friend—looked smug. The Duke of Coventry, a painfully shy fellow, appeared morose, the three cards he had face up on the table either the sign of a winning hand or the sign of a man who did not know how to play vingt-et-un.

  Rand could not be certain which it was.

  His own hand scored only twelve, which meant he needed to risk another card.

  “Another,” he told Lord Ashley.

  With a flourish, Lord Ashley turned up a card before Rand.

  An eight.

  Perfection.

  If only his heart were in the game, one he ordinarily enjoyed playing. Another round, and Coventry folded. Warwick showed a nineteen. The initial stirrings of victory were sweet, precisely the distraction Rand needed. But when Lord Ashley at last flipped over his card to reveal he had vingt-et-un, not even the perfection of twenty mattered. He had lost. He sighed.

  How fitting. He could not seem to win for trying these days. He muddled everything. He was not meant to have kissed Grace Winter. Was not meant to take her lips beneath his, to slide his tongue against hers, to taste the sweet mulled cider on her tongue. Was not meant to know the tempting weight of her breast in his hand, or the knowledge that her nipples were responsive, hard little buds he longed to coax to attention.

  Ah, bloody hell. His cock was twitching just thinking of her. Just remembering her sweet mouth moving against his. This would not do. He had to distract himself by some other means. Clearly the diversion of cards had not been sufficient.

  “That is all for me for the evening, I am afraid,” he said, before taking a heartening sip of brandy.

  “Congratulations are in order for your betrothal,” Lord Ashley said carefully, taking a sip from his own drink. “I must say, I never thought I would see the day you allowed yourself to get caught in the parson’s mousetrap.”

  With g
ood reason. Rand was convinced never to consign himself to such a miserable fate.

  However, he was determined to keep up appearances. If his plan were to be a success, it was imperative that the truth never reached his dragon of a grandmother. Only Hertford and Warwick, aside from Grace herself, knew the truth of their feigned betrothal. Hertford because it had been his idea, and Warwick because he was Rand’s closest friend. Not to mention that Warwick was intending to marry Rand’s sister Lydia, which practically made him family.

  “Thank you for the congratulations,” he said mildly. “Miss Winter persuaded me of the error of my previous ways.”

  Lord Ashley raised a brow. “You were betrothed once before, were you not, Aylesford? Miss Winter must be persuasive indeed if she convinced you to have another go at that infernal institution.”

  “Here now, there is nothing infernal about it,” Warwick defended.

  “I will second that,” Hertford added, before casting a sly look in Rand’s direction. “Do you not agree, Aylesford, now that you have newly joined the ranks of gentlemen who have fallen in love at this house party?”

  Blast Hertford, whose plan to gain himself a wealthy betrothed had led to him falling madly in love with Miss Eugie Winter. She seemed the least likely match for the man known as the Prince of Proper. But Hertford had taken to wearing his heart upon his sleeve.

  Warwick was no better, mooning over Lydia like a puppy in love with his new master. All rather disquieting, given that Lyd was Rand’s sister and Warwick his friend. Even more disquieting since Rand himself had long since been cured of the belief in love.

  He tossed the rest of his brandy down his gullet, searching for a suitable response. “True love finds us when we least expect it.”

  There, that was noncommittal enough. Utter tripe. He reached for the decanter, needing to refill his glass. The day had been a long one, and the night was proving longer still.

  “There seems to be something in the food,” Lord Ashley agreed then, his lip curling. “Do you suppose Deveraux Winter put some sort of poison in the dishes he is serving, to rot men’s minds and make them more susceptible to matchmaking?”