Willful in Winter

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Careful,” he cautioned, rubbing his shoulder where she had pushed at his immovable form. “I am a delicate flower. I bruise easily, you know. And if I am bruised, you shall have to kiss me and make it better.”

  She glared at him even as the thought of kissing his bare shoulder sent heat sliding through her veins. “You do not resemble a flower in the slightest, my lord. Right now, you resemble nothing so much as a rake who has invaded my chamber quite against my will. And neither will I be kissing you ever again.”

  Her gaze lowered to his mouth of its own accord.

  Fair enough. Perhaps that was a lie. She certainly wanted to kiss him again. Mayhap just once more. To remove him from her mind for good.

  “Never?” he asked, giving her a sly grin. “Do not make vows you cannot keep, Grace love. Those kisses in the gardens last night are making a liar of you.”

  The kisses in the gardens.

  How could she have forgotten she was vexed with him?

  Her lips tightened. She gave him another swat. “Do not remind me of my folly. Move, Lord Aylesford. The hour is growing late and the chance of you being discovered here greater with each second you linger.”

  “The kisses in the gardens are the reason I sought you out,” he said, his teasing air vanishing. He rose into a sitting position, swinging his long legs to the floor. “You have been avoiding me all day.”

  Yes, she had.

  As much out of irritation for his assumption as fear she would be too tempted again.

  “You accused me of having another suitor meet me in the gardens and intending to make a fool of you,” she pointed out.

  He winced. “Forgive me, Grace. I was a lout, and I know it. I have no excuse save that I was once played false.”

  He rose to his towering height then. The magnetism he exuded was so potent, she had to take a step back in retreat.

  Just one, before she held her ground. “You were played false, my lord?”

  “I was.” His expression turned grim, the soft lines of slumber faded now. “A long time ago.”

  Someone had broken his heart, it would seem.

  The realization left her bemused. And beset by another emotion entirely. She refused to believe it was jealousy, for she had no designs upon Aylesford herself. She had been forced into their feigned betrothal. The kisses they had shared had been a rare aberration. One which would not be repeated.

  “Who was it?” she asked, in spite of herself.

  “My betrothed,” he admitted, before raking his fingers through his tousled waves.

  He had been betrothed before. How sobering the knowledge was, and how strange. It also made her realize how little she knew of him beyond the days she had spent in his presence at the house party. Nearly a fortnight, it was true. Hardly enough to learn everything there was to know about him.

  He looked to be all of thirty. Surely, he had lived a long and storied life before they had ever crossed paths. And even within that observation lay another sobering fact: she did not know how old he was. She scarcely knew anything about him.

  Though she told herself it did not signify, that his past had no bearing upon her role as his feigned betrothed, she still could not help herself.

  “You had a betrothed?” she asked, curiosity prodding her.

  And something else as well. Something she refused to examine or acknowledge.

  He inclined his head. “I did.”

  For all that he had apparently been in his cups when he had fallen asleep on her bed—or at least, that was what she supposed—he seemed alarmingly sober now. “Was she a feigned betrothed as well?”

  His lips flattened, his jaw hardening. “No.”

  Interesting.

  For some reason, the notion of Viscount Aylesford, the charming, beautiful rake who kissed her so passionately and made her feel everything she did not want to, falling beneath the spell of another woman set her on edge.

  “Were you in love with her?” she dared to ask.

  “I thought I was until I saw her in the arms of a close friend,” he said, raising a brow, his tone bitter. “Needless to say, I realized the error of my ways at once. I no longer count the Duke and Duchess of Linden amongst my acquaintances.”

  Dear heavens. His betrothed had betrayed him with his friend?

  And, even worse, they were now wed?

  Little wonder he had become a jaded rake.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” she said.

  His lips twisted into a wry grin. “I am not. She saved me from a terrible fate. I would far prefer to discover my betrothed is faithless than to discover my wife is.”

  When he phrased it thus, she could not argue. Still, she sensed the lingering hurt underlying his words.

  “Nevertheless, it must have distressed you, her betrayal.” She paused, searching his gaze, seeing a new side of him that somehow lowered her defenses. He seemed more vulnerable. Less sensual, rakish god and more heartbroken, beautiful man.

  “It made me realize love is a fiction,” he said. “But that does not excuse my accusations in the gardens last night. I am sorry for suggesting you were meeting another. I know it was only your brother, who was likely following you about and noted your disappearance. I cannot blame him, for I would do the same for my sisters. Fortunately for me, Lyd is marrying Warwick, and Cecily is still in the schoolroom. But if I had a blackguard like myself following about either of them, even if he was their betrothed…”

  “Dev is protective,” she agreed softly. “And I forgive you for the suggestion. I understand now that it was your past and not your opinion of me which led to your remarks. I do hope, however, that you will learn to trust me. I may be nothing more than your feigned betrothed, Aylesford, but I will not play you false. Not now, nor ever. This, I promise you.”

  “I believe you, Grace,” he said, more solemn than she had ever seen him.

  His assurance filled her with a new warmth. A different sort of warmth. A dangerous sort of warmth. Her emotions rioted within her, out of control. The way he looked at her was making her weak. Or perhaps it was her attraction to him, which was steadily growing with each passing day.

  “Thank you, Lord Aylesford.” She swallowed again, battling down a sweeping rush of feeling she had no right to experience.

  He was not her true betrothed.

  Nothing passing between them now was real.

  He had been tippling. Had he not?

  She searched his countenance for signs of dissipation and could not find any. He seemed utterly unaffected. Awake and intense. And handsome, so very handsome.

  She could not shake the feeling that this night was bound to end badly.

  Rand had been plagued by the suspicion, from the moment he had first risen that morning with a stiff cock and thoughts of Grace Winter on his mind, that the day was bound to end badly. But before him, surely, was proof of the opposite. Grace was staring back at him with such innocence. And yet also with such desire.

  She was the one thing he should not want and yet the one thing he knew he needed to have. Which was precisely why he never should have come here to her chamber earlier. That he stood here in such tempting proximity to her now was down to his own recklessness.

  He had consumed enough brandy earlier to dull his senses and his pride sufficiently. He had wandered into the wing of the sprawling Abingdon House where he knew he could find Grace’s chamber. He had found it with ease—thank Christ for the name placards in the hall.

  But she had not been within. After his disastrous attempt at distracting himself with cards, he had decided to seek her out. To apologize and explain himself. And then, he had trespassed upon Grace’s private territory. The room had smelled of her—summer blooms from the most glorious English garden—and he had found it oddly comforting.

  So, too, her bed. The pillow where she laid her head at night had called to him. He had paced about for a few minutes before he had realized she would not be appearing any time soon. Weary, and oddly lulled into a sense of peac
e by his surroundings, he had toed off his shoes and slipped into her bed.

  Foolish?

  Yes.

  Delicious?

  Also, yes.

  Did he regret it?

  Hell, no.

  In fact, if anything, he wanted to return to her bed now. With Grace, if at all possible. He had been enjoying the most decadent dream when she had jarred him into reluctant wakefulness. Grace had been kissing him as sweetly as she had in the gardens.

  Only, they had been in the bright confines of a hothouse instead. Surrounded by lush blooms. The sun had been warm all around them. And her hand had gone to his cock, stroking. Inciting a fire within him. She had undone the fall of his breeches and taken him in her hand…

  And then Real Grace had suddenly forced him awake, chasing away the glorious seductress of Dream Grace. He could not help but to mourn the loss of that dream, that phantom touch, even now. It had been so good.

  Too good.

  Undeniable.

  He desired Grace Winter, with a strength and a ferocity he could not ever recall experiencing before. When he was away from her side, he convinced himself he could maintain his restraint. That he must not jeopardize their feigned betrothal. But now he was in her chamber, and he had just been shaken from the most glorious dream, and the feelings were haunting him still, lingering like the cockstand he could not seem to control.

  An idea was brewing within him. A wicked one, it was true. But he was a rake, was he not? And though it was foolhardy indeed, he decided, suddenly and recklessly, to tell her. Then and there.

  “I want you, Grace.”

  Her lips parted. “My lord, it is improper for you to say such things to me. Recall, if you will, that I am not your betrothed in truth. I must insist you go.”

  “Improper, of course, and you must insist, yes,” he agreed, taking a step forward. Into her. Her skirts billowed around his legs. “But do you actually want me to go?”

  Her luscious lips tightened. “You are arrogant, my lord.”

  He could not argue the point. “Perhaps.”

  “You have an exceedingly high opinion of your looks.”

  This, too, he could not refute. He was in possession of a looking glass, and he was all too aware of the fairer sex’s reaction to him. He had learned, however, that not even a man’s outward appearance could win a woman’s heart. That in spite of his looks, in spite of the fact that he was to inherit a dukedom, a woman could and would still scorn and betray him. Georgina had proven it so.

  But it was not Georgina facing him now. Instead, it was Grace Winter. And Grace Winter was a different woman altogether. She was a rare creature, unfettered and bold, not at all the standard lady.

  “Do you not find me pleasing to look upon?” he goaded gently.

  She flushed once more, putting some distance between them. “Undoubtedly, every lady does. I suppose I am no different on that score, but I shall not be the one to enhance your already insufferable vanity.”

  Of course, he knew she was attracted to him. Her response to him—the way she had kissed him—told him everything he needed to know on that account. But he could not resist pressing the matter, just the same.

  “Ah,” he told her as he slowly prowled nearer, hoping to discomfit her. “But you are different from every other lady, Grace. So very different.”

  And she was.

  But Grace was made of sterner stuff than that. Had she made it too easy, this dance would have only been half as much fun.

  “And you are a silver-tongued devil,” she countered coolly. “Flattery falls off your tongue with ease.”

  “You have been thinking about my tongue, Grace love?” He could not resist teasing her. “How wicked of you.”

  Her color heightened, but she did not retreat. “I refer to your capacity for wooing the fairer sex, my lord. Not to…other matters.”

  He could not suppress his grin any longer. He was enjoying this banter and battle of wits with her, as always. And far, far too much.

  “Have I, Grace?” He trailed his touch over her jaw, stopping at her chin. “Wooed you, that is?”

  She swallowed, and his fingertips absorbed the vibration—the sign he affected her far more than she allowed herself to show.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “I want to woo you more,” he told her. “I want to woo you until you cannot think of why you are vexed with me. Until you cannot think of anything or anyone but me.”

  Oh, yes. He did. He should not want that. His rational mind knew it all too well. But the other part of him—the beast—wanted nothing but Grace Winter. Nothing but challenge and daring and recklessness. Nothing but sweet, seductive surrender. Her surrender. Her complete capitulation.

  He should leave her here, and he knew it. He should walk out her door, sneak back to his own cold and lonely chamber, and forget ever trespassing here. Grip his cock. Spend into the bedclothes. Go to sleep.

  But he did not want to do any of those things. He did not want to obey the proprieties. He did not want to leave Grace’s side. He did not want to go back to his chamber alone.

  Damn it all, he was having a cursed difficult time reminding himself that Grace was not his betrothed in truth. That this was all a pretense. A means to enable him to secure Tyre Abbey.

  “This is dangerous,” Grace said then. “We cannot continue on as we have been. Last night was an aberration.”

  But he heard the hesitance in her voice. He read it in her eyes. As a man who had devoted practically the latter half of his life to being a rakehell, he knew damned well that Grace Winter was his for the taking. That she did not want him to leave her chamber, despite what she had said.

  He also knew he would not take her innocence. Could not. She would go to her husband—to the devil with the bastard—without a hint of guilt.

  But that did not mean Rand was averse to seducing her. There were other ways, beyond the rendering of a lady’s maidenhead, which could offer pleasure, both to Grace and to himself.

  He cupped her face in both hands, holding her gently, forcing her gaze to meet him. “Was it, Grace? Are you certain you want me to go?”

  He lowered his head, bringing their lips near, but stopping just short of kissing her.

  Her breath puffed over his mouth. “I…”

  She was at a loss. Her words never finished.

  “Tell me to go,” he urged her.

  Because he was confident, it was true, that she would do no such thing.

  “Go,” she said.

  What the devil?

  “Truly?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she affirmed. “You must leave this chamber, for if you linger, we run the risk of my lady’s maid discovering you here. And if my lady’s maid finds you within my bedchamber, I need not tell you what will occur.”

  Indeed, she did not have to tell him. For he knew. They would be forced to wed. Though he was averse to the parson’s mousetrap, he could not deny there was something about the notion of being forever connected to Grace that left him pleased.

  So pleased.

  Perhaps he was going mad?

  If he was, madness had never felt so right. Nor so tempting.

  “What if I do not want to go?” he asked, taking a grand risk. Because he wanted Grace Winter. Wanted her when he should not.

  “Why would you not wish to go?” she asked, sounding almost desperate. “There is no reason for you to stay. We are not betrothed in truth. Nor would we ever suit…”

  “We would never suit?” he asked.

  He would beg to differ. They suited. They suited far too well.

  Her eyes went wide once more. “Lord Aylesford, I must insist you relent.”

  “Grace Winter,” he countered, “I must insist you refer to me by my given name. It is Rand. Try it upon your sweet pink lips. Go on, see if it fits.”

  The sweet pink lips in question pursed, the epitome of disapproval. “My lord.”

  “Rand,” he countered.

  “Lor
d Aylesford,” she said pointedly. “You must leave.”

  “Kiss me first,” he dared her. “Kiss me and then tell me I must go.”

  The color in her cheeks deepened as he had known it would.

  “I have no desire to kiss you,” she said coolly.

  He would have argued the point, for he knew a bloody prevarication when he heard one, but he did not. Because in the next instant, there was a knock sounding at her door. Slow and soft. But insistent.

  Damn it to hell.

  Their gazes met and held. Perhaps someone had overheard their low dialogue. He half expected Devereaux Winter to be at the door.

  “Answer,” he whispered.

  “Yes?” Grace called out, her tone remarkably calm.

  “Miss Winter, do you need my aid?” queried a female voice from the hall. “You failed to ring for me, so I thought it best to come to you this evening.”

  Rand found himself suddenly, ridiculously jealous of the lady’s maid who helped Grace to disrobe. Still, he was relieved it was not her irate, ham-fisted brother at the door.

  “I do not need anything, Carlson,” Grace called in a pleasant tone. “Thank you, but you are dismissed for the evening.”

  “As you wish, Miss Winter,” said the servant from the other side of the door.

  The sounds of her footsteps fading into the distance fell heavily between Rand and Grace. They had nearly been caught. One wrong word, one wrong move, and their secret would have been revealed.

  The moment made him feel alive. A heady rush washed over him. His heart was pounding.

  “There now,” he said softly when no traces of movement could be heard in the hall beyond. “Where were we? Oh, yes, I recall. You were just about to kiss me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Grace stared at Viscount Aylesford, his words echoing through every part of her body, making her wicked. Making her weak.

  You were just about to kiss me.

  She had not been. Of course, she had not.

  “As I remember it, I was about to shoo you from my chamber like a bothersome fly,” she retorted.

  But her words were soft instead of sharp. And her heart was thumping. And deep inside her, unfurled a weighty, delicious coil of desire. The truth was, she did not want Aylesford to leave. She wanted him to stay.