By God.
He had never thought of it in such terms before.
He frowned at Coventry. For a painfully shy, awkward man who could scarcely string together a series of sentences, the duke was remarkably astute.
“I had never thought of it quite that way before, Coventry,” he admitted in spite of himself.
“When you ponder them enough, even the biggest problems become small,” the duke said.
Rand could not argue the point. Because he very much feared the Duke of Coventry was right. And that everything he had believed these last few years had been terribly, hopelessly wrong.
Grace did not particularly feel like making merry.
Her rapidly escalating bargain with Rand had left her feeling confused. She had no wish to play another game of Snapdragon or Hoodman Blind. Instead, she was in the orangery, far away from the rest of the revelers. Though the glass-roofed room was heated, the chill of the day and the wind gusting outside still necessitated the use of a wrap.
The orange trees did not appear to mind, their glossed leaves lush and full. Fat fruits hung from their branches. Pomegranates and hibiscus beckoned as well, together creating the illusion that one had been secreted to an exotic clime.
The entire chamber was, she thought with a weary sigh, symbolic of her feigned betrothal with Aylesford: tempting, decadent, and false. The orange trees would wither in one night of brutal cold beyond these walls. The hibiscus would shrivel. And beyond this enchanted setting, her betrothal would fall as well.
Because it was not real.
Oranges were not meant to withstand the Oxfordshire winter.
Nor was her betrothal with Rand meant to last.
But last night had changed everything for her. She was losing her heart to him. It was undeniable. She could see it quite plainly. The last thing she had ever wanted was to fall in love with a self-assured scoundrel like him. The last thing she had ever imagined was that she would want their feigned betrothal to be real. However, she had, and she did. Which meant the time to make a decision was upon her.
She had to take action, and fast, if she wanted to protect herself from further hurt. She had been thinking of nothing but what she must do all day long. From the time she had risen in the morning, jarred from a dream of Rand kissing her so sweetly, the knowledge had weighed heavily upon her heart. There was only one option left to her: she needed to end this between them.
End the feigned betrothal.
End the bargain.
End the nights of debauchery.
And so doing, she could only hope, end the incessant longing she felt for him.
A footfall behind her alerted her to the fact that she was no longer alone before the deep, delicious baritone she had come to know so well even spoke.
“Grace.”
How was it that even her name uttered in his voice sent a pang of longing through her?
Steeling herself against her reaction to him, she turned about. He was so handsome, a tentative smile on his lips. Those dashing dark waves she loved to run her fingers through fell over his brow in true rakish fashion. His bright-blue eyes were hungry and warm as they burned into hers.
A great rush of desire swept through her, along with remembrance of the intimacies they had shared. Their wicked nights of mutual debauchery. His kisses. His tongue on her most sensitive flesh. The way he had tasted. The delicious thickness of him in her hand, in her mouth.
But no, she must not think of any of those things now. She must forget all about the way he made her feel.
“My lord,” she greeted tentatively, dipping into a proper curtsy as she forced her wits to return.
“Surely there is no need for such formality between us,” he said smoothly, offering her an elegant bow. “After all, we are betrothed.”
“Not in truth,” she could not help but to point out, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.
She could only hope he would not take note.
“But our betrothal could last for quite some time, Grace.” He was solemn as he studied her. “It may take weeks or even months to convince my grandmother to deign to give me Tyre Abbey.”
How could she bear weeks of being in his presence? Of him courting her? Months were an impossibility. It had only been days, and already he had dismantled all her defenses, like an invading army storming the castle walls. And she did not fool herself either—it was not because of his disarming looks or his undeniable charm. Rather, it was because of something else, something far deeper and more dangerous.
He brought her to life. He made her feel as if she had finally found the purpose in her life she had been searching for. That purpose was love. Loving him. But how could she love him when he was a fickle-hearted rake who had lived his own life flitting from one woman to the next, loving no one since his heart had been wrecked?
She shivered then, and it had nothing to do with the chill in the air. “I fear I may not be able to last that long, keeping up such a deception. Indeed, my lord, I am glad you sought me out, for I am beginning to think this entire bargain of ours was a mistake.”
“A mistake?” He closed the distance between them and drew her into his arms.
She went willingly, Lord help her, because she could. Because being wrapped in his warm, strong embrace felt like home.
And yet still, she knew she must hold firm to her path. “Yes, a mistake. The past few days with you have been lovely. I cannot say I have not enjoyed our feigned betrothal, but I fear the risk is no longer worth the reward.”
He searched her gaze. “Has something happened? Has one of your sisters divulged our secret?”
She shook her head, tamping down the sadness rising within her like flood waters, with every intent to drown. “Nothing has happened, and nor have any of my sisters betrayed my confidence. It is merely that I have realized, at long last, what I want from my future.”
His brows snapped together. “You have?”
“Yes,” she insisted, for that much was not a lie. She could not tell him the truth, however. For it was too embarrassing.
“What is it you want?” he asked softly, his gaze plumbing the depths of hers in a way she did not like.
Not long ago, they had been strangers. But now, she feared he could see too much.
You, she longed to say. Even if your sallies are awful and you know precisely how handsome you are. You, because you hold me in your arms as if I am precious to you. Because your kisses make my knees weak. Because you found your way into my heart, and now I will never be the same.
“I want freedom,” she said instead. “The ability to live my life as I see fit. Ending my betrothal with you will prove to my brother just how misguided his notion of seeing me married to a lord truly is. I will tell him how horridly ill-suited we were, and how miserable marriage to an arrogant nobleman will make me.”
Rand said nothing for a beat, simply stared at her. “Are we, Grace?”
“Are we what?” she asked, misery swirling through her.
“Are we horridly ill-suited?” he elaborated.
She tilted her head, considering him. “Of course we are, my lord. You are a rake who does not believe in love after your last betrothed betrayed you. You are too handsome for your own good, and all too aware of your own charms. You will be a duke one day. And I am no lady. My father was a merchant. My brother is a merchant. I will never be a duchess, and neither am I a beauty. My greatest asset is my determination, which will see me through now as it has always done.”
His jaw tightened. “You are a lady, Grace. And beautiful. So damn beautiful.”
“You need not ply me with flattery, my lord,” she said, resolute. “I have already made up my mind. I cannot be your feigned betrothed any longer. If you want to tell my brother about the book, I cannot stop you. All I can do is ask that you lay the blame solely upon my shoulders.”
“I am not plying you with flattery, damn it,” he bit out. His chiseled jaw and cheekbones seemed as if they had been carved fr
om stone.
“I am sorry, Lord Aylesford,” she told him, because she was. Sorrier than he could ever know. “I cannot uphold this farce. The risk is too great for me.”
“What can the risk be in being my betrothed?” he demanded, cupping her jaw.
“Our bargain,” she said, flushing furiously, longing to nuzzle her cheek in his palm but narrowly resisting that weakness. “My brother already saw me coming in from the gardens the other night wearing your greatcoat. And we have gone well beyond those kisses in the moonlight now. The embraces and the…debauchery we have shared. I have allowed my curiosity to get the better of me, and it has led me astray. I cannot risk being ruined. I cannot marry you.”
“Why the devil not?” His voice, like his question, was indignant.
Of course he would be indignant and disbelieving. He was the handsome heir to a dukedom with more rakish wiles—to borrow Christabella’s words—than any one man ought to possess.
“Because I do not want to marry you,” she forced herself to say. Another lie. “And because you do not want to marry me.”
The last, much to her regret, was the ugly truth.
He was dallying with her.
And she had allowed it. Had reveled in it, even. But her heart could no more survive Viscount Aylesford than the pomegranates and the hibiscus could thrive in the snowy world beyond the leaden panes of glass in the orangery. Her heart, like this sumptuous vegetation, would wither. Shrivel to nothing more than a husk.
“Marrying was never part of our agreement from the first, Grace,” he said. “What has changed? Is it because of what happened last night?”
“No,” she hastened to say. “What happened was…I will never forget it. Nor will I forget any of the time I have spent with you. Whenever I make a sketch in the book you gave me, I will remember you with great fondness.”
“Fondness.” His lip curled, as if the very notion appalled him.
She could have said love, but she had no wish to reveal that much of herself to him. He had already seen her body. To expose her heart…she did not dare take such a foolish risk. For this man was a rake. He did not love. He wooed. He seduced.
“Fondness,” she repeated. “And gratitude. I will not forget you, Lord Aylesford.”
She extricated herself from his embrace at last, because she dared not linger there, absorbing his heat, relishing the strength of his lean body. His hands fell to his sides. She stepped back. And they stared at each other in stony silence. Overhead, the gray sky opened. Instead of snowflakes, it unleashed a torrent of ice. The sound of the tiny ice balls bouncing off the domed glass were like a thousand pins dropping, all at once.
“You truly mean to end our agreement, Grace?” He raked his fingers through his dark, wavy locks.
She swallowed. “I must.”
And then, before she said something she would forever regret, or before she lost her strength, she turned and fled. Grasping her skirts in both hands, she lifted her hem and ran. Ran from the orangery, from its promise of the forbidden.
From the man who had stolen his way into her heart.
No footsteps followed her. And she did not need to look over her shoulder to discover he had not even bothered to chase her. He was letting her go.
Chapter Eleven
Rand had no intention of letting Grace Winter go.
But he had reached an important realization as he watched her fleeing him in the orangery. He had spent so many years seducing women for a night of pleasure, that he had no notion of how to woo the woman whose heart he intended to claim as his own. Winning a woman for the night—even for a few weeks or months—was easily done. Winning a woman for a lifetime, however, was not so quickly achieved.
And a lifetime with Grace was precisely what he was after. Even if the word made his heart skip a beat and his chest ache. Even if it filled him with a breath-stealing mixture of awe and fear.
He needed reinforcements. Which was why he had enlisted the aid of his good friend the Earl of Hertford and the Winter sisters. Hertford had assembled them for him in the writing room where he had come upon Grace with The Tale of Love that fateful day not so long ago.
It was fitting then, that he held the book in his hands now.
“Lord Aylesford,” said Prudence, the eldest of the sisters. “You wished an audience.”
She was Lord Ashley’s long Meg, as it were, even if Lord Ashley was apparently securing her hand for his brother. What a deuced tangled web that was. Rand was happy to stay out of it.
He bowed formally to the sisters, aware he must win all four ladies to his side. He needed all the help he could buy, beg, or steal.
Begging seemed the option of the day.
He felt as if he were facing the Spanish Inquisition.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me here,” he said.
“You are fortunate indeed Hertford vouches for you and that he is standing guard at the door,” Prudence told him, her tone chilly. “I can only suppose this sudden meeting has something to do with Grace.”
“It has everything to do with her.” He cleared his throat, warming to his cause. “As you are all aware, I offered your sister a bargain in exchange for her pretending to be my betrothed.”
“You offered her a bargain, did you?” Prudence’s brow raised.
“Forced her into doing your bidding is a far more apt description,” said Eugie with a dismissive sniff.
“You stole her book and browbeat her into feigning a betrothal with you,” added Christabella.
“All to gain some silly estate,” Bea, the youngest and the only blonde amongst them, concluded.
Yes, he rather had done all those things. And when they phrased it thus, he certainly did sound like a reprobate of the first order.
He winced. “In my own defense, I courted her for days, attempting to get her to see the wisdom of my mutually beneficial plan.”
“Yet she denied you,” Prudence pointed out, her expression stony.
“Of course she did,” he admitted. “Your sister is devilishly stubborn.”
“A man such as yourself is not accustomed to being told no, I would imagine,” observed Eugie.
“Not in some time,” he allowed. “Indeed, not since my last betrothed cried off after I found her in the arms of my close friend. I have been dedicating myself to the art of keeping my heart from getting dashed to bits ever since. I have busied myself with leading the life of a rake and resorting to nothing more consequential than meaningless exchanges of desire. Until I met your sister.”
“Whilst I am sure we are all sorry to hear your former betrothed treated you so unkindly, I fail to see what it has to do with you forcing our sister into pretending to be your betrothed,” Miss Beatrix Winter said.
“I caught her reading a bawdy book in this very room,” he said, holding up the book in question. “This book, as it would happen. And yes, I took it from her. Yes, I shamelessly used it as leverage against her. But in my own defense, it was only because I wanted her, and only her. I thought, at first, that it was because she was a challenge. I realized, in no time at all, that it is because she is unlike any lady I have ever met before. It is because there is only one Grace Winter, and I need to have her in my life, for the rest of my life, as my wife.”
All four sisters gaped at him, quite as if he had just begun stripping away his coat and breeches in their midst.
Prudence was the first to find her tongue. “You are saying you want to marry Grace in truth?”
“Yes.” He stalked forward, The Tale of Love extended before him. “And you may have this book. I no longer have need of it. Though she refused to tell me which of you it belongs to, I can only gather it must be one or all of you.”
Their expressions were identically guilty, confirming his suspicions.
Prudence took the book from him hastily and handed it off to the flame-haired sister, who tucked it neatly into a secret pocket which must have been sewn into the skirt of her gown for just such a purp
ose.
Clever minxes.
No gentleman stood a chance against them.
“I am in love with your sister,” he announced.
There. He had said it. Admitted it aloud. Given voice to the emotions he had spent the last few days trying his damnedest to ignore.
“Truly in love with her?” Eugie asked, her eyes narrowing upon him.
“So in love with her, it terrifies me,” he said, unashamed. “So in love with her, I cannot bear the notion of her ending our betrothal.”
Prudence’s brows rose. “Grace has decided to end the betrothal? What have you done, you scoundrel? Did you hurt her?”
Bloody hell, what did they take him for?
“Of course I did not hurt her,” he snapped. “Have you not heard a word I just said? I am in love with her, and I want to make her my wife. But she has decided she must have her freedom or some such rot. She said continuing our farce was too great a risk, and that she was going to tell your brother herself about The Tale of Love.”
“She cannot tell Dev about the book,” protested Miss Christabella Winter. “He will stop at nothing until he confiscates the entire set from us.”
“You have more than just the one?” he asked, shocked in spite of himself. He supposed he ought to have learned by now just how resourceful and bold the Winter sisters were.
“We have them all,” said Miss Christabella, her tone smug.
Lord help the man who chose to wed that Winter sister, he thought.
“But that is neither here nor there,” interrupted Prudence. “Freedom is not rot, Lord Aylesford. Not if that is what she truly wants.”
“I would give her freedom as my wife,” he countered. “And my love. And whatever else she wants. Forever.”
“But will you be true to her?” asked Miss Eugie Winter. “Your reputation is not particularly promising, my lord.”
He met Eugie’s gaze, unflinching, for this was a question he had no trouble answering. “I will be true to her until my last breath. I want no other.”
“A reformed rake,” Miss Christabella said with a sigh, holding a hand over her heart.
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