Wicked.
Yes, that was it.
Her tongue ran over her lips. “Go.”
His expression changed, hardening. He began sliding away. “Very well. If that is what you truly wish, I will—”
“No,” she said, too loudly.
The denial rang through her chamber. When it came to the Earl of Hertford, it seemed her foolishness knew no bounds. She flinched from the force of it. From the betrayal, too. Her own voice. Her own tongue. Telling him not to leave. Telling him to stay.
She did not want him to stay. Did she?
Of course not.
Her hand had closed around his wrist like a manacle and she had not realized it. He had, however, for his head was down, his gaze settled upon the connection. The silence that descended was louder than her objection had been, hanging between them. Weighing down the night.
She released him at once.
“You want me to stay, Eugie?” he asked.
The silk had returned to his baritone. The low, seductive rumble. The velvet wrapped around marble.
“I am not finished with our dialogue,” she invented hastily.
“You like my touch.”
The certainty in his tone nettled.
Her eyes narrowed. “I never said that.”
He was grinning at her now. Sitting on her bed, in the midst of the night, grinning. And looking so handsome he made her ache. “You did not need to say it. I already know. Your lips say it. Your wide eyes. The way your body reacts whenever I touch you.”
He was right.
Blast him, he was right.
“Flesh is weak,” she said.
“I cannot argue the point.” His stare was intense, holding her captive. “I have never felt more incapable of denying myself what I want than when I am in your presence.”
She should not ask him, she knew it, and yet his words had sent an arrow of heat through her. “What is it you want, my lord?”
“You.” He paused, his countenance turning rueful. “Even though I should not.”
“You want my dowry,” she corrected. “You are in need of funds, yes?”
“Yes,” he startled her by admitting, “I am in desperate need of a wealthy bride.”
She had not expected candor from him. But still, she would not be swayed.
“You want to marry me because you require my dowry,” she pressed.
“No, Eugie.” He inched a bit closer on the bed. “I want to marry you because I made love to you. You could be carrying my babe. Marrying you is the right thing to do.”
“I am certain the prospect of assuaging all your troubles with my fortune has nothing at all to do with it,” she said drily, forcing herself to remain stern.
His scent and his mouth and his words would not persuade her she was wrong.
“Do you know what I am called?” he asked then, taking her by surprise once more with the sudden change of subjects.
“The Earl of Hertford.” She frowned at him, wondering what manner of game he was about now. “And if you move any nearer to me, you shall be called a man with a blackened eye as well.”
His lips twitched into a half smile, almost as if he were repressing a burst of laughter. “No, Eugie. My sobriquet. Do you not know what all society calls me?”
Lady Emilia’s words returned to her then, swiftly. “The Prince of Proper.”
His lips firmed once more, no hint of levity remaining. “Precisely. And do you know why they call me that?”
He was wearing her down, and she knew it. Exploiting her weakness. Her body’s incurable yearning for him was playing upon her emotions. She had to remain strong. Unyielding.
“Presumably not because you make a habit of hauling ladies into your chamber at house parties and stealing their innocence,” she drawled.
His lips twitched again. “No, I do not make a habit of it. Nor did I haul you, as I recall. Someone was coming, and I feared we would be seen.”
“It is reassuring to know the rest of the company is not in danger of falling victim to your insatiable carnal appetite,” she murmured. “But now, you truly must go, Hertford. I do not care what your sobriquet is or why you have earned it. I will not wed you.”
He did not heed her, however. He remained where he was, encroaching upon her bed, his stare riveted upon her. “I am known as the Prince of Proper because I have always taken great care to be above reproach. My father was a scoundrel, forever courting scandal and ruin, and I have lived each day of my life striving to be as different from him as the sun is from the moon.”
His revelation affected her, although it should not. His tone, like his expression, was open. Earnest. For all his faults, the Earl of Hertford did not strike her as a liar.
“Thank you for enlightening me,” she forced herself to say, determined to remain impervious to him. “Now go, my lord.”
“I am not finished,” he said firmly but gently. “I am attempting, in my muddled way, to explain to you that what came over me several nights ago was an aberration. It still defies logic and reasoning. I do not despoil innocents. I do not find myself in unwed ladies’ chambers.”
“It would seem you do,” she interjected.
“I do now,” he agreed, his sensual lips unsmiling. “Because of you.”
“Because of my wealth,” she countered. “Pray do not attempt to pretend you want to marry me for any other reason. As I have told you, I will not marry a fortune hunter. I would sooner carry out my life in a cottage in the country, tending roses and forgetting I ever had the bad sense to go into that chamber with you.”
“There is no pretense here.” His voice was steady. Sure. “There is only truth. I need a wealthy bride, but I do not need you. However, I have taken your innocence, and I must now pay the forfeit for my scandalous lack of self-control.”
“Pay the forfeit,” she repeated. “You make it sound as if wedding me would be a chore.”
“Not a chore,” he denied, “but it would not be my choice. You would not be my choice.”
The arrow of heat turned into a dart of hurt, lodging itself in her heart. “You are doing a dreadful job of attempting to persuade me to marry you, Lord Hertford.”
“It would please me if you called me Cam,” he said, reaching for her hand, which was clenching a fist in the counterpane, once more. “And I am being honest with you. Utterly, completely honest. I owe you that much. Christ, I owe you a lot more than that, but I will begin here: I desire you. Prior to arriving here in Oxfordshire, prior to having met you, I would never have wanted you as my countess because of the scandal darkening your name.”
She stiffened. “My lord—”
“Allow me to finish, if you please,” he interrupted. “Honesty, Eugie. The Prince of Proper could not bear to accept a wife whose reputation was not as pristine as his. But then I saw you in the ballroom, and you were wearing that red gown, and your lips matched, and you spoke to me with such assurance. When we danced, something happened.
“From the beginning, I have wanted you in a way that consternates and perplexes me. You are beautiful, and you are wealthy, but you are all wrong for me. Your brother is a tradesman. Your reputation is tarnished. And yet, I can think of nothing but you. When I see you, I want to kiss you. When I am alone with you, I lose my ability to resist temptation.”
Somehow, in the course of his unexpected soliloquy, the tension had ebbed from her fingers. She had ceased grasping the bed linens. Instead, her hand had relaxed, turning so her palm faced upward, and their fingers had laced together once more.
His confession was strangely endearing.
And she could understand the sentiment behind it, for she felt the same way. Whenever she was in his presence, all she wanted to do was kiss him again. To touch him. The strength of his shoulders, the muscles of his arms, to lay her lips upon him everywhere she could.
Where their hands met, a tingling awareness began and radiated up her arm, pooling ultimately between her thighs. Her body had not forgotten his.<
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“I do not want to be your regret, Eugie,” he continued. “But neither can I allow my sins to go unanswered for. I have dishonored you, and I must make it right.”
“No one knows,” she said. “Our secret is safe.”
“I know,” he said sternly. “And you know.”
She tried, quite furiously, to think of the cottage. The roses. The elusive dream of freedom. “I have a plan, Lord Hertford. I will buy my freedom with my fortune.”
“Or, you could buy mine,” he suggested simply.
“Yours,” she repeated.
“Mine. If you do not wed me, I may have to find another bride with an immense dowry, and I will have to reveal to her that I once despoiled an innocent. She will resent me to her dying day, and our marriage will be cold and chaste, and I will never sire an heir.” He squeezed her fingers. “And you will be all alone in your cottage with no one to enjoy the roses but you. What color would they be?”
Once again, his wandering mind had her flummoxed. “The roses?”
“Yes.”
“White,” she said, for she had already given some thought to her fancy. “There is something about the absence of color which makes them so beautiful.”
“Grow them at Lyndhurst House.” His thumb was rubbing lazy circles upon her inner wrist now, weakening her resolve. “White ones and red ones too, to match your lips.”
“What is Lyndhurst House?” she asked, though she could surmise well enough.
“My country seat in Lincolnshire.” His thumb traveled higher, that simple caress enough to make her weak all over again. “My father stripped it of everything of value, squandering all he could on vice. We can rebuild it together. Think of it this way, Eugie. It shall be an even bargain between us. You can save me from ruin, and I shall save you as well.”
An even bargain.
Why, oh why, had he asked her about the roses? She was sure she could have denied him if he had overlooked that infinitesimal detail. And if he was not crowding her with his large, masculine body, his warmth, his handsome face, that mouth, his scent…
“I shall consider your proposal, Lord Hertford,” she allowed before she could think better of it.
But it could not be helped, not when he was touching her as he was, and gazing upon her in such a manner. He was turning her insides to liquid.
“Cam,” he corrected softly. “If you are to be my wife, you may as well grow accustomed to my given name.”
“I did not say I would marry you,” she reminded him sharply, before thinking better of it and lowering her voice back to a whisper. “I said I would consider the prospect. Now please do go before you are caught here, and the rumors that dreadful man spread about me are the least of our worries.”
He released her hand, leaving her feeling bereft. “If anyone deserves a blackened eye, it is Cunningham,” he said grimly. “And I am of half a mind to give him one myself.”
His words warmed her. But she chased the warmth. “Go now, my lord.”
“Very well.” At last, he stood.
And this new distance between them, too, she felt like a loss. With great effort, she remained where she was, watching as he delivered an elegant bow, as though they faced each other in the formality of the drawing room.
“Sleep well, Eugie.”
“Good evening, Lord Hertford,” she whispered back.
“Cam,” he corrected in hushed tones. “Or husband, if you prefer.”
She bit her lip at his persistence. “Go away, my lord.”
And, taking his brace of candles with him, he disappeared back into the night.
But slumber did not follow in his wake. All she could think was she did not dare trust him. And she did not dare accept his proposal. She would be far better served to find her cottage and hide herself there.
When she finally did fall asleep, she dreamt of roses and Cam.
Chapter Ten
Sleigh rides were in order for the day, because an early snow had blanketed the countryside. The powdery whiteness clung lovingly to barren branches, coating the undulating hills and fields. As always, the newly fallen snow filled Cam with a sense of awe. An appreciation for the peacefulness of nature, the beauty of the world around him.
But that appreciation paled in comparison to the lady at his side.
Miss Eugie Winter was seated alongside him, blankets covering her lap, warm bricks at her feet. Nearly all of her was hidden, in fact. Her gloved hands were inside a fur muff, and a pelisse hid her pleasing feminine shape from him. Her lovely face stood out against the backdrop of snow, a dashing hat keeping her silken brunette locks from his gaze. Her ribbons, he noted, were firmly tied this time.
The chilled air had brought a lush pink to her cheeks, and her lips, too, were kissed with cold.
God, he could not stop stealing looks at her.
He was like a lad, fawning over the first female to pay him any heed. What he felt for her was strange. He had never before experienced anything its equal. He wanted her kisses. All of them. He wanted her smiles, to be their source. He wanted to be her reason to laugh. He wanted to touch her, to feel her beneath him. The combination of desire and something deeper was foreign.
Frightening.
“You are friends with Viscount Aylesford,” she said at last, breaking the silence between them.
The topic was not one he would have preferred. His hands tightened on the reins as he drove them over a gently swelling hill, leaving Abingdon House and their fellow house guests out of sight behind them.
“I am,” he agreed, slanting another look in her direction. “Why do you ask?”
“He is attempting to convince my sister to engage in a feigned betrothal with him,” Eugie said. “I do not trust his motives.”
The words he had heard her say to her sister in the library that day returned to him, words she had spoken about Cam himself.
He is a fortune hunter like all the rest, of course.
She was jaded, Miss Eugie Winter. And something—or rather someone—had made her that way. He gripped the reigns tighter and clenched his jaw as the need to plant Cunningham a facer rose within him once again.
“I suspect you do not trust anyone’s motives,” he observed. “Including mine.”
Another glance in her direction revealed her lush lips had tightened, her chin tipping upward in defiance. “Trust must be earned, not freely given.”
“Fair enough, Eugie.”
“I never gave you leave to call me Eugie,” she pointed out.
“Do you not think us beyond formality?” He cast another look in her direction. Their gazes clashed, and something gripped him, deep within.
Something unfathomable.
In her eyes, he could see the heat of awareness, the flare of remembrance. But then her gaze grew shuttered once more. “I think I have been inexcusably foolish where you are concerned, my lord.”
Yes, she had. And, likewise, so had he.
But her response filled him with disappointment just the same. He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the vista ahead of them. The sleigh drew softly, slowly over the snow. He was timing their outing with care. They could not be gone for too long. Just a few minutes more before he needed to turn around and return them to Abingdon House.
For all that he had gone beyond the bounds of propriety with her, committing the ultimate sin without benefit of matrimony, he was determined to keep her reputation as scandal-free moving forward as possible.
It would not do to encourage gossip to flourish. Thankfully, given the tight space of the open sleigh, the coldness of the air, and the festive nature of the house party, they had some latitude.
Just enough, he hoped.
“We have both been foolish,” he allowed then, “but I am attempting to set matters right.”
“By marrying me and gaining my fortune,” she said cynically. “And absolving your debt.”
“By marrying you so I can have you in my bed.” Just the thought sent a rush of
heat to his loins. “In my arms. So I can kiss you whenever I wish.”
Silence descended between them once more, and he feared he had gone too far, that he had pushed too hard. Had he shocked her? He had not meant to be so forthright, but Eugie Winter did something to him. She had changed him.
“What a wicked thing for the Prince of Proper to say,” she murmured at last.
But she did not sound shocked.
Rather, she sounded intrigued.
“I suppose it is better to be wicked than to be a pompous bore,” he could not resist teasing.
A surprised burst of laughter left her for just a moment until she squelched it. “I was dreadfully rude to you at the welcome ball, was I not?”
Damn him, but the sound of her laughter curled around his heart, squeezing it tight. “We were rude to each other, as I recall.”
The time had come to turn the sled and begin making their way back to Abingdon House, and he already dreaded the hours they would spend apart. What was it about her that so bewitched him? That made him weak in a way no other woman before her ever had?
“I am sorry for insulting you,” she said quietly as he steered them in the direction from which they had come. “After Baron Cunningham spread such vicious gossip about me, I find myself distrusting everyone.”
Her candor pleased him, but the mention of Cunningham once more filled him with unanswered anger. Something had to be done about a blackguard who would stoop so low. Along with it, came guilt. For he had believed the gossip.
“And I am sorry for judging you before I knew you,” he returned.
He looked over just in time to catch her sending a small smile his way. “Thank you, Cam.”
It was not much, but as the sun glinted off the snow around them and the horses plodded back home, her use of his given name again at last rather felt like a victory.
The parlor game of the evening was snapdragon, but Eugie was not in the mood to attempt to rescue a raisin from a brandy-soaked flame and risk catching the sleeve of her gown on fire in the process. Instead, she had wandered to the library, where pine boughs had been liberally hung in preparation for Christmas Day. A fire crackled merrily in the massive hearth, and braces of candles and chandeliers brightened the room with a warm glow.
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