“My lord,” she said to the earl. “Forgive me, but I have a headache. I was about to seek my chamber and have a restoring nap.”
“Oh?” He eyed her, his gaze raking her form in a fashion that was far more familiar than it had been before.
She liked it.
“Yes, I was,” she said stupidly.
Because he was looking at her with such intensity she could scarcely form a coherent word. Fire burned to life within her. And there was his mouth, that perfectly formed masterpiece she had not been able to stop thinking about after she had last felt it moving against hers.
She had told Grace the kiss had been passable.What rot.Nothing she had ever experienced in her life deserved to be described in such an unenthusiastic fashion less.
“Allow me to escort you, my lady,” he offered, sounding perfectly polite.
An utter gentleman.
But no gentleman escorted a lady to her chamber. She may be a wicked Winter, but she knew the rules. She knew propriety. Lady Emilia had made certain of it.
She ought to deny him. Tell him she was fine. To leave her alone.
She opened her mouth. “Very well,” said her traitorous tongue. “To the west wing, if you please. That shall be far enough.”
It was a tradeoff, of sorts, she supposed. A nod to propriety, however small.
And then her equally traitorous hand settled upon the crook of his elbow, and off they went, into the intricate web of Abingdon House halls.
Cam was behavingvery much out of character for himself, and he knew it. But he had not been able to excise the taunting, dulcet voice of Miss Eugie Winter from his mind after inadvertently playing the eavesdropper the day before.
It was passable, I suppose.
Passable?
Shesupposed?
The words still nettled. It was those words, he told himself, and surely not the desire to feel her lips beneath his once more, that had set him upon the ruinous path down which he now marched. Her hand upon his arm was as light as a butterfly, and yet he felt it through the layers of his coat and shirt like a brand.
Her scent invaded his senses like a charging cavalry brigade.Christ, she smelled like a hothouse in verdant bloom. Floral, rich, and exotic.
Desire, unwanted and fierce, surged through him. His breeches were suddenly too tight as he strode at her side, and he could honestly say he had never in all his thirty years gotten a cockstand whilst promenading with a lady.
Until today.
But Eugie Winter was no lady, as her reputation proved. Nothing had made that more apparent than her forward behavior yesterday in the garden, when she had all but flung herself into his arms and kissed him. To say nothing of the plan she had revealed to her sister in the library. Kissing every gentleman in attendance, indeed.
The reminder filled him with a rush of possessiveness so strong and unexpected, he directed them through the nearest door. As it happened, the chamber was thankfully unoccupied. A cursory glance suggested it was a writing room.
“Lord Hertford,” she protested, “what are you doing? I thought you were escorting me to the west wing.”
He closed the door at their backs and took her in his arms. Never mind her arms slid around his neck as if that were where they belonged. He did his best to ignore the delicious swell of her breasts crushing into his chest. Her eyes widened. The lashes were long and thick.
He thought of her in another man’s arms like this. In that scoundrel Lord Ashley’s arms, whom she had been following when he had interrupted her and her ludicrous plan both. And then he remembered his own plan, the one he had formed in the darkness of his chamber last night whilst he had been plagued by thoughts of her lush lips.
He was going to give her the best damned kiss of her life.
A kiss to make her swoon.
A kiss she would never forget.
“I have heard,” he told her, his voice low, “the best cure for a headache is a kiss. Mayhap we ought to try it. I should hate to see you suffer, my dear Miss Winter.”
