The dream of the cottage and the roses—the cottage was made of limestone and it overlooked a meadow filled with wildflowers and dotted with the occasional cow—suddenly changed. She imagined herself sitting in a rocking chair, a babe in her arms.
A babe with the Earl of Hertford’s blade of a nose and proud chin.
And a strange, new warmth crept over her, from the inside out. Unfurling like the bud of a rose, tightly packed at first, before blossoming into a luscious burst of petals beneath the heat of the sun.
A mother.
She had never before thought of having a child. Of a babe growing in her womb. The prospect was not at all upsetting. Nor, to her dismay, was the thought of the earl as the child’s sire.
“Eugie,” he prodded, sidling nearer to her on the bed. Near enough he could find her left hand, which had been resting idly in her lap while the right held her bedclothes to her chin.
Their fingers tangled, and his skin was hot and smooth, his touch firm and reassuring. She ought to withdraw.
She did not.
“My babe could be growing within you now,” he said.
And she, fool that she was, laced her fingers tighter in his. Just for a moment. Just for a beat. Until she recalled he was a fortune hunter.
She withdrew her hand at last. “It does not signify. I will not wed you, Lord Hertford.”
“Cam.” His hazel gaze flitted over her face, studying her, searching, it seemed, for something.
She knew not what.
“Lord Hertford,” she repeated. “Remove yourself from my bed and from my chamber at once. You are not welcome here.”
“I am not going anywhere until you agree to become my countess.” His fingers stroked the top of her hand.
She liked the touch too much, so she delivered a sound little smack to him, as if she were a governess and he her naughty charge. “Do stop touching me, Hertford. I do not like it.”
A lie.
A blatant, horrible lie.
Because the weakness inside her could not resist this man for long, and she knew it. Which was why he had to get out of her chamber. Out of this wing. Out of Abingdon House altogether, if possible. Far away. She would send him to the moon if she could.
And even then, she would yearn for him.
What was wrong with her?He is a fortune hunter, she reminded herself.Pockets to let. Manipulating you. Making you feel cherished. Bedding you to force your hand. Think of the cottage, the roses.
She thought of the babe who looked like Cam.
Cam.
Yes, that was how she thought of him now. He had been inside her, after all. He had lain with her and given her pleasure she had never imagined existed. And now, he had invaded her chamber the way he had invaded her body.
“You do not like my touch?” he asked silkily.
And she realized, oh how she realized, that of all the prevarications she could have attempted with this man, she had chosen the worst. For it was a challenge. The gauntlet had been dropped.
There was no retrieving it now. So she tilted up her chin, meeting his gaze, and lied some more. “No.”
“Eugie.” His deep and delicious voice was knowing.
“I am Miss Winter to you,” she corrected. “And you must go.”
He did not go. Instead, he inched nearer. His long, strong leg was hooked at the knee, his breeches drawn tight. She would have been grateful he was fully dressed, wearing shirtsleeves and even a waistcoat and cravat, but for the loving fit of those breeches. She could see all of him.
