“No.” She was scowling at him again. “I would far prefer to suffer the headache, thank you.”
“You wound me to my soul,” he said.
But he was rather enjoying himself at her expense. Her reason for being in his chamber, and what she must have been looking for beneath his bed, hit him.The Tale of Love, that little bawdy book she was so intent upon regaining possession of.
“I did not suppose you had a soul,” she quipped then. “Black-hearted scoundrel that you are.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Whatever makes you think me a scoundrel? I am wounded all over again.”
Her eyes were on his throat, lingering there. “You are attempting to bribe me into becoming your feigned betrothed.”
He whipped off his cravat, discarding it somewhere over his shoulder. “I offered you an excellent bargain, Grace. Your cooperation in return for your bawdy book. An even exchange as it were.”
“Why do you need a feigned betrothed so badly?” she asked.
“Good of you to ask.” He shrugged off his coat, leaving him in only shirtsleeves and a waistcoat. “My grandmother, the dowager duchess, is requiring me to have a betrothed before she will allow me to take possession of Tyre Abbey.”
“Tyre Abbey,” she repeated.
He did not miss the way her gaze traveled over his shoulders.
Rand suppressed a grin and flicked open the buttons on his waistcoat. “An estate in Scotland. A wealthy one, but one that also has a great deal of meaning to me. I spent summers there as a lad.”
He removed his waistcoat, sending it the way of his coat and cravat. There was a fire in his blood, a heat that seared him wherever Grace’s eyes roamed.
And roam, they did. All over him.
Like a caress.
“Why are you disrobing, Lord Aylesford?” she asked.
“What else am I to do in my chamber?” he returned. “I am readying myself for slumber. You do not fancy I sleep in my clothes, do you?”
“But…” she sputtered.
“Grace Winter, bereft of speech?” he teased. “Let us mark this down in the annals of history.”
“Very entertaining, my lord.” Blushing furiously, she rose to her feet.
He followed suit, unfolding his legs to his full height. He towered over her. She was the perfect height for him. The air between them was heavy, tingling with a new awareness.
He found the short line of buttons on his lawn shirt, plucking them from their moorings. “Have you made your decision?”
“My decision?” she queried, her gaze upon the swath of chest he had revealed.
Lord, her eyes on him were making desire turn from a flame into a raging fire.
“Will you agree to be my feigned betrothed?” he pressed, reminding himself that he needed heryesmore than he needed her body.
More than he needed her lips beneath his.
Although, that was fast becoming a lie.
He grasped handfuls of his shirt and hauled it over his head. The shirt joined the rest of his garments he had already flung to the carpet. His love of sport had honed his muscles over the years, and he was well aware of the effect he had upon ladies, bereft of his clothes.
She did not answer his question. Her avid stare was consuming him.
He stepped toward her, prepared to take her in his arms. Everything in him cried out with want. He had thought he would seduce her into agreeing. That he would toy with her. Make her flush. Instead, he was losing control.
