“Grace,” he prompted, his voice thick with the desire burning inside him. “The choice is yours. Agree to be my feigned betrothed, or I will give the book to your brother. If you say yes, I will return the book to you at the conclusion of our betrothal, and no one will ever know your wicked little secret.”
No one except for Rand, that was.
And he did not think he would ever be able to expunge from his mind the image of Grace Winter reading a bawdy book. Poring over an engraving of a man with his head between the thighs of a lusty lady. Or a lady with her lips wrapped around a man’s cock. Or for that matter, the fantasy of Grace Winter’s pouty pink lips wrapped aroundhisaching cock.
Her stare jerked to his, and even this shared connection took his breath. Made him ache. Made him long for more.
“You promise to give me the book at the conclusion of the ruse?” she asked.
“Our betrothal,” he corrected, noting the fashion in which she referred to his proposal.
“At the conclusion of this farce you have authored,” she corrected, giving her eyes a dramatic roll heavenward.
As if she were frustrated with him.
When she was the one who was making him desperate for her, merely by her presence in his chamber.Christ, the scent of her would linger after she left. Summer blossoms and Grace.
Bloody delicious.
“I promise to give you the book at the end of our betrothal,” he agreed, “or however you wish to refer to it. In return, you will agree to be my bride until I no longer have need of your assistance.”
“Until Tyre Abbey is yours,” she said, her gaze traveling once more. Dipping to his abdomen. Then lower. “How long do you think it will be? Days? Weeks?”
His cock was straining against the fall of his breeches.
“As long as it takes, Grace,” he rasped with great effort.
The capacity for thought was fast fleeing him.
“Perhaps we should put a time limit upon my assistance,” she suggested then.
If she didn’t leave the chamber soon, his ability to resist taking her in his arms and kissing her senseless would be utterly nonexistent. As it was, he was calling upon every bit of his restraint.
“Perhaps you should say yes and return to your chamber where you belong before I completely disrobe,” he countered, gritting his teeth. “Unless you wish to see my c—”
“No!” she squeaked. “I am going, my lord. I will agree to be your feigned betrothed in exchange for the return of my book.”
He watched her flee from his chamber as if Cerberus were at her heels.
And as the door clicked closed on her retreating form, a river of regret flooded him. He rather wished she had stayed.
Chapter Four
“He still hasthe book?” Pru asked the next day as they met in the library following breakfast.
Grace sighed. “Yes.”
But she was not certain which was worse: the fact that she had given in and agreed to Lord Aylesford’s scheme, or the fact that he had been pressing his cause by taking off his clothes.
She felt an ache deep within her even now, the next day, when he was nowhere in sight. Only a wall of books and her older sister about. He had been disrobing. And he had been beautiful.
One thing was certain: engravings on a page were no comparison to Viscount Aylesford in flesh and blood. He was all lean, powerful man. His abdomen had been accented by sinews and muscles, his chest broad and strong. The sight of him in nothing more than his breeches, which had clung lovingly to his strong thighs, had been enough to make her weak.
“And you have agreed to this plan of his, to pretend to be his betrothed, in exchange for his returning the book?” Pru persisted thoughtfully.
“I have,” she admitted, still aggrieved with herself for her cowardly display the night before.
Still irked quite mightily by her reaction to the diabolical man.
