The bawdy book currently in his possession.
What Devereaux Winter did not know could not hurt him.
Winter gave a short nod. “If Grace confirms what you have told me, I see no reason to deny the betrothal. But know this, Aylesford: if you ever hurt her, if you ever make her cry, I will come after you.”
Relief filled him. Not at Winter’s threat, of course. But at his capitulation.
Victory would soon be his.
And not long after that, Tyre Abbey.
All whilst managing to escape the lifelong pain of the parson’s mousetrap.
He grinned at Devereaux Winter. “I can assure you, I will never make her cry.”
Winter remained as forbidding as an executioner. “I will see that you do not, my lord. Trust me on that score.”
“You are certainthis is what you want, my dear?” asked Grace’s sister-in-law, Lady Emilia Winter.
They were in the yellow salon, surrounded by pastoral landscapes and the winter’s sunshine filtering into the room through the westward-facing windows. The viscount had apparently wasted no time in seeking out Dev to ask for her hand, once he had been assured of her cooperation.
She loathed being dishonest.
Detested misleading Dev and Emilia.
But Lord Aylesford—that handsome, unrepentant scoundrel—hadThe Tale of Love. And she had no choice but to carry on with his plan.
To be fair, his plan was not entirely despicable. She had not been pleased with her brother’s attempts at securing a match for her. Some part of her rejoiced at the notion of becoming betrothed. It would provide her with a respite from the attentions of suitors at the house party. Most of them were fortune hunters. All of them seemed to want to marry a Winter for the wrong reason.
“Grace, dearest,” prodded Lady Emilia. “You did not answer my question. Are you certain marrying Lord Aylesford is what you want?”
Of course not. But she was not marrying him anyway.
“Yes,” she said, pinning a smile to her lips that she hoped was bright and convincing. And deliriously happy.
She was doing her best to imitate the expression Lady Emilia wore whenever she spoke of Dev. Even if it made her want to gag, just a bit.
“Are you in love with Lord Aylesford?” her sister-in-law asked next.
“Of course,” she lied again. “He is so very charming and handsome. How could I fail to fall in love with him?”
“You seem the least likely of all your sisters to fall prey to a rake’s charm,” Lady Emilia observed. “If I am doubtful, that is the only reason.”
“You think Lord Aylesford is nothing more than a charming rake?” she asked before she could think better of the question.
In truth it mattered not.
She was not even wedding the viscount in truth.
This was all false. Feigned. Pretend.
One big deception, dreamt up by the silver-tongued devil in question.
“I think Lord Aylesford is exceedingly handsome,” Lady Emilia said with great deliberation, “and that he may easily turn a lady’s head. He will also make an excellent match for you, as he stands to become the next Duke of Revelstoke. However, I cannot help but to be concerned that his lordship will break your heart. His reputation is questionable.”
His chest, however, was not. It was delectable. Indeed, Grace could think of no other word to sufficiently describe it. And she had thought of precious little else ever since. Every other thought consisted of Lord Aylesford sans shirt, waistcoat, and cravat. Wearing nothing but those well-fitted breeches…
Grace wisely refrained from saying so, however. It was altogether inappropriate, anyway. She could never admit she had been alone in the viscount’s chamber with him. That he had begun disrobing before her.
