Rand had been careful to maintain a respectable distance between them for propriety’s sake, even if the hour was late and there was nothing at all proper about arranging for a clandestine meeting with the unwed sister of his host. But he was not accustomed to doing anything the proper way. He was a scapegrace, it was true, and besides, everyone knew the rules of London eased at country house parties.
Did they not?
He decided they did. They had to. Especially when a man was as desperate as he was. And as irritated.
“Pie,” he repeated, stalking toward her. “You recommend I eat pie, Miss Winter?”
She stiffened as he neared her, but she did not retreat, and nor did her goading smile fade. “I do, Lord Aylesford.”
He stopped only when he was close enough for her gown to billow against his breeches. Her green eyes flared, and he noted the flecks of gray and gold in their vibrant depths. At this proximity, in the warm glow of the lone candle brace illuminating them, her auburn locks seemed as if they were aflame. And damn her, she was beautiful in an unconventional way. Tempting. Need roared to life inside him, sending an arrow of lust straight to his hardening cock.
“I am not hungry for pie,” he told her softly.
And now, he was forgetting all the reasons he must maintain his distance. Forgetting he could not afford to compromise her if he wanted to remain free of the parson’s mousetrap. Forgetting he wanted her to agree to become his feigned betrothed, and that none of this—the way he had been courting her at the house party, the way he felt now—was real.
Think of Tyre Abbey, he reminded himself. The wealthy Scottish estate would be his upon his betrothal, thanks to his grandmother, the dowager duchess’ stipulation. He would convince Miss Winter to agree to his plan one way or another.
He had to.
“What are you hungry for then, my lord?” she returned, her gaze dipping to his lips.
His honed rake’s instincts told him Miss Grace Winter was not as unaffected by him as she pretended. Not if the way her lips had parted, the sudden huskiness in her tone, and the manner in which she had swayed toward him just now were any indication.
Perhaps the means to convince her of the wisdom of his plan was not words at all.
“You,” he said, and then he drew her soft body against his.
Her hands came between them, twin shields uniting to keep him from his prize.
“I am not something which can be eaten,” she argued mulishly.
He could not keep himself from grinning. “I beg to differ, my dear.”
Oh, how delightfully innocent she was. Seducing a virgin was more entertaining than he had imagined it could be. Not that Rand was seducing her, mind you. He was merely inducing her to agree with him. To see the infinite wisdom of his flawless plan.
With the aid of his lips.
And perhaps tongue.
Her eyes narrowed and she gave him the most fetching scowl he had ever beheld. Most definitely with his tongue, he decided.
“I do not appreciate being laughed at, my lord,” she snapped. “Perhaps you ought to rethink your strategy for wooing unwilling females.”
“But surely you are not entirely unwilling,” he countered, his grin deepening, for he knew this to be true. Every sign, aside from her bewitching scowl, told him she was attracted to him.
That, and the fact that he had yet to ever encounter a female who was not. He could not help it. He had been born to sin, with a face and form every woman loved.
“I am most certainly opposed to your farcical scheme and foolish attempts at kissing me both.” Her lips pursed, as if she considered saying more, but forced herself to stop there.
Ah, amateur mistake.
She had revealed far too much.
“Who said I was going to kiss you, darling?” he asked, his grin subsiding as he stared deeply into her eyes.
They were the most riveting shade of green, he thought again. Deep and mysterious, like a dark, verdant forest.
She flushed. “You said…”
