The hour waslate. The night was cold.
But Rand found himself outside, in the snow-covered gardens, just the same. Smoking a cigar. Pacing through the holly bushes. Wondering at his decisions. Confounded and elated and desperately wanting Miss Grace Winter all at once.
He puffed on his cigar, blowing smoke into the moon-bathed sky. The little clouds drifted heavenward, leaving him behind, mired as ever in his thoughts.
The entertainment of the evening had been a ball.
During which, Mr. Deveraux Winter had announced the impending nuptials of Rand and Miss Grace Winter.
He finally had secured his feigned betrothed, just as he had wanted.
And he had danced with Grace. They had taken their turn about the ballroom, but it had felt all wrong. As wrong as the announcement had felt. As wrong as every word of congratulations had felt. She had been somber and cool.
Something had nettled, deep within him.
Something that resonated even now, as he stood alone, in the unseasonably cold night air.
Something that felt a whole lot like guilt.
The unmistakable crunch of a footfall on snow behind him had him turning about. But the figure moving toward him was not masculine as he had supposed—a fellow gentleman seeking some night air after the ball’s conclusion. So many dancers whirling beneath the chandeliers, coupled with negus and freely flowing wine, meant all the revelers had been flushed and overheated. Rand had been no different.
Unless he was mistaken, however, the shadowy form moving toward him was distinctly female. And familiar. All too familiar.
“Grace?” he asked.
“Lord Aylesford,” she greeted in that husky voice of hers, which alone was enough to have his cock twitching to attention. “What is that wretched smell?”
Well, that was rather lowering. But his cock did not appear to mind.
“My cigar,” he said, grinning at her cheek, the saucy wench. “What are you doing out here alone?”
“I am not alone,” she returned, moving nearer, until the moon illuminated her sparkling eyes and her lovely heart-shaped face. “I am with you, my lord.”
“All the more dangerous for you and your reputation,” he countered, taking another long drag from his cigar before puffing it into the sky.
“Surely you are not any more dangerous to me now than you were before,” she countered, tilting her head back.
Her lips were delineated in the moonlight, luscious and full. Those lips had been taunting him all night long. Calling to him. Asking him to claim them. He did not think he had ever wanted to kiss a woman more.
Instead, he continued on with the cigar. Because he knew that if he kissed her once, he would not stop. And if he did not stop, he would be facing far greater problems than convincing his grandmother to surrender Tyre Abbey.
“It is unwise to be alone with a man, Grace,” he told her softly. “Especially when that man is me.”
“But you are my betrothed,” she protested, a tinge of bitterness in her tone.
“And if we are caught together, we will be forced to wed.” He inhaled once more, wondering why the notion of marrying Grace did not fill him with as much trepidation as he might have supposed it would.
She shivered. “That would indeed be a dreadful fate. Point well taken, my lord. I have taken all the air I need, especially since it is putrefied with the acrid scent of your cigar. If you will excuse me…”
She dipped into a hasty little curtsy.
But before she could flee, he caught her elbow in a tender grasp, staying her.
“A dreadful fate, Grace?” he repeated, her words nettling him in spite of himself.
To say nothing of her condemnation of his cigar. The wine had not been enough this evening, and sometimes when he needed to clear his head, a cigar was just the thing to bring him clarity and calm.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Dreadful. I cannot imagine being shackled to a rake such as yourself, Lord Aylesford.”
