But she had never felt more alive than she did now, beneath the wintry moon, the cold such a stark contrast to the fire heating her blood.Shehad kissedhim. Or perhaps he had kissed her first? The moment had been so raw and visceral, awash with sensation, she could not be sure. Even now, her wits were jumbled, the only coherent thought rattling about in her mindhim.
Whichever of them had sealed their fates, it had been a mistake, she was sure. But he had been so determined to warn her off, and since he had stolen the book from her, all attempts at putting a halt to the disturbing way he made her feel had failed.
This was his fault, really, she told herself.
And in fairness, he had made the announcement first. What was she to have done? Grace Winter did not flee from adversity.
The kiss changed. It deepened. He spun her around, and suddenly, her back was against the base of the statue of Apollo, which had been presiding over them. They were nestled between twin ivy hedges sculpted like obelisks. Trapped by his big body and with the surrounding foliage of the evergreens, she no longer felt the bite of the wind.
Instead, all she felt was him. His chest—the wall of muscle she had not been able to cease thinking about ever since she had first seen it the evening before—was flush against her breasts. He surrounded her. And then, he consumed her.
His lips were knowing, slanting over hers. She opened beneath his sensual onslaught, and his tongue swept inside her mouth. She had never before been kissed, but she understood now why Christabella would swoon over the affections of a rake.
If every rake kissed the way Lord Aylesford did, she would happily spend each and every day being kissed silly.
At least, that was the way she felt now, in the madness of the moonlight, snow swirling around them, buffeted by holly bushes and midnight velvet sky overhead. That was the way she felt, in this man’s arms, his mouth upon hers. Not even the cold winter’s air could sway her.
Not even her rational mind. Not even her natural distrust of all noblemen in general and all rakes in particular. Not even the sure knowledge that Lord Aylesford was wrong for her, that he was only using her in order to obtain a property. That their betrothal, like this kiss, was fleeting, nothing more than a chimera.
But then, everything altered once more.
Because his hand slid beneath the layers of his coat and the cloak she had hastily donned before slipping into the darkened gardens. And he found her breast. Cupped it gently, rubbed his thumb over her nipple.
New heat sparked to life, traveling from the distended peak of her breast straight to the forbidden place between her thighs. A steady ache—the same that had plagued her whenever she thought of the viscount—turned into a pulsing throb.
A sound tore from her throat, and before she knew it, she was behaving in the same fashion as one of the ladies inThe Tale of Love. She was arching her back, seeking more of that divine contact. Needing more of the pleasure he promised.
Kisses like this were why respectable ladies were ruined. Why sin was so promising a lure. Why resisting rakehells proved impossible for so many, despite all the warnings and tales of woe.
Grace kissed him back, learning from him how to move her lips in unison with his. She even dared to flick her tongue into his mouth once. And then again, because he groaned, and pressed her closer. And because the telling rise of his manhood was pressing against her belly.
She thought for a wild beat that she would not mind being wed to Aylesford. That surely there would be worse fates than tethering herself to a man who kissed so sweetly, who turned her body into flame by the mere touch of his lips to hers.
But then, another gust of wind hit them from nowhere, and suddenly, the last voice she wanted to hear severed the moment.
Her brother’s.
“Grace!” her brother called. “Are you out here?”
She wanted to ignore him. To pretend she had not heard.
But Aylesford had heard it as well, and she knew it when he stiffened and tore his mouth from hers. His breathing was harsh, falling over her lips. Such warmth in comparison to the cold. Their eyes met and held.
“Grace!” called Dev. “It is too deuced cold for you to be out in the gardens on a night like this.”
“Bloody hell,” the viscount cursed. “Who is calling you, Grace? Another suitor? I will not have you making a fool of me during our betrothal. If that is your aim, you may as well cry off in the morning.”
Indignation rose within her, swift and strong, chasing the dangerous desire which had been humming through her. She stepped away from Aylesford, wishing she had not fallen prey to his kisses quite so easily. Forcing herself to recall his impossibly large sense of his own attraction.
“It is my brother, you bounder,” she whispered. “Stay here and say nothing. I will go to him.”
“Grace,” he protested, reaching for her, regret coloring his voice.
“Hush,” she hissed, sidestepping him once more. “If you alert him to your presence, my brother’s wrath will be the least of your worries.”
How dare he suppose she would become betrothed to him—albeit a feigned betrothal—and then meet multiple suitors in the gardens? Why, did he not know it was winter? And snowing? And the midst of the night? No sane person would go about dallying in the gardens with multiple men on such an evening.
Indeed, no sane person would go about dallying in the gardens with one man on such an evening. Particularly a handsome rakehell with the devil’s own reputation. Which meant she was mad.
