“Mmm?” One of her glossy auburn curls had slipped free of her coiffure, and he became mesmerized by it now. The hand on her waist slid slowly up her back, following the elegant line of her spine. The other brushed the curl from her cheek, his fingers lingering on her jaw. “What did I say?”
She did not shrug away from his touch, and he was thankful for it, because her skin was soft and warm and rich. She smelled of an English garden. A host of blossoms in summer. The sudden urge to taste the creamy flesh of her throat struck him. He had never been the sort to nibble on a lady’s neck. But Grace Winter’s neck was perfection. He did not think he had ever seen one finer. Just below her left ear, she bore a heart-shaped beauty mark that called for his lips.
Oh yes, he could consume her. For all that she was a virginal miss, she was utterly delectable. The notion of debauching her held more appeal than taking her as his feigned betrothed did in that moment. Which was saying a great deal, because Rand wanted Tyre Abbey, and he wanted it now.
“You said you were hungry…forme.” The last word emerged from her as little more than a whisper.
“I never said I was going to kiss you,” he countered.
She caught that luscious lower lip of hers between her teeth, revealing her uncertainty. “But you said I could be eaten.”
Damnation, he was not prepared for the almost violent surge of lust her words produced in him. Was he so much of a rakehell that the notion of despoiling an innocent, of hearing her utter wicked things, made his prick go hard?
If she only knew what she was saying. What she was doing to him.
He cupped her cheek. “Do you know what I think, Grace Winter?”
She was worrying her lip once more, and he was jealous of those teeth. He wanted to nip that lip himself. “I did not give you leave to call me by my given name, Lord Aylesford.”
No, she had not. And neither had she given him leave to take her in his arms or to touch her as he was now. But she had not pushed away from him or told him to stop, either. And her eyes had darkened. Her pupils were wide, obsidian discs. She was breathless. He knew enough about women to know when one wanted him, and this one most assuredly did.
Of course she did, said his rakish self-assurance. He had never wooed a woman who had not wanted him.
But still, there was a connection between them.
She felt it. Heknewit. And now, she was going to pay for telling him he ought to eat pie, the minx.
“I think youwantme to kiss you,” he told her. “That is what I think.”
Grace stared upinto Viscount Aylesford’s unfairly handsome face. She had been having a great deal of fun at his expense. But somehow along the way, things had changed. She was flustered. Overheated. The fire in the library had not been banked properly by one of the domestics.
Or perhaps she had caught a lung infection and she was feverish.
Had she contracted some sort of nefarious ague?
Her mind stumbled over itself in an effort to find an explanation to the sensations coursing through her. All of them unwanted.
Think of the look of indignation on his beautiful face when you told him to eat pie, suggested Pragmatic Grace.
Let him kiss you, urged some inner devil she would not even lower herself to name.
That inner devil couldgoto the devil, as far as she was concerned, and it could take the rakehell before her with it.
He was looking at her, his expression almost triumphant. As if he had won. As if he had bested her. Of course, he had managed to rout her attack with his wicked brand of charm, and she had allowed him to gain the upper hand, even if momentarily. Oh, how insufferable the man was. Were all rakes this certain of themselves? This irritatingly lovely to look upon?
“I do not want you to kiss me,” she snapped at him. “Unhand me, if you please. I have already told you I shall not be a part of your scheme to feign a betrothal between us.”
“Grace,” he said slowly. His thumb swiped over her lower lip.
The pad of his thumb, nothing more.
And she was aflame. That lone movement sent her crashing into a wall of heat. If her gown burst into searing licks of fire, she would not be at all surprised. What was it about this man’s presence, his touch, that so undid her? Was it a rakish talent he had learned, or was it some wickedness he had been born with?
Dear heavens, what was wrong with her?
She broke herself free of his sensual spell and swatted at his hand as if he were an irritating bee buzzing about her on a lazy summer’s day. The only trouble was, he was nothing at all like a bee, because she had never been entranced by such a creature. And she was drawn to the viscount in a way she ought not to be. She needed to gird herself against his silver tongue. Against his blinding masculinity.
Of course, such a man would be sure of himself. Doubtlessly, no woman had ever looked upon him and found fault. He was just that singularly glorious to behold. But he was also an arrogant oaf, and an aristocrat, and for that combination, she could not forgive him.
