“Must I, though?” He flashed her a lazy grin that made a frisson lick down her spine.
Even dissolute, likely half in his cups, and trespassing in her chamber where he decidedly did not belong, the man was irresistible. And he knew it, which made her reaction to him all the more maddening.
“Yes, you must go now,” she told him, shaking the spell he cast upon her from her mind. “Make haste, and do not allow anyone to see you. I refuse to allow myself to be forced into marrying a reprobate who has cozened me into accepting a feigned betrothal.”
“A reprobate, am I?” He frowned at her, still looking flushed and sleepy and oh-so-alluring. “A cozening reprobate?”
Well, perhaps she was being a trifle harsh. But in fairness, she was desperate to distract him by how discomfited his presence in her chamber left her. And she was equally desperate to see him out of her chamber before the temptation he presented got the better of her.
Before she lost control and joined him on the bed. Before she kissed him again.
“A scoundrel,” she amended. “But still, a scoundrel who must leave.”
He stretched his arms over his head. “But this bed is so deuced comfortable, Grace. And I confess, waking up to your lovely face is dashed enjoyable. I could grow accustomed to this.”
She flushed to the roots of her hair; she swore she did. There was something so intimate about the notion of Aylesford waking up to her face…it meant they were in bed. Together. And that other things—wicked things, the sort of things she had only read about inThe Tale of Loveor heard about from the talk with Lady Emilia—had happened.
There was that awful, burning curiosity roaring to life inside her once more.
The curiosity she had turned tothebook to quell.
The very book Aylesford had thieved. She must not forget about that.
“You had best not grow accustomed to it,” she snapped, shoving rudely at his shoulder once more. “You will most certainly not be making a habit of sneaking into my chamber and falling asleep in my bed. Do get up, Aylesford.”
“Careful,” he cautioned, rubbing his shoulder where she had pushed at his immovable form. “I am a delicate flower. I bruise easily, you know. And if I am bruised, you shall have to kiss me and make it better.”
She glared at him even as the thought of kissing his bare shoulder sent heat sliding through her veins. “You do not resemble a flower in the slightest, my lord. Right now, you resemble nothing so much as a rake who has invaded my chamber quite against my will. And neither will I be kissing you ever again.”
Her gaze lowered to his mouth of its own accord.
Fair enough. Perhaps that was a lie. She certainlywantedto kiss him again. Mayhap just once more. To remove him from her mind for good.
“Never?” he asked, giving her a sly grin. “Do not make vows you cannot keep, Grace love. Those kisses in the gardens last night are making a liar of you.”
The kisses in the gardens.
How could she have forgotten she was vexed with him?
Her lips tightened. She gave him another swat. “Do not remind me of my folly. Move, Lord Aylesford. The hour is growing late and the chance of you being discovered here greater with each second you linger.”
“The kisses in the gardens are the reason I sought you out,” he said, his teasing air vanishing. He rose into a sitting position, swinging his long legs to the floor. “You have been avoiding me all day.”
Yes, she had.
As much out of irritation for his assumption as fear she would be too tempted again.
“You accused me of having another suitor meet me in the gardens and intending to make a fool of you,” she pointed out.
He winced. “Forgive me, Grace. I was a lout, and I know it. I have no excuse save that I was once played false.”
He rose to his towering height then. The magnetism he exuded was so potent, she had to take a step back in retreat.
Just one, before she held her ground. “You were played false, my lord?”
“I was.” His expression turned grim, the soft lines of slumber faded now. “A long time ago.”
Someone had broken his heart, it would seem.
