Indeed, she did not have to tell him. For he knew. They would be forced to wed. Though he was averse to the parson’s mousetrap, he could not deny there was something about the notion of being forever connected to Grace that left him pleased.
So pleased.
Perhaps he was going mad?
If he was, madness had never felt so right. Nor so tempting.
“What if I do not want to go?” he asked, taking a grand risk. Because he wanted Grace Winter. Wanted her when he should not.
“Why would you not wish to go?” she asked, sounding almost desperate. “There is no reason for you to stay. We are not betrothed in truth. Nor would we ever suit…”
“We would never suit?” he asked.
He would beg to differ. They suited. They suited far too well.
Her eyes went wide once more. “Lord Aylesford, I must insist you relent.”
“Grace Winter,” he countered, “I must insist you refer to me by my given name. It is Rand. Try it upon your sweet pink lips. Go on, see if it fits.”
The sweet pink lips in question pursed, the epitome of disapproval. “My lord.”
“Rand,” he countered.
“Lord Aylesford,” she said pointedly. “You must leave.”
“Kiss me first,” he dared her. “Kiss me and then tell me I must go.”
The color in her cheeks deepened as he had known it would.
“I have no desire to kiss you,” she said coolly.
He would have argued the point, for he knew a bloody prevarication when he heard one, but he did not. Because in the next instant, there was a knock sounding at her door. Slow and soft. But insistent.
Damn it to hell.
Their gazes met and held. Perhaps someone had overheard their low dialogue. He half expected Devereaux Winter to be at the door.
“Answer,” he whispered.
“Yes?” Grace called out, her tone remarkably calm.
“Miss Winter, do you need my aid?” queried a female voice from the hall. “You failed to ring for me, so I thought it best to come to you this evening.”
Rand found himself suddenly, ridiculously jealous of the lady’s maid who helped Grace to disrobe. Still, he was relieved it was not her irate, ham-fisted brother at the door.
“I do not need anything, Carlson,” Grace called in a pleasant tone. “Thank you, but you are dismissed for the evening.”
“As you wish, Miss Winter,” said the servant from the other side of the door.
The sounds of her footsteps fading into the distance fell heavily between Rand and Grace. They had nearly been caught. One wrong word, one wrong move, and their secret would have been revealed.
The moment made him feel alive. A heady rush washed over him. His heart was pounding.
“There now,” he said softly when no traces of movement could be heard in the hall beyond. “Where were we? Oh, yes, I recall. You were just about to kiss me.”
Chapter Eight
Grace stared atViscount Aylesford, his words echoing through every part of her body, making her wicked. Making her weak.
