“Lord Aylesford,” she said coolly, “I insist you conduct yourself with proper decorum.”
“You insist, do you?” He grinned, and it was decidedly roguish.
Knowing.
She would have taken a step backward in retreat, but she was afraid it would seem a weakness to him. As if she could not stay within his hold and remain impervious.
When she could.
Her spine stiffened. “Yes, I insist. Your plot will not work, and nor will it come to fruition. You would do well to foist yourself upon some other unsuspecting lady at this house party. Surely, there are others who would do just as well.”
“I am foisting myself on you, am I?” he asked, his grin disappearing.
Still, he did not release her.
And she wished his masculine scent of musk and amber and bay rum did not affect her quite so strongly.
“Can you doubt it?” she returned, her hands settling upon his upper arms.
A mistake, as it turned out, for they were well-formed. Muscled and strong. Shelikedthe way they felt beneath her touch.
“I doubt it very much,” he insisted. “If you were not interested, you would not have met me here in the library when I asked. Nor would you linger. Admit it. I tempt you.”
His grin was back in place. Only, this time, it was not so much a grin as a taunting smirk.
“You do nothing of the sort.” She attempted to fix her most fearsome frown upon her face. “As I said, you would be better served to find some other, far less intelligent and far more unfortunate female than I to play the role you seek, my lord. I have neither the time nor the desire to suffer your games.”
“Prove me wrong, then,” he dared her, his tone as provoking as his smirk. “Kiss me.”
“Kiss you,” she repeated, still clutching him as if he were saving her from plunging headlong over the edge of a cliff.
And perhaps, in a sense, he was.
“Yes.” He raised a brow. “Kiss me and show me you are altogether unmoved. A veritable fortress. Kiss me and tell me then you are not tempted.”
There was only one thing more foolish than agreeing to a clandestine meeting with a rakehell like Viscount Aylesford at a Christmas country house party. Only one thing madder than staying in his arms rather than fleeing.
That would be pressing her lips to his.
She stared at his mouth and swallowed, wondering—for the briefest of moments—what it would feel like against hers. Then she banished the unworthy curiosity. She had never been the Winter sister who longed for romance or swooned over men with wicked reputations. What was she doing here?
Run, said Pragmatic Grace.
But her pride would not allow her to go just yet, for the heated manner in which the viscount was looking upon her could not be missed. He expected her to kiss him and become so overwhelmed, she would agree to his madcap plan.
He was about to discover that Grace Winter was not to be dallied with, and that in a battle of wills, she would always emerge the victor.
She rose on her toes and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek. And drat him for the slight bristle of his whiskers that sent heat coursing through her. And drat him doubly for the delicious scent of him, which she very much feared would follow her like a ghost.
Feigning a smile she did not feel, she disengaged from him. “There you are, my lord. You have had your kiss. As you can see, I remain utterly unmoved. Good evening.”
Liar, taunted her inner devil.
Her heart seemed to thud with the resonance of it, faster now than ever.Li-ar. Li-ar. Li-ar.
She dipped into a frantic curtsy and did not bother to wait to hear his response before fleeing from the library and all the restless urges inside her that told her not to go.
Chapter Two
