His gaze searched hers. “I have never disliked the wordfeignedmore than I do now.”
Her breath caught in spite of herself. “And yet, that is the truth of our circumstances, is it not? Eventually, our betrothal must come to an end, and you and I will part ways.”
His lips tightened. “That is the truth, yes.”
“Will you ever marry?” she asked him on a rush, before she could withhold the question.
He said nothing for a time, the silence stretching between them so long she feared he would not answer. And yet, for all the quiet, he still remained at her side, their bodies touching from hip to shoulder. He still held her chin captive. Nor had he left her bed.
“I do not know the answer to that,” he admitted at last, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “I suspect I will need to one day, to carry on the Revelstoke title. For now, it is a needless concern as my father, the duke, is hale and hearty.”
For some reason, the notion of him marrying someone else, a nameless, faceless lady no doubt born to nobility and bred to be a duchess, irked Grace. Even though she knew it should not. Even though she had known, all along, that her betrothal to Rand was feigned. Even though she had not even wanted to be betrothed to him.
Little wonder ladies lost their hearts to rakes.
She had thought herself made of sterner stuff than this. But she was as weak-willed as anyone after a handsome man turned up in her chamber and made her drunk on pleasure.
Not just any handsome man, said that horrid voice inside her, the one which never relented.Rand.
“Were you dreaming of me, earlier?” she asked next, because it would seem there was no limit to her foolishness and recklessness this evening.
She had ruined herself. Allowed a man who was not her husband—who was not even her real betrothed—to undress her and take her to bed. To make love to her with his mouth.
And his tongue.
Her cheeks flushed.
“Yes,” he told her. “If you must know, I was dreaming about you, Grace.”
And then he did another thing most unlike a feigned betrothed. He tenderly brushed a tendril of hair away from her cheek and kept his hand there, caressing her as if she were precious to him. As if she were someone important.
Someone, even, he cared for.
“I know you were,” she confessed before she could think better of the revelation.
He raised a brow. “How do you know that?”
“You were saying my name,” she admitted. “When I first came into the chamber. You were saying my name and…”
“And?” he prompted, his tone going wicked once more.
All her good intentions faded. The heat inside her that had never died roared back into a pulsing, raging flame.
“And you were touching your…” She paused, allowing her words to trail off, not certain she could say the word aloud. It was too wrong.
“My?”
“Your prick,” she said on a rush.
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. “Say it again.”
She bit her lip, hesitating.
“Damn, Grace, you are not making it easy to remain honorable.”
“Prick,” she said.
He groaned softly. “I like it when you say naughty words. And when you bite your lip. And when you look at me that way.”
