“What way?” she asked, even though she knew she ought not.
“As if you want me to debauch you.”
His words made a new wave of desire wash over her. The flesh he had brought to life seemed to be the center of her being. She was pulsing, aching. From nothing more than a sentence from him coupled with a ravenous look.
Because shedidwant him to debauch her.
Heaven help her, she wanted Viscount Aylesford—Rand—to debauch her in every way. But that would be more foolish than allowing him to remain in her chamber. More foolish than kissing him and letting him kiss her between her thighs.
“Maybe I do,” she said.
After all, she did not ever need to marry anyone, in spite of her brother’s aspirations for her. When she came into her majority, a sizeable portion of the Winter fortune would be hers. She could live as she wished. Not tending to orphans as Pru longed, and not as anaccoucheusebringing babies into the world as Bea wanted. She had not yet seized upon her path in life.
But when she found it, she would know, she was sure.
“Bloody hell, Grace,” he growled, and then his lips were on hers. He kissed her long and deep and hard.
There was a new undercurrent to this meeting of mouths, an acknowledgment of what had passed between them. She tasted herself on his lips and tongue. It was at once both shocking and erotic. If he wanted to debauch her thoroughly all night long, she would not offer up one word of protest.
She ought to feel shame, and she knew it. But she could not summon up a modicum of it. All she knew was the vibrant, fiery need for him.
But he broke the kiss sooner than she would have liked, and without rolling atop her and stripping her of the counterpane as a wicked part of her had hoped he might. Instead, he pressed his forehead to hers, his breathing ragged.
“A new bargain is in order, it would seem,” he said.
“Oh?” she asked.
“I will debauch you.”
The dark promise in his voice was undeniable. But he had saidbargain, had he not? Which meant he wanted something in return.
“And what do you require of me?” she dared.
He appeared to ponder her query before deciding upon his price. “A favor.”
“Just one?”
“Yes.” He kissed the tip of her nose.
“What is the favor you seek?” she could not help but to question. After all, it would be foolish indeed to agree to any sort of bargain with him before she knew the precise details.
Would it not?
What would be the harm?The voice inside her—the one she ought to ignore, the one that did not belong to Pragmatic Grace—asked.
“I shall tell you when I decide upon it.” He disentangled himself from her and rose into a sitting position.
She rose as well, clutching the counterpane to her chest, hating for him to go. “That is hardly fair, my lord.”
“Rand,” he countered, “or no debauching.”
“Rand,” she agreed. Far faster than she ought to have. But her body had made her decision for her.
The curiosity he had brought to life needed to be answered.
By him. By Viscount Aylesford, jaded rake, handsome lord, wicked scoundrel, byRand, who kissed her and made her melt. No other man would do.
He dropped a hasty kiss on her lips. “I must go now, for lingering here is a risk I dare not take. After all, we have tomorrow.”
