“Tomorrow,” she repeated before she could even think better of the bargain she was agreeing to. Before sense or reason could weigh in and divert her from her course. “Yes.”
He gave her a beautiful, wicked grin. And then he rose from her bed. She could do nothing but admire the muscled plane of his back as he sauntered off in search of his shirt and waistcoat.
The man was the very devil, she was sure of it.
But being wicked had never felt so right.
Nor had anything in her life outside of being in his arms.
Chapter Nine
Rand was afool. That much was utterly certain.
He was also thinking with his cock rather than with his brain.
That was why, he told himself the next evening, he had once more slipped into Grace’s bedchamber. Why he was once more tempting fate. That was why he had returned for more of her, even when he knew he was putting his future in grave danger by sneaking into her chamber.
Also, why he had managed to wheedle some information about her from the servants belowstairs. His valet, Carruthers, had done a damned fine job of ferreting out all manner of facts.
She was an early riser.
She deplored the color yellow.
She adored savoy biscuits.
She took her tea with sugar and milk.
She also enjoyed sketching.
And certainly, it was why he had managed to procure a gift for her from the village. Not as fine as what he could obtain in London, it was certain, but the handsomely bound leather volume with its blank, creamy pages would have to do.
He had not been this determined to please a woman since…
Christ, not even Georgina had inspired him to go to such lengths. And any of the women he had known since had required precious little wooing. With his reputation, bored wives and demimondaines were eager to share his bed. Their relationships had been predicated upon the need to slake their mutual passions and nothing more.
None of those women had been Grace.
None could even compare.
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached as he stalked the length of her chamber, clutching his gift for her as if he were some sort of lovelorn suitor. What the devil had he been thinking? And was it his imagination, or had she been paying far too much attention to Lord Ashley Rawdon during their earlier drawing room game of Forfeits?
He growled just to think of it.
The door clicked open at last, and there she was. Her eyes went wide, as they lit upon him, almost as if she had not expected to find him within. She did not hesitate, however. She swept over the threshold and closed the door at her back.
“Rand,” she said softly, a tentative smile on her lips.
Lips he could not wait to feel beneath his again.
He forgot he was the experienced rake. In her presence, he felt as if everything was new. As if each look, every touch, each kiss, was unlike any other.
Belatedly, he realized he was still standing in the midst of her chamber, clutching the gift he had bought her, looking the fool.
He stepped forward, calling on all his charm. “I brought you something.”
Christ.What manner of charm was that?
In her presence, he felt more like a callow youth attempting to woo his first lady love rather than the hardened rake he had become. He suppressed a wince as he held out the volume for her.
