“A gift?” she asked, her smile changing. Deepening. “For me?”
“It is deuced improper, I know,” he said, for it was consideredde tropto gift an unwed female anything, and he knew it. Even one’s betrothed. “But surely not any more improper than offering you a daily debauching.”
She accepted the book from him. The rich green gown she wore this evening made her eyes an even darker hue, rather the color of moss deep in the forest. “Thank you, Rand.”
“It is for sketching,” he said needlessly, feeling suddenly awkward.
“It is lovely,” she said, tracing the cover with her fingertips. “How did you know I like to sketch?”
He cleared his throat. “Do not all females like sketching?”
“I do not know,” she said, glancing back up at him. “Perhaps they do.”
Her gaze searched his, and once more, that strange sensation rose within him. The urge to please her. To make her happy. To see her smile. To be the man who put the color in her cheeks and the fire in her eyes.
“I may have inquired after your likes,” he admitted, clasping his hands behind his back so he would not be tempted to touch her.
Debauching her would be slow and steady and delicious. He could not fall upon her like a ravening beast. No matter how much he longed to.
“And what did you learn about me?” she asked, a new smile flirting with those luscious pink lips of hers.
“You prefer to rise early,” he said, “you do not like to wear yellow, you like savoy biscuits, and you take your tea with sugar and milk.”
She raised a brow. “Were you interviewing my lady’s maid, my lord?”
He grinned. “My valet may have posed a question or two. Nothing at all untoward in a gentleman seeking to learn more about his betrothed, is there?”
“Hisfeignedbetrothed,” she corrected him.
Blast.He did not need reminding. He already knew his time with her was limited. The more he thought about it, the more it nettled, in fact.
“No one else knows I am your feigned betrothed, however,” he pointed out.
Her cheeks went red.
“Do they?” he prodded, suspicion blossoming inside him like a flower.
“No,” she said quickly. Far too quickly. And then she licked her lips.
It was a nervous habit of hers he had noted before. Partially because staring at her mouth had become an obsession of his. Partially because he paid far too much attention to everything about her.
Enough to know when she was lying to him.
“Who knows, Grace?” he demanded.
She winced. “Only my sisters.”
Her sisters? As in more than one? As inallof the bloody Winter females?
“Curse it, woman, you mean to tell me there are five other females in this household who are aware of the nature of our betrothal?” he asked.
“Only four,” she dared to correct him. “There are five of us sisters in all, not six.”
“It certainly seems as if there are more of you,” he muttered. “A legion, at least, with all the troublemaking.”
“That is unfair, and you know it,” she said, sounding wounded. “None of us have made trouble.”
He gave her a pointed look, sweeping from her auburn curls to her dainty, slipper-shod toes peeping from beneath the hem of her gown. “You are nothing but trouble, Miss Grace Winter. Look at you. You are the loveliest, most vexing, tempting creature I have ever beheld. You had but to ask for me to debauch you, and here I am in your chamber, your willing slave. At great risk to my reputation and future, I might add.”
