“I am trouble?” Both her brows went up. “You are a rake who forced me into being your feigned betrothed. You have me doing all sorts of things I promised myself I would never do. Also, at great risk tomyreputation andmyfuture.”
When she was in high dudgeon, she was a sight to behold. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, one hand firmly planted on her hip in defiance. The stubborn, willful, wonderful woman.
She had cast a spell upon him.
Perhaps all the Winter females were witches.
That had to be the answer to this maddening effect she had upon him.
“Why did you tell all your sisters?” he asked. “You know very well that this charade of ours will only be effectual if everyone believes it is true.”
“My sisters will not tell anyone,” she said. “This, I promise you. Our secret is safe with them.”
He did not particularly relish the notion of his future resting in the hands of five Winter ladies. For yes, he was including Grace in the count in this instance.
“It had better be safe,” he warned, “or not only will I refuse to debauch you, but I will also be forced to turn your bawdy book over to your brother.”
She smiled then, the minx. “Something tells me you would still debauch me just the same.”
She was not wrong.
There would never come a day when the sun would rise and he would not also want Grace Winter. It was a devil of a realization to make.
Especially when he was standing before her in her bedchamber at close to midnight where he most definitely did not belong. And while she held the gift he had given her in her hands and looked so damn beautiful, his chest hurt just to gaze upon her. His heart was thudding fast. Another realization, one that was far more damning, loomed.
He dismissed it with action.
Silenced it with a kiss. His mouth on hers. How easy it was. How familiar and right, the way their lips fit together. As if this one set of pretty pink lips had been made by God just for Rand to claim and plunder and make his. More dangerous thoughts.
He chased these by sinking his hands into the silken web of her hair. Pins rained on the carpet. Her mouth opened. His tongue swept inside. He was here to debauch her, he reminded himself. Not to feel anything. Emotions were not for him. He had learned his lesson in bitterness and betrayal. Had learned the most difficult way possible that love was not real. That only lust was true.
Except…
Except, this did not feel like mere lust now, when he was kissing Grace. When she was kissing him back with a fervor and an innocent ardor that had his cock throbbing and standing at aching attention. One kiss. One melding of their lips. And he was rigid, his ballocks drawn tight.
He ought to have stroked himself to a spend this afternoon instead of submitting himself to silly games. Thinking of her that morning and taking himself in hand had clearly not been enough.
He forced himself to end the kiss.
She blinked up at him, her lips darkened and swollen, her expression dazed. She still held the sketchbook he had given her, and it was between them like a shield.
“You are right, Grace love. I will always want to debauch you,” he told her, hating himself for the hitch in his own voice. How easy it was for the seducer to become the seduced when it came to her. He did not feel like an experienced rake. He felt like he was drowning in her, drowning in his need of her.
Or inebriated.
Delirious on desire.
On her.
She stroked his cheek. A gentle caress. There was tenderness in that lone gesture which set him aflame. “Thank you for the gift, Rand. I will treasure it always.”
She did not need to fill in the remainder of her words, for he knew what she meant.
Even when we are apart.
Even after our feigned betrothal is at an end.
He swallowed against a rush of emotion he refused to acknowledge. He had pretended to be betrothed to her for a handful of days, and already, he never wanted this to end.
