She smiled into his chest. “I think perhaps we have both debauched each other.”
And she thought, too, that he had ruined her. Oh, not in the traditional sense. No one had caught him sneaking into her chamber. Not another soul knew what they were about. But he had ruined her in a different way.
In the way that she could not fathom ever feeling for another man the way she had begun to feel for this one. This wicked rake. This man in her arms.
The man she was pretending she was going to marry.
The man who, much to her dismay, she was beginning to fear she very much wanted to marry in truth.
Chapter Ten
As it turnedout, the only thing better than imagining Grace Winter’s pretty pink pout wrapped around Rand’s cock had been…
Grace Winter’sactual, glorious pink pout—puffed and swollen from his kisses—wrapped around his cock.
The sight of her taking him down her throat, on her knees before him, her eyes closed as if in her own bliss, the breathy moans she had made, the way she had refused to stop until he had exploded, filling her mouth with his seed…now that was the stuff of legend.
Of absolute, fuckinglegend.
Rand was out of his mind over it still, even in the biting December cold the next morning, riding over the snow alongside Lord Ashley Rawdon and the Duke of Coventry. Hertford had been nowhere to be found this morning. Rand harbored a suspicion his friend was sneaking into Miss Eugie Winter’s chamber, but since he too was prowling about the halls in the darkest hour of the night, slipping into his own betrothed’s room, he did not dare say a word. And Warwick, his oldest and best friend, had fallen in love with Rand’s sister and refused to leave Lydia’s side.
Curse it all.
Meanwhile, he had known the single, most carnal, most delicious, most blissful experience of his life last night thanks to his innocent betrothed.
Perhaps not so innocent, he amended inwardly, and not his betrothed. But rather, hisfeignedbetrothed, as she was so oft correcting him. And not nearly as innocent as she had been before she knew him, thanks to their sessions of debauchery.
Only two down and five more to go until Christmas Day.
How he would manage a third night of debauchery without losing what last shreds of his restraint remained was beyond him.
“What was that, Aylesford?” Lord Ashley’s voice sliced into his thoughts. “Did you just say fucking legend?”
“He did,” Coventry confirmed, ever pithy.
Oh, Christ.Had he said that aloud? This was further proof that he was going mad. He was losing his damned mind over an auburn-haired siren who had sucked his cock with more enthusiasm than any woman he had ever known. A beautiful, stubborn, outspoken, bold lady who liked to sketch and who smelled like an English garden and who had verdant eyes and a heart-shaped beauty mark on her throat…
Lord Ashley and Coventry were both looking at him expectantly.
A gust of unseasonably cold wind hit him square in the face, nearly taking his hat. He clamped a hand down on the brim, holding on to the reins with the other. “I said you are a fucking legend,” he improvised, addressing Lord Ashley.
Because everyone knew damned well his older brother, the Duke of Coventry, was as quiet as a mouse. Painfully shy. Likely a virgin himself. An odd gentleman, it was certain. Rand had no doubt Lord Ashley’s presence at this house party was due to his brother needing the aid when it came to courting.
Devilishly hard to find a betrothed when one did not even speak to the fairer sex.
“Ah, but am I afuckinglegend or a fuckinglegend?” Lord Ashley quipped with a broad grin. “That is the question.”
Everyone also knew Lord Ashley was a scoundrel. His reputation was even worse than Rand’s.
“Is it true that you tupped an opera singer, an actress, and a nun all at once?” he asked, giving voice to the old rumor in an effort to distract himself from the wayward bent of his thoughts.
Namely, Grace Winter.
“Not true at all,” Lord Ashley said, his grin deepening. “The actress in question had been playing the role of a nun in her latest play. The opera singer did not resemble a nun in the slightest.”
Rand had never bedded two women at once. Bedding one kept him more than occupied. And deuce it, now that he had a betrothed, he could not fathom the notion of bedding another woman at all.
Ever.
