Rand woke withthe devil of a headache.
And a dry mouth.
And an aching cock.
A deuce of a thing, to rise randy, yet still a trifle sotted from the night before. His temples throbbed. His tongue tasted of sour spirits. His ballocks were drawn tight with the need to find a willing woman. His hand idly stroked his shaft. Perhaps not any willing woman. Only one. The one who had turned him inside out in the library before telling him to go to the devil and fleeing.
Leaving him with blue ballocks and a prick hard enough to rival any marble statue’s.
But he would not think of Miss Grace Winter now, he told himself.
No. To Hades with the stubborn chit. Instead, he would think of someone else. His eyes closed, shuttering the light of the country sun which was threatening the window dressings. Anyone else.
Yes.
Soft pink lips. Hungry pink nipples to match. Long, auburn hair he could uncoil from a chignon. Breasts that would fill his palms. Curvaceous thighs. A tempting heart-shaped mark on her throat…
Christ.
He released his cock and threw his head back into the pillow, exhaling on a harsh sigh.
He had been thinking ofher. Imaginingher.
His reaction to her was bemusing to say the least. She had kissed his cheek. His bloodycheek! And the unprecedented lust roaring through him at that lone, innocent buss of her lips had been enough to hold him in a stupor as he had watched her run from him in a swish of pale skirts.
The desire clawing through him had been so potent, in fact, that he had found his way into his host’s brandy store. Hence this morning’s headache. And dry mouth. And pervasive sense of self-loathing.
The raging lust, however, could not be explained.
He was not meant to desire Grace Winter. He was meant to use her to further his ambition of gaining Tyre Abbey. Indeed, he had chosen her because she had looked upon him as if he were an unavoidable mud puddle when he had been introduced to her. A lady who scorned him would suit his purposes well, he had thought, because she would not have any trouble crying off their feigned betrothal when the time came.
But somehow, along the way, he had forgotten his reason for choosing her altogether. Somehow, the need to convince her to agree to his scheme had been driven more by desire for her than by reason.
Pretending to be betrothed was meant to solve his problems, not create more.
His grandmother, the formidable dowager duchess, would not grant him Tyre Abbey until his betrothal was announced. Rand wanted Tyre Abbey. Rand did not want a wife. Hence, Rand needed Grace Winter.
Not to soothe the ache in his ballocks, he reminded himself.
Rather, to help him to gain what was rightfully his. And then break the betrothal so the two of them could go on to live their separate lives.
He had been obliged to attend this deuced Christmas country house party as an escort to his mother and sister. Making the best of his situation seemed wise. Attempting to get beneath the skirts of Grace Winter, however, decidedly did not.
Still, the notion would not leave him. There was no denying it. He was harder still, just lying here thinking about the damned impertinent bit of baggage. She had told him to eat pie. That his sallies would not be funny. That he should find someone else for his plan.
The trouble was, he did not want anyone else. He wanted Grace Winter, who was not easily won by his ordinary charm. On a sigh, he slid his hand back beneath the bedclothes once more. He told himself he had no choice. He could not carry on all day, playing parlor games and exchanging mindless pleasantries in such a state.
There was only one way to solve his current predicament.
He grasped his shaft, and then he closed his eyes once more.
A tempting heart-shaped mark on her throat…skin that smelled like the most fragrant blooms in the garden…
Grace told herselfthere was only one solution to her current predicament. She had to replace all thoughts of Viscount Aylesford with something else. Fortunately for her, she knew precisely who could help her and how.
“You want to borrowthe book,” her sister, Christabella said.
“Hush,” Grace warned, her gaze darting about the drawing room to make certain no one had overheard. They were in the midst of a heated game of charades, and seated near the periphery of the festivities where they could have private chatter, but one could never tell when other ears were listening.
