“I have the book,” Pru said. “Pray, Grace, do not resort to pulling Christabella’s hair.”
“I have not pulled anyone’s hair in years,” she defended herself, miffed her sisters continued to bring up her means of girlhood defense.
When one came of age with four sisters, one had to make herself heard however she could.
“I will excuse myself and go get it,” Pru whispered. “I will leave it beneath your pillow for safekeeping.”
“Thank you,” she said grimly. “You could have said as much from the first.”
“It would not have been nearly as entertaining, however,” Christabella observed, beaming.
“Or as illuminating,” Pru added.
Sisters.Huffing a sigh, she turned her attention back to the proceedings.
But her mind continued to wander to those blue eyes to rival a summer sky and those sensual, smirking lips. To the sensation of a thumb brushing over her lower lip…
She could not get her hands on the dratted book soon enough.
By a remarkablestroke of fortune, Rand found himself alone with Grace Winter once more, and this time quite unintentionally. He had wandered into a writing room in search of his sister, only to find the chamber occupied instead by the auburn-tressed beauty who had been haunting his thoughts all day.
He should have observed propriety and left the room the instant he had seen it occupied by a lone, unwed female. But the female was Grace, and he had made a habit all his life of eschewing the proprieties altogether. Moreover, he needed to convince her to agree to be his feigned betrothed.
For reasons he chose not to examine, she was the only one who would do.
He closed the door at his back and strode into the room.
She had been seated, her head bent over a book, and at first, she did not realize she was no longer alone. Which was perfectly fine by Rand, as it meant he could leisurely drink in the sight of her as he crossed the thick carpets, his footsteps muffled. Her brow was furrowed, as if she were concentrating deeply upon something in whatever she was reading.
As he neared her, he realized there appeared to be an engraving on the pages she was contemplating. Before he could get a better look at it, she stiffened and slammed the book closed, alerted to his arrival at last.
“Lord Aylesford!” she exclaimed.
His title emerged almost as a squeak.
He was not certain if her discomfiture was a compliment or an insult. He bowed deeply to her all the same, deciding he would do his best to woo her once more. They were nearly halfway through the duration of the house party already. His time to convince her of the wisdom of his plan grew more limited with each day that passed without a yes from her pretty pink lips.
And how he wanted ayesfrom her.
Lord God, how he wanted it.
Ayesto everything.
But that would be dangerous. And foolhardy. And entirely damaging to his plan.
“Miss Winter,” he greeted her in turn, deciding upon formality for the moment.
The moment and not a second more.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, rising to her feet with such haste, she upended her chair.
He decided her lack of composure was in his favor. She was flushed, her eyes wide, her lips compressed. She clutched the book she had been reading to her bodice.
“I am here in Oxfordshire to celebrate Christmastide,” he said mildly, rather enjoying the sight of her flush expanding down her throat. He did not think he had ever seen her so flustered. “Mr. Winter and Lady Emilia Winter are hosting a house party. Perhaps you know them?”
She pursed her lips. “You have proven me right, my lord.”
“Oh?” He sauntered nearer to her, drawn as ever.
