He raised a brow. “The guilty expression upon your face, my dear Grace. To say nothing of the fact that you are familiar with the title.”
The Tale of Lovewas a series of bawdy stories which had been published to great public outrage and scorn. They were supposedly the writings of a famed courtesan. Though no one knew precisely who had authored them, they were indeed lurid and shocking. In some instances, they were even downright depraved. The drawings which accompanied the stories were the stuff of legend. Rand himself had only been able to procure a copysansengravings after the publisher had been jailed.
“I have no notion of what you are speaking of,” she denied stubbornly.
But of course, she did. He knew it. She knew it.
Still, for some reason, he was determined to prove he was right to the both of them.
“Hand me the book,” he said, holding his hand, outstretched, toward her.
Her sea-green eyes narrowed. “No.”
Her lashes were long and luxurious. Her lips seemed fuller than ever, begging for his kiss. Being in the presence of Grace Winter was an exercise, all over again, in the knowledge he could not help but to lust after her.
“Give me the book and prove me wrong,” he challenged anew.
“The book is not mine,” she said, still holding it to her heart as if it were her most prized possession. “I cannot simply give it to you.”
“Of course you can.” He followed her to the opposite end of the writing room, not stopping until her gown billowed into his legs. “Extend your hand, offer me the volume you are holding, and there you have it.”
“What I meant to say is that this volume is not mine to give,” she said. “I am safekeeping it for a friend.”
He raised a brow. “One of your sisters, you mean.”
She stiffened. “Of course not.”
A most unwanted thought occurred to him. “A gentleman friend?”
Her chin tipped up. “What if it is?”
Rand would tear the bastard limb from limb.
He gritted his teeth against a possessive surge he had no right to feel for a lady who had not yet agreed to become his feigned betrothed. “What is his name?”
“That is none of your concern, Lord Aylesford. Now please do go before someone finds us here alone together, and I am obliged to become your betrothed in truth.”
She was maddening. Irksome. The most vexing bit of baggage with whom he had ever crossed paths. He wanted her lips beneath his.
Which was base foolishness, of course.
He needed to secure the estate, he reminded himself. He needed a betrothed to wave in Grandmother’s face. The dowager duchess had been firm and stern in her demand. HeneededGrace Winter. Some part of him was confusing his need of her assistance with his want of her. He had to make it stop. Surely there was another woman in attendance at this cursed country house party who could accommodate his desires.
When had he ever lusted after innocents? Never, he was quite sure.
Still, there was something within him, a hunger which could not be quelled.
“I should think it may concern your brother to discover one of the gentlemen in attendance loaned you such an ill-suited piece of literature,” he said.
The threat was beneath him. But he did not like to think of one of his fellow guests wooing her.
“There is nothing improper about this book,” she told him, holding it to her as if it were a shield.
She was bluffing.
He reached for the book. Slowly, deliberately. Giving her time to retreat once more. She held her ground as he predicted she would, too proud to flee. He was already beginning to understand Grace Winter, he thought, and this would aid him in his quest to get what he wanted. Her cooperation.
And mayhap her lips.
