Chapter One
Oxfordshire, 1813
Lord Ashley Rawdonhad a problem.
A tall, beautiful, brunette problem.
Ordinarily, such an obstacle would be pleasant for a man who had devoted his life to chasing, wooing, and pleasing the fairer sex. But in this situation, he was not chasing, wooing, and attempting to win the lady in question for himself.
Rather, he was attempting to do so for his brother.
There would be no delicious culmination of his efforts. He would not be taking the lovely Miss Prudence Winter’s supple berry-colored lips with his. He would never help her out of her gown or find his way beneath her petticoats, and he most certainly would not know the delight of spreading her legs and plying his tongue to her cunny until she spent.
Damn and blast.
Gill was going to owe him after this.
Ash followed Miss Prudence Winter down the massive hall of Abingdon House at a discreet distance. He had no wish to cause a scandal and find himself forced into marrying the chit, after all. Even if he had always had a secret yearning for long Megs like her. And even if he found her delectably tempting.
He put the last down to his forced rustication at a country house party all in the name of helping his painfully shy brother, the Duke of Coventry, obtain a bride. Namely, one Miss Prudence Winter. She was the eldest of all the Winter sisters, wealthy ladies who hailed from trade and whose brother Devereaux Winter was doing his damnedest to use his newfound connection to nobility to ensnare aristocratic husbands for his sisters.
Hence the advent of this blasted party at Christmastide.
Hence Ash’s presence in Oxfordshire.
And his current plight.
Miss Prudence disappeared into a chamber four doors down, and Ashley sped up his strides, casting a cautionary glance over his shoulder, before he, too, crossed the threshold and joined her. He found himself inside the sprawling, two-story library of Abingdon House.
Alone with the woman his brother wanted to make his future duchess.
He closed the door at his back and cleared his throat to make himself known.
Pressing a hand to her heart, Miss Prudence Winter spun about, her skirts whirling around her ankles. He fancied he caught a glimpse of slim, stocking-clad perfection and the hint of appealingly curved calves.
“What are you doing in here, my lord?” she demanded, frowning at him.
Even her displeasure was somehow alluring.
He ground his molars and forced himself to imagine a shovel’s worth of cold December snow being dumped down the fall of his breeches. Anything to abate the irritating desire the disapproving creature glowering at him now inspired.
“Forgive me, Miss Winter,” he said, bowing stiffly. “I find myself bored and in search of diversion. I had not realized the library was occupied.”
Her lips pursed, and she raised a dark brow high, her countenance making it apparent she did not believe him. Nor was she wrong to find him or his motives suspect. A wise woman, Miss Prudence Winter.
“Now that you realized I am within, you can see the necessity for you to go,” she told him coolly.
Here was the other thing about her. Unlike most females of his acquaintance, Miss Winter was not easily won over by him. Upon their every previous interaction—three, not that he was counting—she had made him work for each word she deigned to utter.
“It would be wise for me to observe propriety and go,” he agreed calmly. “However, now that I have your ear, I find myself loath to leave.”
“Lord Ashley, you do not have my ear, you have my irritation,” she countered, sweeping toward him with purpose in her step. “I have told you before that I have absolutely no tolerance for meaningless flattery.”
Yes, she had, the impertinent baggage. Only worse.
“I believe you said you had no tolerance for meaningless flattery from empty-headed rakehells,” he mused, stroking his jaw as if in deep thought.
There was no need for thought. She had said precisely that. Verbatim.
