An Affair in Winter (Seasons Book 1) (10 page)

Gray wanted to follow Rosalinde into the hallway. To press her against the wall and kiss her again until surrender was all that was left in her. Until their bodies merged as one and he could truly claim she was his.

He’d never felt that strong a need for a specific woman before. And the past few years, he hadn’t indulged in desire at all. But now Rosalinde was here, in his home, so close he could pluck her and taste her and claim her all he wanted.

And that attraction was not one-sided. Even though she was as wary of his intentions as he was of hers, when he touched her she melted. Her longing was clear in her bated breath, her responsive body, the kiss that she returned with as much fervor as he gave.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, walking to the sideboard to pour a drink. He slugged it back and the liquor burned down his throat, but did nothing to ease the coiled tension of his hungry body.

This was out of control. This was unstoppable.

He flopped down in the chair before the fire and propped his feet up on the ottoman, tapping his fingers along the glass in his hand. Right now this unexpected desire for Rosalinde felt at odds with his plans to break up the engagement between Lucien and Celia. If his attention was on Rosalinde, how could he fully commit to any plans? How could he see through Celia’s beautiful but disinterested exterior into her secrets?

Unless…

He straightened. Rosalinde and her sister were thick as thieves. If Celia had secrets, surely Rosalinde knew them. If Gray gave in to the desire between them, if he convinced Rosalinde to let down her guard in his arms, in his bed, she might let something slip that would condemn Celia.

He could be with her
and
get what he wanted.

Now that realization should have made him feel triumphant, it should have made him happy. And yet the core of this potential deception of Rosalinde didn’t do either of those things. Instead he felt guilty.

He lifted his gaze and found himself staring at a family portrait, painted years ago, before their father had died. His parents stood on either side of their three children. Somehow Gray had ended up in the middle, though he wasn’t the heir. Probably because his father had wanted to stand next to his favorite son. Gray had never been anything but an afterthought. A standby.

Gray swallowed the bitterness of that thought and instead examined both his brother’s and his sister’s faces. These had been more innocent times. They both looked untroubled, unbroken.

Now when he looked at them, he saw lingering pain in their faces, bitter emptiness in their eyes. That pain had been caused by bad matches and poor decisions in love. He’d seen them both shatter, he’d helped pick up the pieces. He would not do that again. Even if it meant sacrificing some of his own morality, he had to at least consider any plan that would save Lucien from heartache.

So he set his drink aside, steepled his fingers and continued to ponder his newly minted plan. To seduce or not to seduce. That was the question. Now he just had to find an answer he could live with.

Rosalinde sat on the edge of the bed, watching Celia’s maid, Ruth, fix her sister’s hair. Gertrude was still fussing with Rosalinde’s gown, tugging at the fabric and primping her ceaselessly.

But Rosalinde was only half-aware of all of it. She was thinking of Gray. It had been three days since he kissed her in the parlor after her run-in with her grandfather. Three days, and since then he had scarcely been around. Oh, she sometimes saw him at supper or passing through the hallways, but he never spoke to her.

“Did you see him?” Celia asked, the question piercing through Rosalinde’s distracted fog.

“See him?” she repeated in blank confusion.

Celia turned to look at her. “Grayson Danford. Great Lord, Rosalinde, have you been listening to me at all?”

Rosalinde blinked. She had not, of course, and it seemed she had missed out on information about her very obsession.

“I’m sorry, I must have been woolgathering,” she admitted.

Celia rolled her eyes. “I was saying that
he
was staring down the table last night, watching me. We were sitting right next to each other, Rosalinde. I was wondering if you’d noticed.”

Gertrude let out a snort. “Perhaps he weren’t looking at you, Miss Celia. Perhaps he was looking at Mrs. Wilde. After all, he—”

Rosalinde jumped to her feet. “Gertie,” she said sharply, cutting her maid off before she could reveal her secret about that night at the inn. “That’s enough.”

Gertrude shot her an odd look. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilde,” she said.

Celia stared at the two. “What is it? Is there some reason Mr. Danford would have an interest in you, Rosalinde?”

Rosalinde pushed to her feet and forced a smile on her face. “Lord, no,” she lied. “Ruth, are you finished with Miss Celia?”

Ruth looked her charge over once and nodded. “She’s as pretty as a picture.”

Rosalinde smiled broadly, despite her nervousness about Celia’s current choice of conversational topic. “Indeed, she is. Why don’t you and Gertrude leave us, then?”

The two maids both bobbed their heads and made for the door. Rosalinde followed. Ruth stepped out first and as Gertrude made her way past, Rosalinde caught her arm.

“Gertie, please don’t mention to
anyone
the fact that Mr. Danford and I met before,” she whispered.

Gertrude shook her head. “Of course, ma’am, but do you mind if I ask why?”

Rosalinde worried her lip as she pondered a response. How in the world could she explain herself to her maid? To anyone? If the fact that she and Gray had spent a night in each other’s arms ever came to light, the consequences would be swift and terrible.

“Mr. Danford is not kind to my sister,” she explained at last. “And the fact that he represented himself as a gentleman to me that night, deceived me, would likely only upset her. I would like to avoid that, as Celia is already nervous about her marriage and fitting in with Stenfax’s family. So please, do not say a word.”

Gertrude nodded. “All right, Mrs. Wilde. I won’t say anything.”

“Thank you,” Rosalinde breathed. “I’ll see you later.”

As her maid turned, Rosalinde shut the door with a sigh. At least that issue had been subverted. For now.

“Why are you being so short with Gertie?” Celia asked, rising and turning to face Rosalinde.

She couldn’t help it—Rosalinde caught her breath. Celia did look beautiful in a pale green gown with a darker green overlay that was spun with flowers. She looked like a future countess should. Even Gray couldn’t deny that.

“Rosalinde?” Celia said, her brow wrinkling.

Rosalinde moved toward her, catching her hands. “I’m sorry, I was just taken aback by how utterly lovely you look, Celia. Truly, you have never been more beautiful. Stenfax will be set on his heels.”

Her sister, who had at first smiled at the compliment, now frowned. “I doubt that. Stenfax isn’t moved by such things. I’m certain he’ll be pleased that I am presentable and appropriate, but otherwise…” Celia waved her hand as if to dismiss any other connection.

Rosalinde frowned. “But Celia—”

“Oh, Rosalinde, I don’t want to discuss Stenfax,” Celia said. “I want to know why Gertrude thought Mr. Danford might have been staring at you rather than at me last night.”

“Gertrude probably just heard he showed me around the house a few days ago,” Rosalinde suggested weakly. “And she reads all those silly romantic stories—they put wild notions in her head.”

Celia pursed her lips and actually looked disappointed. “Oh, is that all? Damn, I hoped there might be something more to it.”

Rosalinde drew back. “What in the world do you mean? You couldn’t be suggesting that
Grayson Danford
and I…”

“Of course not,” Celia said, and paced away. “You have better taste than a man who always looks as if he ate something sour. But I do admit that I selfishly hoped if he
did
like you, perhaps that could help
me
. At least it might be a distraction to him.”

Her sister let out a long sigh and it shuddered, like she was just keeping tears at bay. Rosalinde rushed to her side, sliding an arm around her for a comforting squeeze.

“Oh, darling,” she said. “I’m sorry his attitude toward you is so upsetting.”

Celia shook her head. “He’s just so cold. He hardly speaks to me, and when he does, his tone is always dismissive. And those glares of his. They’re so pointed. I just wish he would stop.”

“And he will,” Rosalinde reassured her. “You’ll marry Stenfax in less than ten days and then nothing Gray…Mr. Danford…does will matter. He will have to accept you at some point.”

“Unless he does something to stop the wedding,” Celia all but wailed. “I have been trying to keep myself from believing it, but I…”

When Celia trailed off, Rosalinde tightened her embrace. “Tell me.”

“I-I fear he is working behind the scenes to ruin our engagement.” Celia’s voice broke. “And if he succeeds, I know Grandfather will
never
tell us the truth about our father. It will be my fault!”

Rosalinde’s lips pursed. Gray had all but said he was doing just that after their encounter in the music room the morning he’d taken her for their “tour” of the house. Now she looked at her sister, saw Celia’s deep fear and pain, and anger swelled in her.

“It
wouldn’t
be your fault if that happened. And I have no idea why Mr. Danford would interfere, but if that is his intent, I’ll stop him, Celia. I swear to you that I will,” Rosalinde said, though the words sounded more certain than she felt.

“How could you possibly do that?” Celia asked, swiping at the tears that now glistened in her eyes.

Rosalinde paused to consider the question. Celia had hit on an interesting theory earlier, that if Gray liked Rosalinde, perhaps he would be kinder to Celia. He’d even suggested himself that Rosalinde had gone to bed with him in order to help her sister’s “case”.

Now, perhaps he didn’t
like
her, Rosalinde couldn’t be certain of that. But he did want her. Their unexpected kiss in the parlor, so heated, so passionate, had proven it.

And she wanted him, God help her.

But could she sink so low as to trade on their attraction just as he’d suggested? She’d been offended by the accusation when he made it, but now it seemed to be a viable path to helping Celia.

If she pursued the attraction it would certainly kill two birds with one stone. She could keep an eye on Gray, even distract him from whatever nefarious plans he was hatching, but also be with him.

She shivered at the thought of his hands on her skin, his mouth on her, his body inside of her. Those were overwhelming images, ones she felt were burned into her.

But she didn’t have to start there. A flirtation with the man might help as much as an affair would. It was an easier place to begin, at least.

“Celia,” she said, taking her sister’s hand. “I will find a way to help you whatever it takes. To help
us
. I promise.”

Rosalinde had been to many a ball in the three years she’d been in Society before her marriage to Martin Wilde. She’d even accompanied Celia to a few in the last year. But none had ever been so fine as this one.

Stenfax’s ballroom seemed to be modeled after a Grecian temple with pillars and marble and statues all around. The servants were finely liveried, the drinks were plentiful and not as watered down as some at other fetes. Truly no one would know the man’s financial situation if this party were the sole way to judge.

There were over a hundred in the ballroom and the dowager countess had claimed this to be a “small” gathering.

Rosalinde drew a long breath. “Intimate friends, my left foot,” she muttered.

Her gaze slid to Celia on the dance floor. She was spinning in Stenfax’s arms, but they didn’t appear to be speaking. Rosalinde frowned. Although they seemed to like each other as people well enough, there was never even a hint of deeper connection between the pair. She supposed it was foolishly romantic to hope for more, but she didn’t want her sister to end up in a loveless, empty marriage.

She knew too well the consequences of such a thing. But what choice did they have? None, thanks to the machinations of their grandfather, who stood off to the side of the dance floor, puffed as a peacock as he chatted up the titled attendees.