Succumb to Me (3 page)

Winter stared at her mother blankly for
several moments before she could think of the response she knew her
mother was waiting for to continue. “I’m afraid I don’t understand
you, Mama.” Where was her mother going with this?

Abigail Stevens patted her daughter’s hand.
“Forgive me. I’m rambling, I know, and keeping you in suspense. It
has just shocked me so much. To think we have an English lord in
our midst! For it transpires that that is exactly what your Mr.
Cordell is, my dear! A lord! Your father never trusted the English
after the war, you know. I suppose he must have thought Mr. Cordell
a spy, even though the war had been over so long.”

Winter felt her jaw drop. Resolutely, she
snapped it back in place. “No. No, it cannot be true. Someone has
played you false, Mama!”

“I would have thought so, too, my dear. But
Mrs. Moxley has always given me sound information. ‘Twas she who
called today. Apparently, when Mr. Cordell was in England settling
his father’s affairs, he was also being instated as the new Earl of
Remington.”

Blood rushed to Winter’s head as her pulse
raced, sickening her with dread. She had wronged Logan Cordell, and
all because of a prejudice instilled upon her by her father.

No, she thought, striving for honesty, the
fault could not be laid entirely on her father’s doorstep. She had
accepted his judgment unquestioningly. She was just as guilty for
her part. Her predisposition toward recklessness lay at the root of
most of her problems—it was why she always strove so hard to be the
perfect lady.

Yet time and again, she failed.

Winter worried her lip, listening vaguely to
her mother as she babbled happily about the prospect of having an
English lord among them, too caught up in her own private drama to
manage more than token responses.

It was too late even to consider tendering
her apologies. He would see any attempt to do so as nothing more
than a play to gain his sympathy now that she had placed his means
of revenge in the palm of his hand. That he would exact a measure
of justice from her for her part in his humiliation, she had no
doubt. The question was, when?

CHAPTER TWO

Merriweather Residence

Four years earlier

“He’s watching you again, Winter,” Callie
Merriweather said behind her elegantly gloved hand. Underneath the
glove, Winter knew she wore a glittering emerald—her engagement
ring and the cause for tonight’s ball. “I would think it romantic
had he not risen from the gutter.”

Winter knew at once to whom Callie referred,
and still she looked up without thinking, drawn to his somber
darkness, out of place in such gay surroundings. She caught his
eye, immediately regretting her thoughtless action. He’d think her
interested in him—which she adamantly was not.

“Impertinence bred from the street, no
doubt,” she said, turning away. Callie giggled, smoothing her
perfectly coiffured hair.

Logan Cordell had haunted her every step the
entire night, always watching her, always near at hand. He looked
at her as if he’d known her intimately. He had always looked at her
that way, even when he’d first been introduced into their social
circle—privately, she admitted that she had found him strangely
familiar from the first time she had seen him, intriguing,
disturbingly attractive. His rise to wealth had been sudden, as
though he’d come from nowhere and landed in their midst like a
phantom king.

It was unnerving the way he always watched
her, attended every soiree to which she went. He never approached,
never spoke to her. But Winter could feel his gaze roaming over her
body at every turn, and it caused a thrill of both fear and
anticipation to run recklessly through her.

She shook her head, pushing the scandalous
thoughts aside, determined to enjoy the evening despite the
unwanted attention.

“Oh, here’s Thomas. He’ll want to speak
privately, I’m sure. It was lovely talking with you, Winter.”
Callie kissed her friend’s cheeks and went to greet her fiancé,
leaving Winter alone.

Winter remained where she was, awaiting her
parents’ return from the refreshment table. After a moment, she
casually glanced toward Logan Cordell once more, wondering if he
was still staring at her. She froze, stunned to see him walking
toward her. Her heart skipped several beats and started pounding in
her chest, feeling as if it would crush the breath from her
lungs.

Logan Cordell approached her with the
darkness of a dangerous storm, and she found it just as
frightening. He’d seen his opening, for she had no one to shield
her from him. Until this moment, she’d not been alone the entire
evening. He must have been watching and waiting for this exact
moment.

She regretted not having followed Callie now,
even if she would have been intruding. Indecision gripped her in a
vice. Winter cast her gaze around, seeking escape before he could
reach her, but how was she to flee without looking like a hounded
doe? Without casting propriety to the wind and attracting unwanted
attention to herself?

It struck her quite suddenly that she was
behaving foolishly, worrying unnecessarily. Low born he might be,
but surely he was not so uncouth that he would forget himself in
the midst of a crowd. She decided she would not suffer the
indignity of being chased. She lifted her chin and gave him a
haughty stare as he neared.

He smiled crookedly, as if he’d expected
things would turn out this way. Being placed in this predicament
infuriated her.

It had been impossible to remain unaware of
his interest. She was uncomfortably aware that, had his
circumstances been different, she would have found it difficult to
remain aloof to such a charming rogue. But her father had been
outraged by his obvious interest, had forbidden her to have any
congress with the man. And now, all her efforts to avoid an
unpleasant scene were for naught, for he was a man who would not be
ignored.

Without breaking stride, he ignored her look
of frozen dismissal, took her arm, pulled her to her feet and
dragged her onto the dance floor, all before she could so much as
voice an objection. Stunned by his unbelievable audacity, Winter
realized, too late, that he had prevented any objections she might
think to make. To attempt to struggle now, to leave him on the
dance floor, would only create the very scene she had hoped to
prevent.

She prayed her father had not just walked
into the room and seen what had been nothing less than an assault
upon her person—prayed the dance would be a short one. It was not
to be.

The opening strains of a waltz filtered
through her shocked senses, and she found him guiding her into it,
his stance as proper as any gentleman’s. But his eyes gleamed with
wicked boldness, more intense than any man had ever dared to look
on her. The look in his eyes told her he was no gentleman and could
not be depended upon to behave as one—if she had remained in any
doubt.

“I am not a china doll you can do with what
you will, Mr. Cordell,” she gritted out behind a false smile, her
movements graceful despite her state, as she’d been schooled all
her life—a lady was always calm and collected, in every
situation.

He was a graceful dancer. Had he not been who
he was, she could have enjoyed it more.

“Certainly not, Miss Stevens.” His gaze
drifted downward and came to rest on her breasts a lingering moment
before he returned his gaze to her face. “No man could ever doubt
you anything but a flesh and blood woman.”

Despite her best efforts, she flushed with
heat and color. His daring knew no bounds. “You are too bold, sir!”
she whispered through a clenched smile.

He arched a dark brow. “Am I? I think you
enjoy it.”

“I’ll thank you not to make assumptions about
my person,” Winter said coldly, uncertain whether she was angrier
at herself—for it was true—or at him for being so poor mannered as
to point out her failings.

His brows rose and a grin tugged at his lips,
but he held his tongue, having the grace to allow her to recover
from her discomfiture. Winter couldn’t help but notice, however,
that as he guided her around the dance floor, he seemed to draw her
closer to him until she became certain her breasts were brushing
against his chest. His hand scorched her waist through the thin
cotton of her gown, further distracting her, creating havoc with
her senses and her emotions.

“A woman like you deserves a real man. Not
some pantywaist, which as far as I can see is all to be had
here.”

She regarded him coldly, holding
herself rigid in his arms. He seemed not to notice—or care. She
should not respond to such a crude statement. She knew the correct
thing to do would be to pretend deafness. And yet, she could not
seem to stop herself. “You are coarse and rude,
Sir
. I suppose you fancy I would have an interest
in you?”

“If you would allow me to … ah … penetrate
the frost, yes,” he said, his eyes gleaming now with anger, no
doubt because Winter had resisted his considerable charm.

Winter’s eyes widened. She missed a dance
step. “That will never happen,” she finally managed to say,
retrieving her dignity with an effort.

“Why? Is Papa’s little ice princess too pure
to be dirtied by a real flesh and blood man’s hands?”

The images his words created in her mind were
more disturbing than the words themselves. She was so outraged at
his audacity in speaking to her as if she was a common woman of the
streets that she completely forgot herself, forgot where she was,
forgot that no lady would behave so violently and impulsively. She
stopped abruptly, without thinking, and slapped him—in the middle
of the dance floor, surrounded by every gossip in town.

The impact of her hand on his cheek rose
above the music—a deafening crack, drawing every eye in the room.
His cheek reddened, displaying the perfect imprint of her hand. The
blood drained from her face as she stared at him, horror stricken
at what she’d done, unable to believe she’d allowed him to drive
her over the edge of calm, that she’d allowed him to drive her to
such a state as to do something so unthinkable, even if he had
deserved it.

Someone snickered. Then, as if it was
contagious, first one person chuckled, then another, until Winter
thought she’d go mad with the laughter ringing in her ears. Logan’s
face hardened with anger, condemning her, eyes black with fury.

Winter took a step back, turned and fled the
room, tears of shame streaming down her face. Why, why had she let
him get to her? Regardless of his provocative remarks, he’d done
nothing so horrible to deserve such a public humiliation.

What had possessed her to behave so
inexcusably? With such a total lack of decorum?

She pushed through the French doors at one
side of the ballroom, ran out into the garden, tripping over her
long skirts in her haste to flee the scene she’d created. Her gown
caught on a bramble rose and she ripped it loose and continued on,
seeking solace from the misery flooding her mind and soul. A gazebo
stood in the center of the grounds and she rushed for it,
collapsing at last on a bench inside.

She rubbed the tears from her eyes and
cheeks, taking deep, slow breaths until she was calm once more.
Everyone would talk now. It would spread like wildfire through the
whole city by noon tomorrow. They would speculate on what had
happened, what he had said.

Guilt assailed her. Her father would know by
now, know she’d been dancing with the common Englishman. He hated
the English with a passion. He’d never forgive her for making a
spectacle of herself or disgracing him with such a vulgar public
display. She was such a fool!

Why had she allowed him to provoke her into
such a vulgar outburst?

She was not prone to self-examination, and
more inclined when she did to shy away from any truth that troubled
her, and yet it occurred to her after a few moments that it was not
what Logan Cordell had said so much as the way he had made her feel
that had provoked her outburst.

It had been fear—because she had found
herself responding in a way she never had to any other man—to a man
it was unthinkable even to consider as a possible prospect for
matrimony—the sort of man who was far more likely to offer her
insult than an honest proposal of marriage.

A rustle in the darkness caught her
attention, and she looked up, her heart fluttering as a dark shadow
moved toward her. The shadow evolved itself into Logan and her
heart pounded a little harder, though with a different sort of
fear.

She was stunned to find he’d followed her. In
the dimness, she couldn’t see the mark of her hand but knew it must
still be burning his flesh—a reminder she did not need at the
present. She wished only to forget this night had ever
happened.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded,
standing up angrily. “Was that display in the ballroom not enough?
I’ll not have my reputation ruined because of you.”

“You cannot get away so easily with
humiliating a man in public,” he said, voice quiet with warning. He
stopped at the entrance of the gazebo, his look predatory.