Succumb to Me (4 page)

“You deserved it for such improper behavior!
Do not try to pretend otherwise, for I do not believe for a moment
that you are so ignorant of what is expected in decent society! Now
please leave me alone.”

Guilt flooded her at his accusation. It was
all too true that she was as culpable as he was, that she had
publicly humiliated both of them when she could have handled the
situation far better. She couldn’t bear the reminder of her own
lapse.

He made no move to leave, his stance casual,
almost relaxed, though his gaze was watchful. It angered her all
over again. He riled her with such ease, it was unnerving. When
several moments passed and he made no move to return to the ball,
she said, “If you’ll not go, I will.”

She moved to push past him, but he caught her
arm in a vice grip. His bare hands connected with the cool skin of
her arm like a brand.

“I’m glad to see your fire has not been bred
out like the whole of society.”

“You crude oaf. It is no concern of yours
what—what ... fire I have. Let me go,” she gritted out, pulling at
her arm.

“But it is a matter I consider deeply my
concern,” he murmured, his voice husky, seductive.

Without warning, he pushed her against the
gazebo’s support, trapping her arms in his embrace. Winter’s heart
lurched, her pulse racing. She squirmed and stomped at his feet. He
grunted with the impact, but, instead of releasing her, he widened
his stance, moving closer, until she stood nestled between his
legs.

A strange hardness dug into her stomach that
confused, frightened and, curiously, made her pulse pound a little
harder. He leaned close, his face mere inches from her own. His hot
breath fanned across her cool skin, causing a shiver of goosebumps
to rise in response.

Trapped, by his nearness, by a strange
weakness of her own limps, she could do nothing but look into his
shadowy eyes, fighting down her panic.

“I’ll scream.” She tried to pull her head
back but found she had nowhere to go.

“No, you won’t.” He sounded so confident, so
assured of his victory.

“I will.”

He pressed his hips firmly to hers as though
emphasizing his point. “You haven’t yet. Could it be you fear being
caught with my arms around you?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to her, but now
she realized just how deeply in trouble she was. After the debacle
on the dance floor, if they found her out here like this, her
reputation would be compromised beyond repair. “I fear nothing,”
she whispered without conviction, hating the doubts he’d instilled
in her.

“I think you do. I think fear you will enjoy
this far more than you fear being caught, and possibly compromised.
Relax.” He kissed the corner of her mouth softly. “Don’t fight
this, and you will almost certainly enjoy this as much as I.”

He’d given her little choice but to
acquiesce. She decided she would comply, but only to lull him into
believing he’d won so that he would drop his guard and she could
escape.

He nibbled at her lips, relaxing her with his
soft teasing before settling his mouth full upon hers. It was her
first kiss, the first time a man had held her in his arms.

Forbidden pleasure rushed through her body
like a heady wine. She tingled everywhere his flesh connected with
hers, her mouth, her breasts against his chest. A sudden pulse
throbbed in that secret place between her legs as he sucked at her
bottom lip, tugging it with his teeth.

She whimpered, unable to control herself, and
he growled low in his throat, pushing his tongue inside her
mouth.

She gasped into him and he rocked his hips
against her, rubbing that mysterious hardness low on her belly.
Dimly, she knew what it was, some animal instinct inside her had
responded to it, her body welcomed its intrusion.

Dear god, she should not enjoy this so much,
certainly not with him. She turned her head, breaking his kiss,
gasping for breath. “Stop,” she whispered, trembling. He’d done
this to humiliate her, she realized suddenly. He had wanted to show
her she was no better than him, low, wicked ... And it had worked.
A wave of shame washed over her. She knew now she should have
damned the consequences and screamed for help.

He chuckled, releasing her, and she
discovered her legs had gone weak, refused to fully support her.
She leaned against the gazebo, shaken, feeling the cold seeping
into her bones, leaching away the heat that had leapt up between
them with his nearness, his kiss. She shivered and rubbed her arms,
staring numbly after him as he walked away, smug and satisfied—and
begging for a dagger in the back.

“Never forget a crude oaf made you feel this
way, Miss Stevens. Never.”

* * * *

Winter tossed and turned in her bed, reliving
every shameful moment of her past. Every detail was as painfully,
achingly clear, as powerful as if it had happened only
yesterday.

Her body ached with remembered longing—as
unwelcome now as it had been then, and she was furious at herself
for desiring him, for yearning for his kisses.

Would she never escape those unbidden
feelings he’d aroused in her so long ago?

CHAPTER THREE

If she’d had the coin, Winter would have
hired someone to clobber Logan Cordell as he left Giovanni’s studio
with the painting and taken the canvas once he was down.
Unfortunately, that had not been an option. Only the wealthy could
afford the safety and clean conscience of having their work hired
out. Winter no longer fell in that category and had been left with
no option but pursue the drastic ... and dangerous herself. She
simply couldn’t wait around to see what he had planned.

The boy, Sam, whom she’d paid to watch
Lord Remington’s residence, had come with a message, assuring her
his lordship had left the premises to attend a card party at Mr.
Wickston’s. A more opportune time would likely never arise again—at
least not one that coincided with her level of desperation.
She
had
to get that painting.
She had to do it now, before her courage failed her.

It very nearly did fail her as she took out
the disguise she’d found for herself and examined it. Trousers! She
felt faint only thinking about the consequences should she be
recognized in such disgraceful attire, but the possibility of being
seen with no attire whatsoever, should that painting be displayed,
bolstered her flagging spirit.

She dressed in the discarded livery of one of
their servants, from a time when such could be afforded, slipping
on the midnight blue breeches, as well as a shirt and matching
jacket. The wool was warm enough she could easily stand the cold
outside, and hopefully no one would take much note of a servant
roaming the streets.

She could think of nothing to do with her
hair but tie it back and tuck it into her jacket, and cover her
head with a cap. Satisfied she could easily blend in with her
surroundings, she crept quietly out of her room and out of the
house with none the wiser.

She did not have enough confidence in her
disguise to try to catch a hack in her neighborhood—not that she
could have found one so late in the evening. Instead, she made her
way to the station not far from the park and rode to his townhouse
from there. The entire time she felt her belly working itself into
a tangle of knots. She was unused to being so nervous, and it did
not settle well with her.

Nearly an hour after she’d first received
Sam’s message, she stood across the street facing the darkened
residence, hidden in the shadows. A glow in the front entrance told
her the servants had left candles burning for their master’s
return. At this hour, she’d likely not encounter them were she
careful, for they should be abed. Avoiding the servant’s quarters
should suffice for her safety.

Swallowing her heart, which seemed to have
lodged itself in her throat, she dashed across the street to the
weathered brick house. As a child, she and her friends had played
here often, and she’d visited the home as a young adult until the
family had been forced to move away after the war. It saddened her
to think they were gone now. How ironic that an English nobleman
now owned this home.

Shaking off her distracting thoughts, she
went to the window of the parlor on the right side of the
townhouse. She prayed no changes had been made to the structure
since Logan had appropriated the place and moved in. If he hadn’t,
she should be able to access the house with little difficulty. She
remembered the window in that room had stuck in the sill and had
never been able to be locked down fully. A hard tug could pull it
open. She and her friend had discovered it one day when they had
sneaked out of the house to avoid the governess.

Reaching the window, she pressed her hands
against the lip and pushed up with as much strength as she could
muster. It shifted, moving up almost silently, and she nearly
jumped with joy, working it higher and higher until she could fit
through the opening.

She slipped inside, pausing to allow her eyes
to adjust to the gloom before proceeding further, trying to decide
where she would start her search.

It seemed unlikely he would have had such a
monstrosity hung in any of the public rooms. Poor taste aside, if
he hung it where any might see, he could not hope to hold it over
her in threat. The servants would gossip. The whole town would know
within hours of its placement.

It was possible that he had simply hidden it
away. On the other hand, Logan struck her as the sort of man who
would prefer to keep his ‘weapon’ close. She felt certain he would
have it in his room. No doubt, as a man, he enjoyed looking on a
woman’s naked form.

It was strangely disturbing to think of a man
not her husband seeing what god had given her. Even if it was
created from the imagination of a talented artist. The artist’s
rendition was remarkably close to her fleshly form.

Winter shook her head. ‘Twas best not to
dwell on such matters.

Taking one of the candles left burning on a
side table, she crept up the stairs to the main hall on the second
floor. The servants quarters were on the third floor, she knew, so
she would not need to look there.

Wax dripped onto her fingers, stinging her,
but she ignored it, looking around the restored house to gain her
bearings. The suite of rooms set aside for the master and mistress
of the house were located at the end of the hall, two bedrooms
separated by a conjoined sitting room. She’d gone there once in a
game of hide and seek, a game never finished when they’d been
caught.

Winter found his room easily. It was just as
she remembered. Crouching as if she would receive a blow, she
opened the door slowly, pushing it open on noiseless, well-oiled
hinges.

Thankfully the room was empty. Letting out a
pent-up breath, she moved cautiously inside, closing the door
behind her. She set the candle on a dresser near the door. Turning,
she saw the bed. It seemed to loom, obscenely huge in the space,
and she could only imagine what sort of wickedness had been
performed between its sheets.

Revolting man.

A block chest sat at the foot of the bed, an
embroidered cushion inset on the top as an alternate seat. It
looked like something a woman would have, and strangely out of
place. She wondered if perhaps it had belonged to his mother.
Winter opened it, holding her breath in expectancy that she would
find the rolled canvas there, but she found only summer garments
stored inside. She shut it gingerly, looking around for another
possibility.

Abruptly, a faint, hollow rapping reached her
ears. Like a deer that suddenly catches the scent of the hunter,
her head came up with a jerk. She listened intently, but could hear
little beyond the sudden thumping of her pulse in her ears. She
finally identified the sound, however, as footsteps.

She held her breath, frozen immobile as the
footsteps became louder, came nearer, ceasing abruptly as they
paused outside the door. Slowly, the knob began to turn. Winter
stifled a gasp, looked wildly around for a place to hide and
finally dove under the bed, unable to think beyond the immediate
need to hide.

She’d barely scrambled under the bed when the
door opened. She put her cheek to the floor, peering beneath the
dust ruffle. Black booted feet came into her view. They stopped in
the doorway. For a moment she thought, a little hopefully, that
perhaps it was merely a servant, come to check to see if his master
had returned.

The hope died almost instantly. No servant
wore boots like these, of the finest of leather, polished until one
could almost see their reflection.

It had to be Logan.

But why had he stopped at the door?

In dawning horror, she remembered leaving the
burning candle stick on the dresser by the door. She clamped a hand
over her mouth to stifle a gasp, felt her face draining of blood.
What other evidence had she left of her intrusion? What a careless
fool she’d been!

Why, why had he come back to the house so
early? He should have been out gambling and being a rakehell for
hours. Certainly well into the night.