Succumb to Me Page 2

  “My interests would no doubt surprise you.” He paused and raked a hand through his unfashionably long hair curling in the wind. “As it happens, not all men of my profession are boorish oafs. I consider myself a patron of the arts.”

  Winter thought she was going to be sick at the reminder. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going.” She turned to go, but he blocked her escape with a hand on her upper arm—as if he had a right to touch her as he willed, that some permission had been granted him. She pulled loose from his hand and regarded him coldly.

  “Do you require an escort? It has been long since I was in the city, but I am certain unmarried women of genteel breeding do not wander its streets alone.”

  She recognized sarcasm when she heard it. Dare he suggest her actions at fault, when his own were so odious? “Thank you, no. I’ve arranged for someone to come.”

  “Very well then. Perhaps you will allow me to call on you some time.”

  Her lips tightened. “Friends are always welcome visitors,” she said snidely, hoping he was not too dense to perceive the obvious. He had never been a friend and was certainly not one now.

  He bowed and left her as a coach pulled up on the street.

  The skin on her neck prickled, and she could swear he watched her as she entered the coach to leave, but she did not look back to confirm her suspicions. She had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of knowing how much he unsettled her.

  * * * *

  From the window of Giovanni’s studio, Logan watched Winter’s carriage as it disappeared from sight, his mood pensive.

  “My Lord, you are not pleased with the painting?” Worry tinged Giovanni’s voice.

  Logan did not turn, continuing to stare out the window. “On the contrary, I could not be more pleased with the results,” he said pensively. He rubbed a thumb along his whisker roughened chin absently, his thoughts upon the subject of the painting and their late skirmish.

  The painting, as exquisite and revealing as it was, could never compare to Winter. It depicted the beauty of her face and figure, but it portrayed no more than a pretty shell. It could not capture her life’s essence—so palpable he could feel it when she was near.

  And yet, he had not lied. He was most pleased with the results, for he had seen in her eyes that she knew the hunter had come for her and she had found herself trapped in his snare.

  The painting would be equal torment to them both—for he found it only served to heighten his hunger to possess her, to see her naked and wanting, writhing with passion beneath him. It spurred his impatience to break through that chill exterior she had cultivated so carefully to find the vibrant woman she hid beneath the surface.

  She was just as he’d remembered, just as forbidden, just as tempting to touch.

  Every memory of her, every secret longing he’d buried deep inside over the years pushed back into his consciousness, to be relived with painful intensity. He should not have come back. His father had been right in that at least, but, despite the years and miles that separated them, he’d found he could not forget her. And finally he had known that he would have no peace unless he sought her out, and finished what they’d begun.

  She had tormented him in her innocence, still did.

  The smell of her hair drove him to distraction; her regal poise and cool stare; the seductive huskiness of her voice, tinged with the lure of the South.... He’d spent countless waking nights imagining what he would do when he met her again, what he would do when she was within his grasp....

  It was madness to have come, insanity to have set his plot in motion. Or, if not, then he would surely be driven to madness before he accomplished his goal, and he hadn’t yet tasted her hidden delights. Her disdain, the sharp intelligence she possessed that cut to the quick might well be the death of him, for it had led him to this lunacy.

  And yet he had no reservations regarding the course he had chosen for himself. He knew a wildcat lay just beneath her prim, icy surface, waiting for him to free her from her self-imposed prison. That promise drew him to her as surely as dying man to water.

  The question was, would he come out unscathed, as he always had?

  It seemed unlikely, and yet that in itself was a part of the challenge, to have his revenge and come out unscathed, as he had not before. But he also knew that Winter was a woman of hidden passion, that could draw him in and slay him with his own sword. A man could spend a lifetime trying to unlock her secrets. He relished the challenge of facing a foe his equal, when winning would be such sweet reward....

  * * * *

  Winter was nearly home when she realized she had done nothing more during the entire return trip than stare blankly into space while the images of her meeting with Logan Cordell replayed itself over and over in her mind. Each time it did, she thought of something far more clever that she could have said to set him back on his heels. By the time she became aware of her surroundings once more, she’d had him groveling at her feet, begging her forgiveness and offering up the painting, which she had promptly ripped to shreds—and still withheld her forgiveness.

  Reality set in at last. She had been blindsided and she had done little more than stare at him with the frightened eyes of a rabbit caught in a snare, stammer and shake with fear. She seethed with anger, but fear reared its ugly face once more, undermining her righteous anger, which should have given her strength.

  Winter could only wonder when Logan Cordell would strike again. She could scarcely bear thinking on it, for each time she did it heightened her anxieties to the point that panic set in, but she knew she would have to try to prepare for any eventuality. Perhaps nothing would come of it after all, she thought hopefully, and she was worrying herself needlessly.

  The lie did nothing to ease her fears. As foolhardy as she knew it must be to act hastily, she was fairly certain that her nerves could not withstand the wiser course, to wait and see. She must think of something. She couldn’t help feeling that her situation could only worsen if she did nothing. But what could she do?

  On reaching home, she was greeted by her mother before she’d gotten fully inside and removed her cloak.

  Excited and breathless, her mother clasped her hands agitatedly. “Winter, you will not believe the news I have heard this day! Come, sit in the parlor with me. I must tell you at once.”

  Winter couldn’t imagine what her mother could have heard to discompose her so. They never had visitors. Whatever friends they’d had before had disappeared in direct proportion with the money the debt collectors had accumulated from her father’s accounts after his death.

  Naturally enough, her first thought was that her mother had somehow heard about the painting, and she thought for several moments that she might faint. Fortunately her sense of guilt and fear had not totally deprived her of her wits and she realized that her mother actually seemed excited by her news, not hysterical.

  She was able to regain a measure of composure as she hung her cloak up by the door before following her mother. They entered the small room they referred to as the parlor and settled themselves near the iron brazier, the glowing coals banishing the unseasonable chill they had never grown accustomed to even though they’d lived here for the past eleven years. At times, she sorely missed Savannah’s warmth.

  “Do you remember that gentleman from a few years back who wished to call on you—Mr. Cordell?” Mrs. Abigail Stevens asked excitedly of her daughter.

  Winter nodded, unable to speak. Had he already set the next step of his plan to ruin them in motion? Had her mother discovered what her only daughter had been about?

  “Your father thought him an unworthy suitor and you gave him the cut-direct, as any obedient daughter would have. I confess, he did not seem low bred to me, as your father accused. I worried that we would suffer repercussions from your father’s actions, but naught came of it, and I never gave it another thought.” She paused for effect, and Winter gritted her teeth in suspense, maintaining her ladylike facade of cool interest with a sup
reme effort. “As it happens, and I hate to admit this, but your father was wrong in his thinking.”

  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 again
st 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.