Succumb to Me Read online

  “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.

  “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, pushi
ng 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.