Page 5 of Surrender to Sin

“Christ, Grace,” he said, all humor vanishing as he took an audible breath. “Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“I said look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her head. His gaze was sympathetic, but barely leashed heat burned as well, making her gown feel far too tight. Seconds later, a rough, slightly callused fingertip dragged a tingling path of fire across her lower lip, then darted down to caress her collarbone and the lace-edged bodice of her gown.

Grace’s nipples hardened further and she shivered. It should be embarrassing, how fast a brief, expert caress from a near-stranger aroused her, but all she could think of was offering anything he wanted to continue, mild scandal be damned. “My lord, please, I—”

“Lovers should be on a first name basis, even temporary, fake ones. Call me Sin.”

“I am very grateful for your assistance.”

He shrugged. “Well, it is a most intriguing challenge, devising a deliberate yet mild scandal for partial ruination. But in the interests of science and justice, I shall ponder some options. Regrettably I have a series of meetings today, but be here tomorrow morning at eleven, and do not be late. Tardiness results in penalties.”

Grace nodded quickly, desire and relief and uncertainty coiling tightly within her.

The betrothal-ending mission had begun.

Chapter Two

Baxter. Goddamned fucking Baxter.

The hated name had pounded his mind all damned night, and not even a particularly bright and sunny morning could improve his temper.

Unclenching his fists, Sin let his gaze travel the length and breadth of his private parlor. He willed the soothing combination of pale blue silk walls, white velvet chaises, and gold trim to calm his senses. The thought of that monstrous sack of shit near any woman made him want to vomit, but for some reason the feeling in regard to Grace was doubled. Carrington hadn’t quite smothered the spirit from his trophy spouse—some very intriguing glimpses of minx and unawakened desire had shone through yesterday—but Baxter would be the death of her.

As he’d been the death of Sara.

The fucking useless authorities had ruled it accidental, saying Baxter’s poor, unlucky fiancé had been running to greet him, tumbled down some steps, and suffered a fatal head knock. As if steps left faded cane welts across backs and legs. As if smitten young ladies delirious with happiness often sent tear-stained notes to their childhood playmate, begging for help to stop the wedding. He’d been hours too late to rescue Sara. But that would never happen again.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

Flexing his fingers, Sin sat down at his treasured pianoforte. This particular instrument had belonged to his mother, and even now, he could hear her groan as he deliberately butchered one masterpiece after another in the hope she might excuse him to go fishing. It never worked. She would give him that reproving look, and say “Seb, my baby, the good Lord gave you a gift that cannot be wasted, so the sooner you master the tune, the sooner you can escape.” Then he’d play the entire stack of music sheets without a single error and she would clasp her hands and sway in time, that sunshine smile on her face…

“What a beautiful piece. And you know it by heart, too.”

His head shot up to see Grace standing awkwardly on the other side of the room, her reticule clutched tightly in her fingers. Fuck, she was beautiful. Not even the slate-gray gown of half-mourning she wore hid her curves, or dulled the golden curls piled atop her head and the sapphire blue of her eyes. If he had any say in the matter, Baxter would call Grace his wife when hell froze over.

“Good morning, sweetheart. Welcome to my parlor.”

“Your butler let me in and escorted me here. I hope that is all right, I wasn’t going to argue with someone the size of a cathedral and the look of an executioner.”

Sin laughed, his fingers continuing to caress the keys of their own accord. “Diaz is a kitten until the moment of threat, at which point he turns into a starving tiger. Quite remarkable to watch. But unlike tigers, I promise not to bite if you come over here and join me.”

She ambled forward. “What if I asked nicely?”

“Well, well, I was right. My lady does have some minx about her.”

“You know next to nothing about me, my lord, except my uncle’s title, my father’s occupation, and the name of my late husband.”

“Touché,” he said mock-contritely, the pertness of her tone causing his cock to stir. “But you still aren’t seated.”

Grace eventually perched on the wide, cushioned bench beside him. “There. Happy now?”

Time to discover the true mettle of the lady. “Of course. Although my joy would be exponentially greater if you were spread naked across the lid. With a muse such as you, I’m sure I could do more than play music.”

She gasped, but a spark of something remarkably like curiosity in her eyes said it was a habitual response rather than true outrage. “Do you think about nakedness all the time?” she said eventually, sternly.