For the first time in her life, Hedley Sinclair holds the keys to her own future. She’s inherited the crumbling Greyson Park, but the disrepair does nothing to dissuade her. No one will ever lock her up again or attempt to take away what’s hers. No one except Rafe Danvers—the charming, fiendish man from Fallow Hall. He’s determined to claim Greyson Park, but if Hedley isn’t careful, he’ll claim her heart as well.
Rafe has every intention of ridding Greyson Park of the conniving Sinclairs, once and for all. The last thing he expects is to find the beguiling Hedley Sinclair—the younger sister of his former fiancée—standing in his way. With drastic measures called for, he plans to marry her off in order to regain control of the estate. The only trouble is, he can’t seem to stop seducing her. Even worse, he can’t help falling in love with her.
A quarter hour had passed before he stepped into the parlor of Greyson Park once more. Hedley was not in the room, though he saw the tinderbox waiting near the hearth. Carrying his greatcoat bundle of wood to the box in the corner, he proceeded to fill it, over fill it, and then stacked the driest pieces on the iron grate. Boris ambled over and dropped the slender sticks he held between his teeth. They were slightly soggy, but his intentions were honorable. Both of them had ungentlemanly behavior to atone for, warranted or not.
Rafe heard her footsteps on the stairs in the hall before he heard her gasp. “I thought I told you to leave.” Not bothering to turn around, he searched the tinderbox for flint but only found a small sliver. Instantly, he recalled the cut on her finger. A rush of guilt and something else churned in his gut. “Aye, you did.” He stood and moved toward the woodbox where he’d left his greatcoat. Fishing into one of the pockets, he withdrew a slender bundle wrapped in oilskin. “But what kind of man would I be to leave you to freeze to death?” “You’re more demon than man,” she said, carrying her own bundle.
Leaves and twigs poked out from the side of that torn shawl of hers. She’d removed the wet shawl from her shoulders. The threadbare pink muslin pulled taut over her breasts. Even through the gauzy fichu, he could see the creamy swells spilling over the top. Clearly, the dress hadn’t been made for a woman with her form. He was a man who appreciated a lush figure on a woman. Or at least, on any woman who wasn’t a Sinclair.