“No one will intrude upon us here,” Miss Winter reassured him as her hands caressed. “What is the matter, Your Grace?”
He was what was the matter. Or rather, his mind was. His blasted affliction. He had suffered it for as long as he could recall, beginning back to the days when his father had kept him locked within that damned chamber.
But he could not say that. Not to this brazen female continuing to make herself far too familiar with his person.
“You are the matter, Miss Winter,” he snapped, irritated with himself for his weakness.
Irritated with her for his unwanted reaction to her.
She stiffened as if he had slapped her, taking a step back and removing her touch. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I often forget myself. I meant no insult.”
Yet, she had insulted him by trundling him into this bloody salon as if he needed to hide himself away like a shameful secret. Because he was a shameful secret, and that was what smarted most.
The Duke of Coventry could not even remain in a drawing room for a meaningless game of charades without turning into a Bedlamite.
“You should not be alone with me, unchaperoned,” he said, all he could manage.
Perspiration filmed his upper lip. His heart yet pounded. But there was one undeniable reaction to her: his prick was as hard as it had ever been. Even in such a state, his body knew what it wanted, and it wanted hers.
“Of course I should not,” she agreed, giving him a look he imagined she might also use upon someone who had just kicked a puppy. “But I was thinking of your welfare, Your Grace. You seemed…ill.”
Ill, yes.
That was one word for it.
Of all the frustrations in Gill’s life, here was the greatest one: that he had no control over his own mind or body. None. A part of him had hoped, futilely, that he would somehow outgrow his affliction. Or that he would be strong enough to conquer it. But his affliction was not about strength, and he had been forced to acknowledge that truth, regardless of how daunting he found it.
“I am,” he began, only to pause, struggling to find a suitable explanation. “I do not prefer gatherings of people. Or speaking. I find silence far more comforting.”
“Silence,” she repeated, blinking, as though the word was unfamiliar.
When a lady chattered as much as she did, he supposed it would be an unfamiliar word.
“Silence, yes.” He swallowed, then inhaled, trying to regain domination of his senses. His heart seemed quite unwilling to obey. “Quiet is peaceful and comforting.”
Though in truth, he did not particularly enjoy silence either. Silence reminded him of the chamber. The darkness. The stale air. The helplessness.
Silence gave him nightmares.
Speaking robbed his voice.
What a hopeless muddle he was.
“Complete silence?” Miss Winter wanted to know. “What of the birds singing in spring? Do you like that sound?”
He pondered her query, never having thought about birds before. “Yes, I suppose.”
“Or the wind rustling through the trees,” she added. “Do you find fault with that sound, Your Grace?”
He cleared his throat again. “I cannot recall finding fault with it.”
“How about the waves crashing upon the shore?” she asked next. “My brother took us all to Brighton once, and it was quite beautiful, even though there was a storm churning off shore. Indeed, the storm almost made it more exquisite, if I think upon it now. We often forget how powerful the world around us is, just how much we are at its mercy.”
She was strikingly astute for a chit with a wayward tongue.
Against his will, Gill was beginning to like Miss Christabella Winter.
“I do not object to the sound of the sea,” he told her grudgingly. “Indeed, it is quite calming, in the proper circumstances.”
“What about the sound of a mewling kitten?” she ventured next. “Or the bark of a sweet little puppy? Do you like the sound of the pianoforte? The jangling of tack? One of my favorite sounds is that of a stream, gently rushing, never stopping. There is something so magnificent about water, I find. Do you not find it so?”
“Magnificent, yes,” he agreed.
But he was staring at her. Taking her in. He was not thinking about water at all. Rather, he was noting the precise shade of her hair, the tints of gold within it. Noting the copper, the way it almost seemed like a flame, the hues all dancing together in the sunlight. And then, he was looking at her long lashes, her blue-green eyes, her wide lips, her creamy throat, her perfect bosom…
Fucking hell, this was no good.
No good at all.
“Then you do like sounds,” she pronounced, as if she had just solved some great mystery. “But you do not prefer conversation. That is the sound to which you object, is it not?”
She was right, confound her.
“I converse when I must,” he defended himself.
That was a lie, and he knew it. For he often eschewed speaking altogether. Or he allowed Ash to speak for him. Ash, with his smooth, rakish ways, spoke effortlessly. Gill, weighed down by his affliction, was abysmal at conducting any sort of meaningful dialogue.
“I thought you did not speak because you are haughty,” she confessed then, guileless as ever. “But that is not the way of it. I see that now. You are truly affected by interaction with others. Not by sounds themselves.”
Once again, the irritating Miss Christabella Winter was proving far too perceptive.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes.”
There. He admitted his weakness, his inability to act as a proper duke ought.
Gill waited for her to recoil. To express her horror. To flee. Worse, to laugh at him.
Instead, she smiled. And, Lord help him, it was the most beauteous, genuine, pleasing smile he had ever beheld. It was a smile that burrowed its way into his soul. It was a smile he would never forget. It was a smile to surpass all others which would come after it.
“Oh, how fortunate, Your Grace,” she told him, that bewitching smile of hers deepening. “I know just the remedy for your ailments.”
“You do?” he was skeptical. Because no woman had ever spoken to him this much. He inevitably seemed to scare them away.
“Yes.” She tilted her head, her gaze one with his. “Me.”
Chapter Three
“You?”
The Duke of Coventry’s voice was incredulous. And icy. Indeed, it echoed in the chamber as if it had been a shot fired from a pistol.
Her courage flagged.
Perhaps she had been wrong after all.
But, no. She would not retreat. She had already come too far.
“Yes,” she said, tipping her chin in defiance, daring him to naysay her. “Me. I am the remedy for your ailments. Not that I wish to brag, but I would be remiss if I failed to mention that I have now calmed you into speaking with me on nothing short of two separate occasions.”
Which, of course, she had.
And, naturally, she wanted to know why.
But also, she had already settled upon her brilliant notion of teaching the Duke of Coventry to kiss. The two of them could practice together. And then, he could garner the courage to woo another lady of his choosing, and she could go on to practice her wiles upon a deserving rake.
There were only two small problems with her plan. One: she was no longer certain lack of experience was the duke’s only romantic impediment. Two: she was no longer certain she could kiss the Duke of Coventry and then blissfully encourage him to court another woman. Not now when she stood in such proximity to him, she practically felt his presence like a spark skittering over her.
But she would worry about these problems later. Perhaps. For the moment, Coventry’s delicious blue gaze was firmly fixed upon her, and she was soaking up his attention as if she were drought-ridden soil and he were the rain.
“You have vexed me into speaking,” he said. His tone was cutting.
&nb
sp; She ignored the sting. “Have I vexed you, Your Grace? Specify how, if you please, so I may remedy my future comportment.”
He pursed his lips. And heavens, how fine his lips were.
Perfectly sculpted, a delicious shade of pink. She wondered if they would feel as firm against her mouth as they appeared, or if they would be soft and lush. If they would give…
“You have been far too familiar,” said those luscious lips.
Oh.
Yes, she supposed she had. But she had never cared much for rules. Polite society was silly, as far as she was concerned. If there existed a book she was not allowed to read, she wanted to read it. If there was a word she was forbidden from speaking, she wanted to shout it. If there was a man she was not allowed to kiss, well, she wanted to kiss him.
Of course she did.
Especially if the man in question was the Duke of Coventry.
“I should beg your pardon,” she said, knowing it was what was expected of her.
“You should, or you do?” he asked pointedly.
“I should,” she responded, just to needle him.
“You are not sorry, then,” the duke observed, his tone as forbidding as his countenance.
She wondered if he had ever known a carefree day in his life. She also wondered why the supposition he had not should bother her so. Certainly, the duke had never shown her a kindness or a mercy. Nor had he given her any indication he enjoyed her company. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“I know what is expected of me,” she said, her tone challenging. “You think I should beg your pardon, Your Grace. Society has its whims and its rules, and we are all expected to follow them without question. But if I have indeed been familiar with you, I do not regret it. This is the most entertainment I have enjoyed since my arrival here in Oxfordshire.”
That was the truth, all of it. She thrived upon gaiety and interesting characters, parties and routs and balls, the whirl and bustle of London life. The country had been remarkably staid thus far, with all the rakehells in attendance otherwise occupied by her sisters. Merriment and games grew old. The Duke of Coventry, however, presented a challenge.
Christabella Winter adored challenges.
And handsome men.
Not necessarily in that order.
The Duke of Coventry sighed. “In truth, your lack of propriety is somehow charming. And disarming as well. I suspect that is quite intentional. You strike me as the sort who could lead an army into battle with ease.”
“Ah, but I would never lead an army into battle,” she told him. “I would convince them all the cause was futile and they should return to their homes to live happily ever after.”
“And then their villages would be pillaged and burned, they would be murdered in their sleep, and the enemy would overtake their land, their wives, and homes,” he countered, quite brutally.
She blinked.
An unexpected darkness lurked behind his quiet façade. What had happened to the Duke of Coventry in his life to render him so embittered?
She wanted to know, and yet, a part of her did not.
Christabella frowned at him. “That is a harsh interpretation, Your Grace.”
“That is an accurate interpretation, Miss Winter,” he said, a stubborn note entering his baritone.
They were engaging in an argument.
Her frown turned into a grin. She felt as if she had won. Because he was speaking to her, nevertheless. He had not frozen, and the haunted expression had fled.
“I believe you have just proven me correct, Your Grace.” Energy and delight suddenly filled her. She had to move. And there was only one way she could conceive of doing so. She closed the distance between them once more.
Scant distance.
He smelled delicious, of lemons and bay and shaving soap.
She wanted to touch him again. Her fingers almost itched with the need. His muscles had been so…strong.
“How have I proven you correct?” he asked.
The husky rumble of his voice was as delectable as his scent.
“You are still speaking with me,” she said, her gaze dipping once more to his forbidding mouth. “Quite eloquently, even if somewhat rudely. I have settled upon an excellent plan. Would you like to hear it now?”
“No,” he said.
The disagreeable man.
She gave him a quelling look. “I am going to tell you anyway.”
“I never doubted it,” he grumbled, scrubbing a hand along his jaw.
But he did not go. She took it as a sign of his acquiescence.
“I am going to kiss you,” she pronounced.
Gill had misheard the maddening creature.
Surely, he had.
For there was no other explanation to describe the words he thought he had just heard her utter. Individually, they meant nothing at all. Strung together, one sentence of six little words, they proved his undoing.
“You,” he sputtered, then stopped.
Because he was not certain if his tongue would properly function. Or that his breeches could survive the painful surge of his cockstand.
“Me,” she said brightly, her tone agreeable.
As if they had been speaking about a triviality such as the newly fallen snow, or the unseasonable cold. As if they exchanged pleasantries in a drawing room. As if she had not just spoken the sentence that had set him aflame.
“Miss Winter,” he began, “surely I misheard you. You could not have said what I thought you just uttered…”
“Of course I could have.” She smiled at him yet again, sending prickles down his spine. “And I did.”
Her boldness should be aggrieving. Shocking. Instead, he found it entrancing. Intoxicating. Perhaps because all the blood in his body had rushed to a singular portion of his anatomy.
Because she had stepped even nearer. Her gown—white satin with an ivory lace overlay—fluttered into him. Her hands settled upon his shoulders. Her face—utterly lovely—tipped back. Her blue-green eyes seared him. Her mouth was a sinful promise he could not deny.
Yes, he could, he told himself. He was stronger than seduction. He could withstand her greatest efforts.
He had never kissed a lady before.
He would not begin with this flighty Winter chit, who followed him about and touched him as if it were her right. Who announced she was going to kiss him with such cool calm. Who was bold and daring, with her blazing hair, her sharp tongue, and her maddeningly divine scent of summer blooms.
“Miss Winter, you cannot simply go about kissing the gentlemen in the house party,” he told her.
But the words lacked the sting they should possess, and he knew it. And one of his hands had settled upon her waist whilst the other had found its way to her shoulder. He was touching her, by God. Without the affliction setting in as it had on previous occasions. His heart did not pound. His skin did not perspire.
Impossible.
She was warm, heating his skin through all the layers of fabric keeping him from her flesh. And soft, so bloody soft.
“I do not want to go about kissing all the gentleman,” she said softly. Sweetly. “I only want to kiss you.”
Her cheeks turned pink as she said the last.
It was the first sign this wild Winter was capable of experiencing embarrassment. She was so forward and bold, where he was quiet and contained. He was a breeze whispering through a vast forest, and she was a maelstrom overwhelming the coast.
Somehow, he found that intriguing. He found her intriguing.
His own gaze slipped to her lips. They were full and pouty, inviting and wicked. Everything a woman’s mouth should be.
He swallowed. “You want to kiss me.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Only me,” he clarified.
As if that mattered. The voice inside him was strident and demanding. Kiss her, it said. Take her mouth with yours. He had already forgotten his stern inner admonition to kiss only the woman he would wed. All he could think about wa
s the way this woman’s lips would feel beneath his. Would they be soft and supple? What would happen after their mouths met? He had read a great deal on the subject in an effort to better prepare himself for the inevitable bedding he would need to do with his duchess.
Yet, as he drank in the sight of Miss Christabella Winter, and as he felt her so vital and luscious in his arms, he could think of nothing but her.
“Only you,” she said then. “If you wish it, of course. I thought it would help us both, you see.”
“Help us?” Somehow, his hand was traveling up and down her spine, stroking her. Bringing her closer. “How?”
“We shall both of us be the better for our practice.” She grinned.
Her hands remained on his shoulders, resting there. He liked the weight of them, so small and dainty. Liked the way her face tipped back to accommodate for his greater height. Liked those delicious freckles on her nose. Liked her proposal. These kisses she suggested.
“Practice,” he repeated, turning the word over in his mind.
It made sense. If he were able to properly kiss a woman, perhaps he would fare better in his mad quest to obtain a wealthy wife. How was he to compete with charming rakehells like his brother if he could neither speak to a lady nor show her his intent in other fashions? Ash said the fairer sex adored kissing. Everywhere, the rascal had said, grinning triumphantly.
Somehow, he thought of kissing Miss Winter. Everywhere. From the tip of her nose, to her sweet lips, to her smooth throat, all the way to her full breasts until he found his way to his knees, and from there he would lift her skirts and press his face between her thighs…
Curse it, such thoughts were ill becoming, and he knew it.
Gill was not ignorant of what passed between a man and a woman. He was merely incapable of performing it. His brother had brought London’s most famed courtesan to him, and still, the affliction had returned, striking with a vengeance. The memory served as a bitter reminder that even if he now held Miss Winter in his arms and the notion of practicing kisses with her beckoned like the beacon of a lighthouse to a ship in distress off shore, the affliction could seize him at any second.
Wild in Winter Page 3
