Wild in Winter

by Scott, Scarlett

  Rendering kisses and practice and everything else impossible.

  “Practice,” Miss Winter was saying now, her bright gaze firmly on his lips. Her voice was a seductive rasp. “Yes, we shall be a boon for one another. It is the perfect plan.”

  He could not think of a more imperfect plan.

  Gentlemen did not practice kissing ladies they had no intention of wedding. Devil take it, they did not practice kissing ladies at all. Only scoundrels did, and that was so they could find their way beneath said ladies’ skirts.

  Gill needed to find a proper, wealthy bride.

  He needed to turn his mind to accomplishing his task before the estates went into further ruin.

  But Christabella Winter’s eyes were burning into his once more. And she was a decadent temptation in his arms. He could still speak, breathe, and move. It was rather a miracle, of sorts. Or perhaps she was. A temptation, for certain.

  What would be the harm? asked that damned voice inside him.

  One kiss.

  That is all.

  Or perhaps two. Three? Mayhap even four…

  “Very well,” he found himself saying. “One kiss. For practice, you understand. Nothing more.”

  She beamed.

  His inner sense of caution returned like a smack to the face. “And pray, do not think to entrap me into marriage with kisses, Miss Winter. It will not happen.”

  Her lips twitched, almost as if she were suppressing laughter. “You have no fear on that score, Your Grace. I am marrying a rake. Hence, the necessity of practice. I should hate to disappoint my future husband with the kisses of a tyro.”

  Here, now. She was betrothed? That was certainly news. He had heard nothing of the sort.

  Even so, something inside him was irreparably broken. Because the knowledge did nothing to relieve the uncomfortable state of his cock as it ought.

  “I cannot think your husband would approve of you kissing another gentleman, even if he did not appreciate a neophyte,” he told her, giving her a frown.

  Truly, the chit was incorrigible.

  “Fortunately, he shall never know,” she said, confirming his deduction. “That is the beauty of kissing practice. It is practice. For both of us. Just as my future husband will have no notion I ever learned how to kiss with the Duke of Coventry, your future wife will have no inkling your first kiss was with one of the wicked Winters.”

  Kissing practice.

  His cock twitched.

  His inner sense of right and wrong, however, would not be seduced. “You are betraying your betrothed, Miss Winter.”

  “I do not yet have a betrothed.” She smiled. “You see? My plan is flawless.”

  She was flawless.

  Thank Christ she did not already have a betrothed.

  The notion had been enough to make him feel itchy. And angry. And jealous.

  Irrationally so.

  He struggled to follow her logic. “You said you are marrying a rake, Miss Winter. What else was I to surmise from such a statement?”

  “Oh, I am,” she said, her smile deepening to reveal a lone groove in her left cheek. “However, I have yet to meet him. There is no better time than now to perfect my kissing skills. I shall need them, of course. I would hate to think my husband found my kisses regrettable and untutored.”

  He almost choked. First, that dimple. Good God, that fucking dimple. Second, no one would ever find the kisses of Miss Christabella Winter regrettable and untutored. He was bloody well certain of it.

  No betrothed, taunted the voice.

  Kissing practice. What sort of female arrived at such a nonsensical notion? And why could he not seem to send her from his arms?

  “Very well,” he found himself saying. “But just this once, Miss Winter. Never again after this sole occasion.”

  “You will not regret it, Your Grace,” she said, still smiling like the Bedlamite she undoubtedly was. Still beautiful, damn it. She caressed his cheek then, just fleetingly, before stepping out of his embrace. “Our practice will commence tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” The word was torn from him, a denial. If he was to kiss her, he wanted to kiss her now, damn it.

  “Yes, tomorrow, Your Grace.” She was already halfway across the salon. “We have lingered alone together too long as it is. I dare not remain much longer, for fear we are caught. A forced marriage is the last thing either of us wants, yes? Kissing practice must wait for another day. But, oh, I am so pleased you have seen the wisdom of my plan! I will meet you in the west wing, shall we say, around two o’clock? Far less chance of discovery there.”

  Everything she said made sense.

  Of course it did.

  What did not make sense was the ache left behind by the absence of her in his arms.

  “I am not certain I will be able to accommodate an assignation,” he informed her, feeling churlish at the unaffected manner in which she was flitting away. She had just changed everything inside him and tied him up in veritable knots.

  “You will,” she said as she reached the door, spinning back to face him. Her tone was confident. Knowing. She looked like a goddess come to life.

  One sent to tempt and torment him.

  “And how do you know that?” he asked, irritated with her. Irritated with himself as well. He should be able to withstand this beautiful minx.

  “Because you want to kiss me, Your Grace,” she announced, her smile turning into a rakish grin. “And also because I disarm you. You have just carried on an entire conversation without once turning into an icicle.”

  He did not turn into an icicle, by God.

  He opened his mouth to tell her so.

  “Yes, you do turn into an icicle,” she argued before he could speak. “But a very handsome icicle, Your Grace. You see? You are ice, and I am flame. I melt you. That is why my plan is so perfect. Tomorrow in the red salon, in the west wing, at three o’clock.”

  She was right. Blast her. Except for the time.

  Her back was to him once more when he called out.

  “Miss Winter?”

  She spun about, her brows raised. “Your Grace?”

  “You have the time confused,” he growled. “Initially, you said two o’clock. Now you have just said three o’clock. Which is it to be?”

  Miss Winter laughed. “You noticed. I hoped you would.”

  Miss Christabella Winter was trouble. No question.

  “Two or three?” he demanded.

  “Two,” she said, before dipping into a proper curtsy. “Until then, Your Grace.”

  And then, she vanished over the threshold, the door closing quietly behind her. He stood there, blinking, frozen—like a bloody icicle, it was true—thinking that but for the scent of summer blossoms lingering in the air, she might have been the product of his imagination. He would have been better off had she been, he was sure.

  Just as sure as he was that he would be meeting her in the west wing tomorrow at two o’clock. Yes indeed, Miss Christabella was trouble. Capital-T trouble.

  And he was capital-I intrigued.

  Chapter Four

  Christabella was the most reckless of all her siblings. This, she knew.

  She was also the most romantic at heart. The most idealistic. The dreamer.

  This, she also knew.

  She relished risks. Rejoiced in rule breaking. Delighted in danger.

  Unlike her brother and her sisters, Christabella did not mind being considered a wicked Winter by polite society. She did not long for respectability. Not even a title. All she wanted was a man who kissed her and made her feel as if the earth had shifted beneath her slippers.

  Which was why it made complete sense and also no sense at all that she was currently in a minor salon deep within the west wing of Abingdon House, pacing the floor and awaiting the Duke of Coventry. First, the man was not a rake. He had never even kissed another.

  Scowling at the mantel clock, she turned on her heel to perform another circumnavigation of the chamber. It was a q
uarter past two, and the duke was nowhere to be found. Nary even the drop of a footfall in the hall, not a creak. Not a note slipped to her surreptitiously. Nothing.

  No word.

  No duke.

  It was just as well, she told herself with a sigh. There was no reason why she should be aggrieved that Coventry had chosen not to meet with her. If he did not want to kiss a lady, that was his problem, not hers. She could very easily find a replacement, she was certain. For now that she had settled upon the plan of learning how to kiss before she met her husband, she could not let it go.

  True, the only man she could conceive herself wishing to kiss at the moment was the maddening duke. And true, her heart still beat faster when she thought of him. Also true, thoughts of his mouth had kept her up all night, into the wee hours of dawn. She had contemplated how she should kiss him first. Or if she should allow him. If she should kiss him slowly or quickly, if she should engage her tongue as the characters in The Tale of Love did.

  And she had touched herself.

  Yes, she had.

  Her fingers had found her most sensitive place. But this time, she had imagined it was Coventry’s long, elegant fingers stroking her. Stroking her as he kissed her…

  “Oh my,” she muttered to herself as she paced the chamber once more. Her body was heated. All too aware. The ache between her thighs could not be answered. Not here.

  And all for a man who had not summoned the courage to seek her out.

  Why, the next time she was alone with him, she would box his handsome ears for—

  The door to the chamber opened.

  She spun around.

  There he stood. Tall. Golden. Leonine. Unsure of himself. The door closed at his back, and he remained where he was. His gaze found hers, unerringly, even across the chamber.

  He bowed.

  Quite elegantly, too. She could find no fault in it.

  She curtseyed, thinking it silly to observe the proprieties when they were meeting in secret. And yet, thinking how it seemed to heighten the anticipation, until the air between them was fairly quivering with a mixture of formality and anticipation.

  Wicked anticipation.

  “Miss Winter,” he said.

  “You are late,” she told him. “Your Grace.”

  She was mocking him. She knew she ought not, but she had just spent one quarter of an hour believing he would not deign to meet her. Worse, that he would not deign to kiss her. He had earned some nettling.

  “I am sorry.” He moved toward her, his strides slow and deliberate.

  For a man who was not at all a rake, he certainly made her heart beat faster.

  She watched him approach, and she could not help but think about kissing him. But she was determined not to give in so easily.

  “Why were you late?” she asked.

  He stopped before her, just out of reach, his blue eyes hot and intense upon hers. He said nothing. His jaw was rigid. She understood he was struggling. Battling against whatever internal forces made him detest conversation. She had taken note that her initial interactions with him always began in a more stilted fashion. He was the icicle. She was the fire.

  Which meant she would need to take the reins of this particular moment.

  She took two steps, then settled her hands upon his shoulders. They were rigid. Strong. He did not possess the lean build of a rake or a lord. Rather, he was sturdy and thick, much like a laborer.

  She liked it.

  She liked him.

  “Your Grace?” she prompted, making certain their eyes remained locked. “If you do not tell me why you were late, I shall have to guess.”

  He made a low sound in his throat, part growl.

  A promising sign.

  “You forgot how to read the time?” she asked. “You were waylaid by a dragon en route to the west wing? You had to rescue a mouse from a hungry feline?”

  He made another sound.

  “Oh,” she continued airily, as though he had spoken, “you need not tell me dragons are not real. But being delayed by a mythical creature is one of the only acceptable reasons for your tardiness. Obviously, rescuing a mouse would be an excellent excuse, for mice are quite adorable. Mouse ears are endearing, do you not think? And their noses. To say nothing of those tiny paws…”

  “Miss Winter,” he said at last, his voice sounding choked.

  She tried not to smile. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “You are the strangest creature I have ever met.”

  Hmm. Not precisely the words of a practiced seducer. He would have to work upon that.

  “I am neither strange, nor a creature,” she informed him, allowing her gaze to travel over the rest of his handsome countenance now that it seemed she had managed to thaw some of his ice.

  His jaw was so wide and strong. She could not contain the urge to touch it. So she gave in, gently running her fingers over the delicious angle. His face appeared smoothly shaven, but there was the slightest hint of his whiskers abrading her fingertips.

  He inhaled swiftly, his lips parting. “You were just attempting to convince me a rodent is adorable, and now you are petting me, Miss Winter.”

  She had to stifle her laughter at his bewildered tone. “Have you ever seen a mouse, Your Grace?”

  His jaw tensed beneath her touch. “Of course not. Nor have I any wish to.”

  “If you saw one, you would know how right I am,” she whispered, stroking his jaw again. “And I am not petting you at all. I am caressing you. Shall I stop?”

  He swallowed. “No.”

  Ah, His Grace approved.

  Excellent, because so did she. Touching him was making the ache between her thighs blossom and grow. It was also making her nipples tighten into hard little buds beneath her stays. His citrus and bay scent, coupled with his nearness, were doing strange things to her senses.

  “Shall we use our tongues when we kiss?” she asked him next.

  She had been pondering the question in preparation of their meeting.

  “Miss Winter,” he bit out.

  She had shocked him, she supposed. “Apparently the use of tongues can be quite delightful. Tongues are wet, of course. It does seem an odd thing to put one’s tongue in the mouth of another. But I am willing to try it if you are.”

  “You need to stop saying that in my presence,” he rasped.

  “Stop saying what?” She frowned, trailing her touch down his throat, over his cravat, to rest her hand over his thumping heart.

  “Tongue,” he clarified succinctly.

  And then, he dipped his head and sealed their lips in one quick motion.

  Her mouth was even softer than he had imagined.

  That was Gill’s first coherent thought.

  The second thought was that her breasts crushed against his chest was the purest form of heaven he had ever experienced. Or torment, considering he could do nothing more than hold her in his arms and kiss her.

  But that was quickly becoming everything as sensations buffeted him. Her scent teased him: rose and lily of the valley. Her lips were warm. Her body was giving and supple, curving to his as if she were made for him. He cupped her face with his hands, relishing the smoothness of her skin.

  He moved his lips over hers, lightly at first, until she made a sweet sound of need, and he lost control. He pressed his mouth harder, and it became apparent that she was right. There was nothing he wanted more than to taste her. His tongue explored as he deepened the kiss instinctively.

  All the worries fogging his mind and hindering his actions fell away. He had been fretting over his decision to meet her. Half-convinced he ought to leave her in the salon, awaiting him. To never again find himself alone with the beautifully wild Christabella Winter.

  But as he had paced his chamber, the minutes ticking by, he had not been able to stay away. His body, ever having a mind of its own, had reigned supreme, forcing him to the red salon. He had been moved by his need for her as much as his curiosity. Both were overwhelming.

&n
bsp; As overwhelming as the sensation of her tongue meeting his. A sudden rush of desire hit him. He wanted to consume her. To kiss her until their mouths ached. To fill her with his cock. All the pent-up lust within him was unleashed. It raged. It roared.

  He kissed her as if his life depended upon the union of their mouths. Somehow, they were moving. Dimly, he realized he was the one doing the moving, just as he had been the one to initiate the kissing. Because Miss Winter was moving backward and he was striding forward. His body was leaps ahead of his mind. Taking control. There was a bare expanse of wall where no pictures hung. And that was where he wanted her.

  In four more strides, her back was pressed against the scarlet wallcovering. He broke the kiss and stared down at her, his chest heaving. He felt as if he had just run across a field. As if he had clambered to the top of a mountain, only to look out at the majesty of his height and wonder how the hell he would ever get back down.

  Her lips were dark and swollen, parted. Her eyes were wide, glazed. She was clutching his biceps as if he were keeping her from slipping off a cliff. But if she thought he could save her from anything, including himself, she was bloody well wrong.

  After eight-and-twenty years, he had finally kissed a woman.

  And now that he had done so, he could not conceive of ever wanting to kiss another.

  “I was right,” said the maddening woman.

  He was still not sure he could speak. But as usual, she had no difficulty holding up both ends of the exchange.

  “About the use of tongues,” she elaborated, her voice breathless. “I quite enjoyed your tongue in my mouth.”

  He groaned against a new bolt of lust, making his cock twitch. “I told you to stop saying that word, Miss Winter.”

  “Perhaps you ought to call me Christabella, Your Grace.”

  Yes, he could hardly continue to think of her in such proper terms when he wanted to make love to her against this wall, could he? Damnation, he was a scoundrel. He had always thought his brother was the rogue. But it seemed his inner rogue had just been released.

  “Christabella,” he said, forcing himself to remember he was a gentleman.