Could he kiss her? She could not help but wonder.
Although she knew quite well she should not.
This is not the man for you, she reminded herself. Even if he did propose. And even if he had thrown a snowball at her heart, as if he were declaring war upon that particular part of her. Even if she could think of nothing but his mouth on hers, his long fingers seeking her flesh…
This was not going well.
He seemed to be looking at her expectantly. Was it her turn to speak? What had he said last? Her ankle was aching, it was true, but it was nothing compared to the other ache. The other need.
“Why are you still here?” she asked.
They had pushed the boundaries of propriety—heavens, if she were honest, they had trampled over them like runaway horses—before. But that had been in a chamber where it had been far less likely they would ever be intruded upon. Not within a heavily used room, just out of earshot of the dining room where their fellow guests broke their fasts.
She did not want to be forced into marriage. Or ruined, she reminded herself. No matter how deliciously wicked the Duke of Coventry made her feel.
“You are injured,” he said, his tone concerned, his brow furrowed. “I cannot leave you in such a state.”
The state she was in had far more to do with the man before her than with her ankle, and that was the truth. What would the harm be, the wickedest part of her wondered, in keeping him here with her? In basking in his presence, his touch, just for a few moments more?
She could not.
She dared not.
Did she?
She thought of the snowball hitting her heart, the expression upon his handsome face.
Oh, yes, she dared.
“There is a way you could help my ankle to feel better,” she said before her rational mind attempted to divert her from her course.
“Tell me,” he urged.
“Kiss me,” she said.
“Kiss me,” Christabella told him.
Gill stared into her face. Into her beautiful, haunting, lovely face. Into her blue-green eyes. He tried to remind himself his original purpose in bringing her here, to this chamber, alone. Tried to recall she was injured, that she had somehow hurt her ankle and had been in true pain when he had first come upon her in the hall.
But all he could think about was her lips.
About taking them again.
“You are hurt,” the gentleman within him protested. “Allow me to tend you. To make certain you have not done yourself serious injury.”
Still, he did not make an effort to put more distance between them. One dip of his head, and he could claim her mouth as his own. Which it was, because he was going to make her his duchess. He was decided upon his path.
“I think we need to continue our lessons,” she said, her voice low. Husky.
Sensual.
His cock, already hard, twitched.
“Lessons?” Mindlessly, he drew nearer, as if he were a bee drawn to the blossom.
There was almost no distance between them. He was on his knees before her, his body pressed to her limbs. He wondered if she could feel the effect she had upon him, even through the layers of his breeches and her petticoats and gown.
Eight-and-twenty years he had remained a virgin, and yet he had never felt so tempted, so desperate, as he did now. As if he would explode if he did not have her. Or at least touch her. If he did not raise her skirts and place his mouth upon her where he truly wished. Upon that slick flesh he had scarcely been able to pleasure two days ago. Upon her cunny.
“Our kissing lessons,” Christabella elaborated then, her hands fluttering back to his shoulders.
Her touch was hesitant. Encouraging.
He inhaled swiftly against a bolt of pure, unadulterated lust. His ballocks were drawn tight. The cloud of her scent enveloped him, summery and bright. She smelled like the garden of temptation. And how ironic that was, for she was his temptress, his call to sin.
He would not regret a single damned moment of sinning with this woman, and he knew it.
“Kissing lessons,” he repeated, because his mind had largely ceased to function. But pretending to misunderstand her did nothing to abate the problem.
There was only one solution: lips and tongue and teeth.
“Yes,” she agreed, stroking his shoulders. “Those.”
He forgot her ankle was injured for a moment. Forgot everything but her acquiescence and her lips. Her plump, ripe lips, so pink, so delicious, so ready for the taking. And take he did. He slammed his mouth against hers. No finesse. He was still learning. Also, he was ravenous.
Christabella did not seem to mind.
She moaned into his mouth, opening beneath his neophyte onslaught. Their tongues met. Her fingers sank into his hair. They kissed and kissed and kissed. Until he moved her, and she emitted a small sound of dismay.
It was enough.
He pulled away, reminded of her twisted ankle.
“Forgive me,” he said, trying to gather his thoughts. “It was not my intention to—”
“Hush.” She pressed her forefinger against his lips, canceling further words. “Do not apologize for kissing me. Never apologize for that.”
He kissed the fleshy pad.
She ran her fingertip over his upper lip first, then the lower, her expression one of mesmerized fascination. Fire swept through him, starting where she touched him and licking down his spine, spreading everywhere.
“Your mouth is lovely,” she said.
No one had ever told him such a thing before. He wanted to speak, but all that emerged was a strangled sound. It was not his affliction, he thought. But rather the maddening effect this woman had upon him. He would happily remain on his knees, allowing her to touch his lips, for the rest of his days.
“Why do you have to be so handsome?” she asked him then, frowning as if he had displeased her.
He thought he had an agreeable face and form, but he was no rakehell like his brother. Ladies did not chase after him. He swallowed. Tried to think of something else to say.
Ah, yes.
The ankle.
“Shall I tend to your ankle now?” he asked.
“It is nothing,” she said. “I twisted it when I collided with Lady Adele.”
Despite her protestations, he knew it must have pained her. What a beast he was, kissing her when she had an injury. What had he been thinking?
Grimly, he took her hand in his and placed it in her lap. “Let me have a look.”
Before she could protest, he lifted the hem of her gown and petticoats, careful not to raise it too high lest he tempt himself any further. Her ankles were a thing of wonder, covered in white stockings, dainty and feminine. Good God, who had thought a woman’s feet could be alluring? Certainly not Gill, but the sight of Christabella Winter’s slippers and curved calves were setting his heart pounding.
He forced himself to recall which ankle she had been favoring, then gently took up her left foot. It did not appear to be swollen. He moved her foot slowly, first one way, then the other.
Gill glanced up at her. “How does that feel?”
“The pain is a bit higher,” she told him.
He allowed his hands to glide up her calf. “Here?”
“Higher.”
He reached her knee, desire burning anew. “Here?”
Her pink tongue darted over the lushness of her lower lip. “Higher.”
Was she trying to kill him? He had just determined not to be improper. He ought to lower her skirts, step away from her. Leave the chamber. But he was ensnared, falling into her eyes, his fingers traveling higher of their own accord. To the place where her stockings ended.
There, he hesitated, grazing warm, silken, womanly flesh.
“Christabella,” he said her name on a groan.
Because from here, there was not far to go until he reached her quim.
And that was all he could bloody well think about.
Until the door
to the writing room swung open.
Chapter Seven
The shocked gasp of Lady Adele cut through the silence of the writing room.
Christabella’s heart was suddenly pounding for a reason that had nothing to do with Gill’s hands upon her bare skin. Her gaze shot to Lady Adele’s. The door was ajar behind her, but the hall appeared to be clear. Meaning there was only one witness to the Duke of Coventry’s hands beneath her gown.
Unfortunately, the divan upon which he had settled her faced the entry, which meant Lady Adele had an unfettered view of Gill on his knees before her, hems raised to her knees.
“Forgive me,” Lady Adele said, her countenance pale. “I did not mean to intrude.”
Gill flipped her gown down, then stood, towering over Christabella and blocking her from view. He bowed, as if they had not just been caught engaged in shockingly inappropriate behavior.
“Lady Adele,” he said.
And then said nothing else.
Oh, dear. He was not helping matters.
Christabella peered around his imposing form. “His Grace was helping me with my—”
“Torn hem,” Gill blurted, shocking her by speaking.
“Yes,” she lied, hoping Lady Adele could not see her flawlessly intact hem around Gill’s imposing body. “And he was just about to fetch my sister for me. Were you not, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice wooden. “Er, yes.”
He bowed again, and then he stalked from the room, saying nothing more. Christabella winced as he retreated as if he were fleeing a burning building. In some ways, perhaps he was. Her gown was now on full display for Lady Adele’s inspection. Christabella debated the merits of running herself, sore ankle or no, when the other woman glided across the chamber and settled onto the divan at her side.
“I am so sorry for bumping into you,” Lady Adele said. “And you need not fear I will tell anyone what I saw just now.”
What she had seen had been scandalous.
Christabella knew it.
Just as she knew it could prove her ruin. If Lady Adele were to speak a word to anyone, Christabella would find herself the next Duchess of Coventry.
Why did the prospect not fill her with dread? Why did it instead fill her with a strange feeling of rightness?
“It was not as wicked as it looked,” she offered lamely.
Which was a lie, of course.
For it had been wicked. And wonderful, too.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Lady Adele assured her, giving her hand a pat. “It is the least I can do after being so clumsy. I confess, I turned back to see if you were well, and I saw His Grace carrying you into this chamber. When some time had passed, and you had not emerged, I reasoned it best to make my presence known, before someone else happened upon you.”
Had Lady Adele seen more than Gill with his hands beneath her gown?
Christabella felt ill. “It is not…we were not…”
“You need not explain, Miss Winter,” Lady Adele interrupted. “Nor should you fret. I will reassure everyone that after we collided in the hall, His Grace immediately left to seek your sister whilst I stayed here by your side. The two of you were never alone.”
She eyed Lady Adele. “You would lie for me.”
“I would offer an explanation far more suitable than the truth,” Lady Adele corrected, her tone gentle.
“Why, my lady?” she asked bluntly. “Doing so would offer you no benefit.”
Lady Adele smiled, but there was no joy in it, only sadness. “Oh, but it would. For I have a favor to ask of you.”
A favor? Now this was indeed intriguing. Christabella could not fathom what manner of favor she could perform for a lovely duke’s daughter.
“Whatever can it be?” she asked.
But before she could answer, her elder sister, Pru, swept into the chamber. “Christabella Mary Winter, what manner of trouble have you managed to find yourself in now?” she demanded.
Christabella sighed at the disapproval in her sister’s voice. And then she did the only thing she could do—she lied. “No trouble at all.”
Gill needed to exercise caution.
He knew it.
If he wanted to make Christabella Winter his wife, he had to stop taking such foolish risks with her reputation. Kissing her in every chamber of Abingdon House and raising her skirts as if he were a practiced seducer of innocents had to stop.
He chastised himself all the way to her chamber.
Then he cautioned himself some more whilst he stood there.
He knocked anyway, of course.
It had been hours since he had last left Christabella in the care of Lady Adele and fetched her sister, Miss Prudence Winter. During the course of the afternoon, Miss Prudence had been absent from the drawing room entertainments arranged by their hostess, Lady Emilia. As had Ash.
The significance of the two being gone simultaneously had not been lost upon Gill.
Nor had it aided him in his quest to see how Christabella was faring. Since she, too, had failed to appear this afternoon, and since Ash and Miss Prudence were nowhere to be found, he had no choice. That was his reasoning for seeking out her chamber in the midst of the day.
He was concerned for her wellbeing.
“You may enter,” Christabella called.
He hesitated.
What if her lady’s maid were within? Or someone else?
Devil take it, he had not thought this scenario out in its entirety, had he?
No, he had not. But it was too late to allow that to stop him now. He opened the door and stepped over the threshold.
The chamber was as elegantly appointed as his, decorated with pastoral paintings and pale-blue wall coverings. He found Christabella at once, seated in a settee by the hearth, her leg propped upon a footstool. She had been engrossed in a book, but she looked up at his entrance, her countenance startled.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, snapping her book closed, color staining her cheeks.
That was not precisely the welcome he had been hoping for, either.
“It is familiar of me, I realize,” he said, feeling his chest constrict and his heart begin pounding.
Damnation, all he needed was for his affliction to hit him now.
“It is very familiar,” she said, stuffing the book she had been reading beneath her rump.
Curious, that. The action was so odd, in fact, that it distracted him enough to rein in his madly galloping emotions.
“Are you sitting on your book?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.
The color in her cheeks heightened.
“No.”
He cocked his head. “I saw you stow it beneath your bottom just now, Christabella.”
She huffed a little sigh, looking somehow extra lovely in her pique. “What I have done with my book matters not when you are going about, invading my chamber in the midst of the day. What if someone were to see you?”
“No one saw me.” At least, he did not think anyone saw him.
Wisely, he kept that thought to himself.
“We are fortunate indeed that Lady Adele has promised not to tell anyone what she witnessed earlier,” Christabella said. “Now, here you are again, tempting fate.”
He was tempting everything, and most especially himself, with his presence here. Still, he did not go.
“I came to inquire after your ankle,” he told her, belatedly offering her a bow.
He was not certain of the proper etiquette for visiting an unwed lady in her chamber. But at the very least, genuflection was in order.
“It is well enough, thank you,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically prim.
“Good.” He nodded, knowing he should leave before anyone found him within her chamber.
Instead, he moved closer, drawn to her as ever.
“Gill,” she protested. “What are you doing?”
“Sitting alongside you,” he answered as he settled at her side.
The warm
scent of summer blossoms greeted him.
Divine.
“You should not be here.” Her voice was soft, almost hushed.
“I know.” He felt stiff and out of place. Part of him wondered why he had sought her out at all. For it was foolish and reckless, as she had so rightly pointed out.
And he had never been foolish.
Nor reckless.
At least, he had not been until he had crossed paths with Miss Christabella Winter.
“However, I am glad you are here.”
Her confession startled him, but not nearly as much as her next action did. She took his hand in hers and laced their fingers together, so that their palms touched. Rather like a kiss. And his heart seemed to clench in his chest.
The gesture was so easy.
So affectionate.
No woman had ever touched him thus. Somehow, it seemed more intimate than a kiss. He struggled to find words.
“You are?” was all he could manage.
“Yes.” She gave his fingers a squeeze. “Even though you pelted me with snowballs yesterday.”
His lips quirked into a grin. How did she always set him so at ease, make him smile?
“As I recall it, you fired the first shot,” he told her, staring down at their interlaced fingers.
Her hand was easily dwarfed in his.
“You must admit you had fun,” she teased, playfully bumping her shoulder against his.
He glanced down at her, into her upturned face, and he could think of nothing but kissing her. Making her his. Of her becoming his duchess. He was firm in his decision. This was the woman he wanted at his side.
In his bed.
“I will admit I had fun,” he allowed, “in exchange for you telling me why you are sitting on your book.”
She pursed her lips. “Perhaps it is because I wish to keep it warm.”
He laughed. She was ridiculous, and he found her intoxicating.
Strangely, maddeningly, intoxicating.
“I did not realize paper and leather require warming,” he said.
“Oh yes.” She nodded, continuing her ruse. “I cannot bear to read a cold book. So difficult to turn the pages, you understand.”
“What I understand is that I am having the silliest conversation I have ever had.” He raised a brow at her. “You cannot be comfortable, sitting upon a hard book.”
Wild in Winter Page 7
