How wrong Pru was.
There was everything to fret over.
But Christabella clamped her lips shut and turned her attention to the game. Lady Fawkesbury was in the midst of attempting to demonstrate something that rather resembled a swan. But the entertainment did not distract her sufficiently. Even when her spirits were not weighed down by worry, and on the best of days, Christabella found charades a tedious pastime indeed. She far preferred Snapdragon, which involved fishing raisins out of a bowl of burning brandy with one’s bare fingers.
Flames made things ever so much more interesting.
But that was neither here nor there.
Christabella tapped her foot. Then she fidgeted upon the settee. She plucked at the drapery of her gown. She bit her lip. She tried, once more, to remember that she had not wanted to marry Gill. She had turned down his proposal twice, after all. It was only her sisters who believed she had lost her heart to him, who had convinced her that perhaps she ought to marry him after all. Likely, they were all wrong. Their incorrect suppositions were a natural effect of having lost their hearts to their own respective future husbands.
“Pru,” she tried again, irritated with herself for speaking and yet unable to bite her tongue. “Has he mentioned me?”
Her sister sent her another look, this one markedly sympathetic. “If he did, Ash did not say so. But I am certain he holds you in highest esteem. Else why would he want you for his wife?”
But did he want her for his wife? His proposals, even when he had offered them, had all been in the wake of intense sensual encounters between the two of them. Moreover, did she want him as her husband? Just when she had begun to consider the notion she had been wrong, all these years, about what she truly wanted, Gill had grown ill and disappeared.
Before she could think better of it, she blurted out her greatest fear, aside from her worries over his health. “What if he no longer wants me as his wife?”
“He would be a fool to change his mind,” Pru reassured her softly, giving her knee a gentle pat. “But there is only one person who can give you the answers you seek, my dear. And that is Coventry himself.”
Yes, it was Coventry alone who could tell her, was it not? Which meant there was only one means by which she could have the answers she sought. The answer to just how ill he was. And the answer to how he felt about her and how she felt about him.
She shot to her feet, ignoring the startled glances from the rest of the company. Ignoring, too, her sister’s protest.
Her mind was made up.
She was going to find Gill’s bedchamber.
And she was going to trespass.
She was going to force her way inside and see for herself what state he was in. One way or another.
Her feet started moving. And that quickly, she was gone from the drawing room. A world away from the revelers within. Charades was the last thing on her mind now. As was propriety.
She needed answers, and she needed them now.
Christabella was not going to come.
Gill stood at the window of his bedchamber, the one which overlooked the immense, snow-encrusted lawns of Abingdon Hall’s sprawling park, along with the serpentine lake that cut through it. The day was bright, thanks to the reflective nature of the snow. It was also cold. Icy air radiated from the glass panes, kissing his lips.
It was not the kiss he wanted, that much was certain. Nor was it the kiss he longed for, the kiss that kept him awake late at night.
That kiss, it was becoming more apparent, would never again be his. He leaned his forehead against the cool pane, relishing the chill, along with the draught of winter’s wind as a blustery gust sent snow rushing from the roof of the centuries’ old manor house.
It looked as if it were snowing all over again. Wisps of snow glistened in the sunlight, fleeting and elusive in its beauty. Making him think—as if his damned mind had ever strayed in the course of the last day—once more of her.
Devil take Ash and his stupid notions.
Feigning an illness and hiding himself away in his chamber had not done one whit of good. It had been an entire day.
A whole. Bloody. Day.
And whilst Gill did not mind hiding himself away from his fellow revelers and taking a much-needed respite from an endless barrage of faces, there was one face he missed. One face he longed for. One woman he was beginning to fear he may have lost forever.
If he had ever had her.
What would a bold, gorgeous lady like Christabella Winter want with a husk of a man who could not even manage to form coherent sentences in large gatherings of people? Nothing, as was blatantly apparent by her lack of attempt to seek him out.
Every time he had asked Ash if Christabella had inquired after him, Ash had been gentle in his reassurance that he had no doubt she would. At some point.
At some point.
By God, at this rate of speed, Gill would have to closet himself in the east wing of Abingdon House for the rest of his natural life before Miss Christabella Winter would come looking for him. Or to worry over his health. He ought to be ashamed of himself for even supposing someone like her could ever deign to be the wife of a man like him. A man who was still the same scared lad, in some ways, that his bastard of a father had locked inside that windowless room.
All these years later, and the fear still chased him.
He did not deserve a woman like her, that was for certain.
The door clicked open behind him, but he did not bother to turn. More than likely, it was his valet Martin, arriving with a tray of some sort. When one kept to one’s rooms, the hours of the day all bled hopelessly together. It could be dinner for all he knew. His stomach certainly had no wish for sustenance.
“Leave it on the table, if you please, Martin,” he directed, still staring morosely out the window. In search of answers. In search of himself.
His valet did not respond. There was the sound of the door closing once more, then hushed footfalls. Footfalls which did not sound at all like his lumbering manservant, who—whilst an adroit hand at tying knots—was incapable of moving anywhere without stomping thanks to his massive size. Rather, they sounded like—
“Gill.”
His name, nothing more.
In her voice.
He jerked from the window and spun about, half convincing himself he had imagined her calling his name. The sight of her, standing in the center of the chamber, ethereally beautiful in an ivory gown, stole his breath and his voice both.
She had come.
He swallowed, forgetting entirely that he was supposed to be ill. “Belle.”
His sobriquet for her. Somehow, it emerged of its own accord, natural and right although he knew he had no claims upon her. He was more aware of that fact than ever as he faced her now, itching to draw her into his arms.
Her brow was furrowed, her gaze searching his. “How are you?”
“Bloody dreadful,” he answered honestly.
Going a day without her had been pure, unadulterated hell. He had been trapped in a web of his own making, in a chamber with windows and sunlight but no Christabella, which was its own sort of pain.
“I know I should not be here,” she said, wringing her hands, almost as if she were not certain where to go or what to do.
“You should not,” he agreed. “If you are discovered here, you will be ruined. Since you have already expressed your marked disinterest in marrying me, I suggest you go.”
His words emerged with a bitterness he regretted the moment they were spoken. For they hung in the air between them, vibrating like a remonstration.
“Do you want me to go?” she asked, her gaze searching his.
Of course he did not. She was finally precisely where he wanted her, within his reach. And yet, he could not bring himself to do any of the things he had told himself he must to win her. The thought of making himself vulnerable to her made him want to retch.
“Why have you come?” he asked instead.
; “I could not stay away.” Her voice was soft. So soft, he had to strain to hear her. “I needed to see for myself just how ill you were.”
Her concern filled him with warmth. But the trepidation lingered, tightening into a knot in his gut. Perhaps she cared for him, but that did not mean she wished to marry him any more now than she had on the previous two occasions when he had posed the question.
He cleared his throat, feeling deuced awkward, and said nothing.
They each stood rooted to their respective spots, she in the middle of his chamber, and he on the periphery. It all seemed somehow symbolic. Christabella Winter was the life of a chamber. He was, as she had rightly pointed out, frigid as an icicle while she was the flame.
Despite hoping she would come to him, now that she finally had, he could not help but think perhaps a marriage between them would be a mistake. Could he ever be what she needed?
“Will you not say anything?” she asked.
He wanted to speak, but the affliction had returned with a vengeance. It settled in his throat, choking him.
“Very well. If you shall not, then I will.” She came nearer at last, bringing with her the scent of summer and sunshine and delicious temptation. “I am sorry about what happened in my chamber that day.”
At last, his voice returned. “As am I. What I said to you was unpardonable, and for that I must offer you my most sincere apologies.”
He had been an utter blackguard, lashing out at her, and he knew it. Feeling emotions was new for him. Everything about Christabella was new to him, in fact.
“I accept your apologies on one condition.” She took another step closer to him.
Until she was within touching distance.
He had to exercise all his restraint to keep from taking her into his arms as everything within him so desperately wanted. For he could not do that. Did not dare do that. No, she had already told him she did not want to marry him. He would not tread any further on the limb he occupied, lest it break and fall free from the tree entirely.
“What is the condition?” he asked carefully.
“That you accept mine as well.” Her blue-green gaze studied him, seeing far more—he had no doubt—than he wanted her to see. “Will you, Gill? I am sorry for hurting you.”
Hurt.
That lone word terrified him.
It took him back to the lad he had been. The helpless lad. Locked in the chamber. His father had hurt him again and again, until he had taught himself not to care. He had spent all the years since then doing his best not to give a damn about anyone other than his brother.
“I accept your apology,” he rasped, growing even more uncomfortable.
“Good.” She smiled, and damn him, there was her dimple, making another appearance. “I accept yours as well.”
“Good.” He cleared his throat again, reminded once more of the impropriety of their situation. Of the foolishness. “You should go before you are seen here. Before neither of us has a choice.”
But instead of leaving, she cocked her head at him. “Why do you want to marry me, Gill?”
Bloody hell, what manner of question was that?
He struggled to form an answer, but the responses in his mind were none he could bear to say aloud.
Because I want to spend the rest of my life kissing you.
Because you make me laugh.
Because you are the only woman who has ever found a way past my defensive walls.
Hell. She had not just found a way around them. She had dismantled them like a barrage of cannon fire. Left them crumbling around him.
But he would not speak of any of those things.
“My estates are in ruin,” he said. “My father squandered the family’s vast fortune, and the coffers need replenishment. I need a bride with a generous dowry.”
That, too, was the truth. But it was not the only truth.
She stiffened. “You wished to marry me for the Winter fortune?”
Damnation, what a cad he sounded like when she phrased it thus.
“That is not the sole motivation in wanting you as my duchess,” he hastened to explain. “I also like you…admire you, even.”
Somehow, his lips could not form around the word love.
His tongue could not even prepare the consonant.
Because love was dangerous. Love invited pain. He had loved his father, once. Before his father had broken him. Look at the husk of a man that remained.
“You like me,” she repeated dully.
“A great deal,” he added.
“And admire me.”
He nodded, a sick sensation settling in his gut which told him he was not helping his cause. “Yes.”
Her ordinarily lush lips tightened. “You want to marry me because you require my share of the Winter fortune, and because you like and admire me.”
Bloody hell. The tone of her voice was surely a harbinger of doom.
He wanted to say more, but the familiar prickle of perspiration on his brow and the thudding of his heart warned him of a different sort of doom entirely.
The affliction.
“Yes,” was all he could manage. Because somewhere deep inside him, he was locked inside that dark chamber.
His father had told him he was weak, and he was. Gill had proven it again and again. Though his bastard of a sire had perished, his legacy lived on.
“Then I stand firm in my decision,” she told him. “I am glad to see you are not suffering from a lung infection as my sister supposed. Indeed, you seem quite hale for one who has been hiding within his chamber for the span of a day.”
He had not been hiding. He had been waiting. Waiting for her to come to him.
But instead of winning her over, he had further pushed her away. He could read it in her eyes. See it in the stubborn set of her chin. In the grim clench of her jaw. Perhaps, this time he had pushed her too far. Further than he would be able to reach.
Perhaps it was just as well.
Perhaps there was, just as Father had always scornfully insisted, something inherently wrong with him. Christabella would do far better to find a whole man. One who could love her as she deserved. Not a man who was too bound by the past to allow himself to feel.
Yes, if he cared for her, there was only one answer. And he saw it now with a grim resolution. He had been wrong, terribly wrong, to think he could find happiness. That he deserved it. That he was worthy of someone as beautiful, sparkling, and wonderful as Miss Christabella Winter.
For he was most decidedly not.
“Marry another gentleman, Miss Winter,” he said harshly, though the words broke him apart inside. “One who is more worthy than I could ever hope to be. Whoever he is, I wish you happy with him.”
“Gill,” she protested, her certainty seeming to crumble before his eyes.
He would have to be resolute.
“You may address me as Your Grace, Miss Winter,” he told her in his frostiest ducal accents. The ones he scarcely ever had cause to use.
Mostly because his tongue ordinarily refused to function.
She recoiled, taking a step back as if he had struck her. “Of course. Forgive me my familiarity, Your Grace. I will go now and leave you to your illness. I, too, wish you happy.”
With that grim, parting volley, she dipped into a hasty curtsy.
Before he could regret his words, she was gone.
And when the door slammed closed and he was alone once more, that was when the regret truly hit him. Hit him like the weight of a bloody stone castle wall falling upon him.
He knew, with devastating certainty, that he had just lost his only chance of ever finding happiness. If indeed he had ever had one to begin with.
Christabella did not want to marry someone else.
She wanted to marry Gill.
Infuriating, handsome, irritating, aloof, confusing, wonderful, frustrating Gill. The Duke of Coventry. The man she was going to marry. Even if he was wrong about everything he had just said to her. Even if she wo
uld as soon turn back to his chamber and rail at him as tell him she loved him.
Love, yes.
That was what she felt for him. Her sisters had not been wrong. Her heart beat for one man, and one man alone. Christabella knew it now, and the realization was one part welcoming acceptance, one part blistering confusion. For he had not spoken of love to her. He had used a different “L” word entirely.
Like.
How tepid. How irritating. Also, how wrong.
Because Gill was in love with her, just as she was in love with him. Both against their wills, perhaps. It had simply happened, however. Naturally. Instinctively. Beautifully.
Oh, yes. No question of it: she was going to marry that man.
She reached her decision sometime between her initial flight from his chamber—in humiliated tears—and her second crash into Lady Adele Saltisford somewhere in the vast maze of the eastern wing of Abingdon House.
One moment, she was hurrying down the corridor, her vision blurred, hot tracks of outrage and sadness burning down her cheeks, attempting to find a means by which she could make Gill see reason, and the next, she was rounding a bend and hurtling herself into poor Lady Adele.
This time, Lady Adele bore the brunt of their collision. She went flying to her rump whilst Christabella hovered over her, immobile. She had not fallen. Nor had she lost her balance or equilibrium. And strangely, the tears had stopped.
Because she had a path now. Even if it involved potentially boxing the Duke of Coventry’s ears to make him see reason. He would see it. She would force him to. She had an untold arsenal, after all, filled with snowballs, tickling, laughter, and kisses. All of which he had already proven himself most susceptible to indeed.
He was going to make her victory appallingly easy.
But there was no time to dwell upon her impending triumph, for Lady Adele was still sprawled upon the floor.
Christabella lowered to her knees and grasped Lady Adele’s hands in hers, leveraging her to a sitting position. “Have I caused you injury?” she asked, hating the thought of having hurt Lady Adele in some fashion, all because of her confused feelings and her haste.
“Forgive me, Miss Winter,” Lady Adele said, seeming to collect herself after her initial stunned response. “I am once again in err, not watching where I am traveling, and moving with far too great a haste.”
Wild in Winter Page 11
