It was not an easy feat. All his honor had vanished the moment his lips had met hers.
“Much better.” She smiled, revealing the dimple he found so alluring.
“If you do not leave this chamber in the next minute, I cannot promise I will not kiss you again,” he warned.
“If you do not kiss me again, this will hardly be practice, will it?” she asked impishly.
As usual, she was no help.
And he wanted her all the more for it.
“If I do kiss you again, I am not certain I will be able to control myself,” he felt compelled to warn.
“Now I am intrigued, Your Grace.” Her grin deepened. “You must kiss me once more to satiate my curiosity.”
“Gill,” he told the minx, for he longed to hear his given name on her lips. But not as much as he longed to kiss her again.
Before she could respond, his mouth was on hers once more. He tried to be tender. To slow himself. But he was ravenous for her. All the years he had waited were worth it, for the revelation of her lips responding to his. For the miracle of her, teasing and tempting. She reached him in a way no other lady before her had.
He should be terrified, he thought. But instead, he felt free. He felt, in fact, unlike himself. So unlike himself, he caught her skirts in his hands, balling the soft fabric in his fists. He lifted it to her waist. Raised her hem as he fed from her lips. With one hand, he kept her gown trapped between them, raised to reveal her limbs. With his other, he explored. Sleek stockings, more feminine heat, her lush curves molding to his palm.
He sank his tongue deep into her mouth, gratified when she moaned and her fingers tunneled into his hair. He had no inkling if he was doing this properly. He was acting on instinct, listening to the sounds she made, paying attention to the subtle cues she gave. When she kissed him harder, he knew he was on the right path.
Just as he knew, when he dragged his palm past her garters, to the place where her stockings ended and her delicious bare skin began, that he was onto something very good indeed. Something wicked.
Something right.
He had seen a woman naked before. The courtesan Ash had paid to spend the night with him had worn nothing but a thin dressing gown, which she had removed. But he had not felt the tremendous burst of need he felt for Miss Winter—for Christabella. Instead, he had been terrified. His affliction had rendered him so ill at ease, he had been forced to withdraw from the chamber.
The lady had been paid well for her time and her silence.
It had been the sort of coin he and Ash could ill afford. And that had been the end of his brother’s attempts to see him lose his cursed virginity. Gill was heartily glad for it now, because the uncomfortable interview paled in comparison to the sensation of Christabella in his arms, her lips moving against his, kissing him back with a fervor to match his own rampaging need. To the warmth of her inner thighs.
Good God.
The breath left him as he moved higher and she parted her legs to accommodate him. One moment, he was kissing her, stroking her leg. The next, he was about to spend in his breeches as his fingers met her most intimate flesh. Her mound was hot, covered in the silkiest thatch of hair. He cupped her there, knowing he should not. Knowing there was no way he could not.
Also, not knowing what the devil to do next.
She moved her head to the side, breaking the kiss, her breathing heavy and ragged. “Gill?”
His name.
Oh, Christ. She had said his name. And he was touching her cunny. Or something very near it. There was more to it than this, hidden facets he needed to explore. That much, he knew from the books he had read.
His cock was harder than coal.
He swallowed, then moved his fingers tentatively. He found a slit. Slick flesh. The discovery filled him with more roaring need. She moved her hips against him, bucking, seeking more, it seemed.
He rubbed his cheek against hers, inhaling the cloud of sweetness surrounding her coppery tresses. “Do you like that?”
“Yes.”
Her sweet susurrus only served to inflame him more.
He parted her folds, his fingers seeking her pearl. When the pad of his forefinger brushed over the nub, she moaned her approval. He moved slowly at first, then with greater assurance. She seemed to prefer a faster pace, a less ginger touch.
Their cheeks were still pressed together, their bodies flush. There was just enough room between them to allow him to explore her. He wanted, with everything he had, to slide a finger inside her channel. Better yet, his cock. But he would not do it. Because he was not marrying Christabella Winter. She did not belong to him.
Why not, asked that blasted voice inside his head.
It was a fair question.
He needed funds. Christabella was a Winter. She was the only woman who had ever set him at ease. And he wanted her more than his next breath.
And so, it was without finesse or thought, and utterly without consideration, preparation, or the chance to weigh the merits of such a question at such a moment, and sadly without actually making Christabella spend, that he jerked his head back, and stared into her upturned face.
“Will you be my wife?” he found himself asking.
Almost as if another were speaking on his behalf.
He heard his voice as if he were detached from it. And he saw the surprise flare in Christabella’s gaze, the passion give way to confusion.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked.
Good God, what a fool he was. He had touched his first cunny and had promptly asked the owner of said cunny to wed him. Worse, the lady in question looked neither impressed nor pleased.
His passion and his courage fled him.
He took a step in retreat, disengaging from her, releasing her skirts. Her hem fluttered to the floor, obscuring her stocking-clad legs from view. His fingers were still wet with her dew as he offered her a bow.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled.
At least, he thought he did. The roaring in his ears was too much to withstand.
He turned and quit the chamber with all haste.
Chapter Five
Christabella blinked as the door to the red salon slammed closed, stealing from her the tempting sight of a broad, muscular back and long, lean legs striding away. Her mind, fogged as it was by desire, struggled to make sense out of what had occurred.
The Duke of Coventry had just kissed the breath out of her.
And then he had lifted her gown and touched her in precisely the place where she had stroked herself last night to thoughts of him.
It had been absolute bliss.
Until he had asked her to marry him.
With shaking hands, she smoothed the wrinkles from her skirts. A glance down at them revealed they were hopelessly crushed, the signs of what she had just been doing despicably evident. She would have to sneak back to her chamber for a change of gown without anyone being the wiser.
She should flee with what remained of her reputation still intact.
And yet, she could not seem to force herself to go.
Instead, her feet were moving, leading her across the chamber, and out the door. Chasing him, it seemed. Foolish as that was. Yes, she was running after Coventry—Gill—because he had looked distressed in the moment before he had retreated. And her reaction to his proposal had been, well, rude.
Because she had been shocked, of course, but he was not privy to her thoughts and could not know that. If his feelings were bruised by her words, she would never forgive herself. For she liked him, she was startled to realize as she continued her chase.
Very much.
But his legs were long, and his stride determined, she supposed. There was no sight of him up ahead in the west wing corridor. She rounded a bend and slammed straight into someone else.
Her sister, Pru.
They grasped each other’s arms to keep from falling.
“Christabella, what has happened?” her eldest sister asked.
Oh, dear.
If there was any of her sisters Christabella would have preferred to run across during her flight after she had nearly been ruined by a duke, Pru was not the one. She was sure she looked as if she had just been properly ravished. Because she had been. Delightfully so.
Not thoroughly enough.
Her cheeks went hot at the last thought.
“Nothing has happened,” she lied at last, blinking. “Pru? What are you doing in this wing? I thought it rather uninhabited.”
It was the reason she had chosen the red salon for her assignation with Coventry, after all.
“Have you just come from an assignation, Miss Christabella Mary Winter?” Pru demanded, invoking her dreaded second name.
Christabella felt her cheeks going hotter still. “No,” she denied quickly.
Too quickly, she knew. Her sister was no fool. She could see through any excuse. Cut right to the heart of a matter. And she was always playing mother hen, taking it upon herself to be the mother they were all lacking.
“You were meeting with someone,” Pru pressed. “Tell me the truth.”
The worst part about lying to her sister was that she was an abysmal liar. Also, she had no doubt she could not hold Pru’s gaze whilst she fibbed. But there was no hope for it. Her mind and body yet reeled after what had just transpired in the red salon with Gill. She needed time to think about what she would do next.
She forced her gaze to a point over her sister’s shoulder. “Of course I was not. I was merely seeking out some solitude. You are the one who practically knocked me off my feet. Where were you fleeing to in such haste?”
Indeed, now that she thought upon it, running into Pru in this wing of the house, also hurrying, was odd. She jerked her gaze back to her sister, noting she was flushed, and that tendrils of hair had escaped her coiffure.
“What happened to your hair?” Pru demanded, almost as if she had read Christabella’s mind about herself. “It looks as if a man has been running his fingers through it.”
Her hands flew to her hair, tentatively inspecting the damage Gill had wrought. “Perhaps I lost a hair pin. I was outside in the garden earlier, and it is quite windy.”
A modicum of fibbing had never hurt anyone, after all.
“The wind did not steal a hair pin,” her sister countered grimly, “and from the looks of it, you are missing more than one pin. I would wager at least five are gone, if not more.”
Drat.
She patted her hair. “Perhaps it is from my bonnet, then. It did get caught in my hair when I was removing it.”
“Why do you not tell me the truth?” Her sister’s eyes narrowed. “I am not a fool. I have eyes in my head. Your gown is wrinkled. Why, your skirts look as if they have been crushed.”
Good God. Christabella thought of the manner in which her skirts had been crushed. And just how pleasant that interlude had been. She had known she ought to flee to her chamber to change her gown. And instead, she had gone running after Coventry, only to be caught.
“I fell in the gardens,” she invented.
“Why is your gown not dirty?” Pru asked.
To the devil with persistent sisters who did not believe the lies they were fed.
She thought for a moment of a reason why, and settled upon one quickly.
“Because there is snow in the gardens.” Christabella smiled, pleased with herself.
There. That ought to stifle her sister’s questions. An unusually early winter’s storm had blanketed the land in a dense coating of white. As unlikely as a fall into snow was, particularly since she was currently deep within the heart of Abingdon House, she had seized upon the idea.
“You expect me to believe your hair was ruined by the wind.” Pru gave her a disapproving glare. “That the wind not only pulled your hat from your hair, but that it also plucked a handful of pins from it. And that after you were so mauled by the wind, leaving your hair half-unraveled down your back, you proceeded to fall into the snow in such a manner that your gown became hopelessly wrinkled. Much in the same fashion it would become wrinkled if it were raised to your waist?”
Drat and drat again.
Christabella returned the glare, reminding herself that Pru was in a similar state and that Gill’s brother, the handsome, rakish Lord Ashley, had taken a marked interest in her. Could it be that the two sisters had been engaging in secret assignations with the brothers, each without the other being aware of it? At the least, she had to attempt to distract her sister with the idea.
“And how would you know what such wrinkles would look like, Pru? I confess, I cannot determine the difference between wrinkles caused by a Biblical fall and wrinkles caused by a literal fall. But if you can do so, pray, enlighten me.”
Pru paled then.
“Did Lord Ashley Rawdon ravish you?” she asked.
Lord Ashley? Christbella frowned. She had supposed that was who Pru had been meeting, the reason for her mussed hair and dark lips. “Why should Lord Ashley want to ravish me?”
“If it was not Lord Ashley, then who was it?”
“No one ravished me,” Christabella denied, deciding to stay with her original lie. “Truly, Pru. Did you not hear a word I just said? I was in the gardens—”
“Tell me the truth, Christabella, and tell me now,” Pru interrupted.
Blast. She could not very well stand here all day, arguing with her sister, when anyone could come upon them. They both looked as if they had been properly ruined.
Christabella heaved a sigh. “Very well. I shall tell you, but you must promise not to go to our brother with this.”
“I promise,” Pru said. “Now out with it.”
“It was the Duke of Coventry,” Christabella admitted. “But he did not ravish me. Not at all. I was helping him.”
Yes, that was how she preferred to think of it. Though in truth, somehow in the course of everything that had passed between them, she had forgotten she had been meant to aid him. She had forgotten everything but him, his kiss, his touch.
Lord God, his touch.
But now was decidedly not the time to recall the sensation of Gill’s long fingers parting her flesh. Sending all those sparks shooting from the center of her being…
Pru’s brows rose, her shock evident. “Coventry?”
Gill, she wanted to correct.
Wisely, she did not.
“Yes,” she admitted.
Pru shook her head. “The Duke of Coventry? The man who scarcely speaks? He is the one who ravished you?”
“Hush!” Christabella cast a glance over her shoulder, hoping Gill was not lingering within earshot, or worse, eavesdropping. “Not so loud, if you please. Yes, it was he. But he did not ravish me, Pru. I swear it.”
“You had better tell me everything, Christabella Mary Winter,” Pru ordered. “Start at the beginning.”
“There is nothing to tell.” She linked her arm through her sister’s, seeking a means of distraction. “I was just about to return to my chamber for a restorative nap.”
“I will accompany you, but only in the name of keeping you from further trouble,” said Pru. “On our way to the east wing, you can enlighten me as to how you have been helping him.”
Oh, Christabella had no intention of telling her sister everything.
Just enough to satisfy her.
Certainly not that Gill had kissed her more passionately than she had ever dreamed a rake could. Nor that he had lifted her skirts to her waist. Definitely not the shocking pleasure of his touch on her most intimate flesh.
No, she would keep all that to herself.
“Charades,” she said brightly as they walked along, seizing upon the first excuse that came to mind. “His Grace is terribly inept at playing the game, and it renders him quite nervous, you see. I offered to assist him in a practice game, of sorts.”
Her explanation was not all that far from the truth.
“Charades,” repeated Pru, her tone steeped in suspicion.
Well, mayhap it was.
“I am quite good at the game, as everyone knows,” she continued with her fib. “Of course, His Grace enlisted my aid…”
The following day, the sun did not shine any brighter upon his folly. But Gill was outdoors despite the cold, walking the holly maze with his brother. Largely because the out-of-doors seemed a place where he was unlikely to run across Miss Christabella Winter and embarrass himself by either kissing her or proposing to her again.
What a dolt he was.
He almost groaned aloud as he thought once more of his unpracticed attempts at seduction, followed by his inept offer of marriage.
She had refused him.
Of course she had, and she was doing the both of them a favor. Was she not?
Not, said a voice inside him. Devil take the voice.
Either way, now, he was not certain he could face her again.
He forced his mind back to the conversation he had been having with Ash.
“Miss Prudence wants to assist you with courting?” he asked.
This was an excellent sign, surely. At least he had the distraction of his brother, who had fallen neatly into the trap Gill had laid for him. Ash was a rakehell of the first order, but since their arrival at the country house party, Ash had been watching Miss Prudence Winter, the eldest of the Winter sisters. Gill had decided to put his suspicions to the test.
And seeing as how he had stumbled upon Ash and Miss Prudence alone in the wake of his disastrous assignation with Christabella, he was beginning to believe he had been correct. His scoundrel brother was falling in love.
Just as well that one of them was.
That one of them could find happiness.
Lord knew happiness was not for Gill. It was one of the reasons he wanted to see his brother married. Because if Ash was wed and settled down, Gill would not have to fret over his own marriage. He would simply marry an heiress—any heiress—and live a comfortable, separate life from her.
At least, that was what he had thought.
Until Miss Christabella Winter had entered his life.
“She offered me aid in observing the proprieties when courting ladies,” Ash said slowly then, his tone hesitant, almost as if he hated to reveal the information. “Yes.”
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