Gill laughed at the notion of Ash and respectability, which had never before belonged in the same sentence. Yes indeed, these were all good signs. Miss Prudence had found a rake in need of reforming, and she had settled upon Ash. “Does she not know you do not give a damn about propriety?”
“Perhaps she thinks she is performing a service for her fellow sex,” Ash returned lightly. “It matters not, for I only agreed so that I might get a bit more acquainted with her and determine whether or not the two of you would suit.”
“Selfless of you, brother,” Gill teased, relieved to turn his mind to lighter matters and away from the embarrassment threatening to swallow him whole.
“I have not compromised her, if that is what you are implying,” snapped Ash.
Ah, brother. Methinks thou doth protest too much.
“I did come upon the two of you in the salon,” he pointed out. “Alone. Miss Winter seemed rather flushed.”
And after what he had been about in a nearby salon, Gill knew all about a flushed Winter lady. A very different flushed Winter lady.
The one he had thought about all night long. And all morning. And almost every minute since…
Something landed in the center of his chest quite suddenly. He looked down to discover the remnants of a snowball upon his greatcoat.
What the devil?
“Oh dear,” said a feminine voice he would recognize anywhere. “Do forgive me, Your Grace. I fear my aim was misplaced.”
Christabella.
He should have known.
He glanced up to find her blue-green eyes dancing with mischief. How had he expected anything less? Was she laughing at him? With him? Did she always react to a proposal of marriage by pelting the gentleman with snowballs?
“Forgive my sister, Your Grace,” Miss Prudence Winter called. “She did not intend to hit you with the snowball. Are you injured?”
He was not certain if it was the cold rendering him speechless at the moment, his affliction, or shock. Either way, he could not seem to speak.
“Actually, I did mean to hit you,” Christabella said then, grinning her minx’s grin and revealing that damned dimple. “But I was aiming for your hat.”
He found his tongue at last. “That was a childish prank, madam.”
Her grin did not diminish. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold. There was no doubt she was enjoying this, the maddening woman.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said without a hint of contrition in her voice. “As you know, I am beset by an inability to behave.”
He choked out a laugh. Truer words had never been spoken. And yet, as had become common, her impish nature lightened the weight which had settled upon his chest. He may have bungled his attempt at asking her to be his duchess the day before. However, as he stood there in the sunlit garden, surrounded by frigid December air, their siblings looking on, the remnants of her snowball stuck to his coat, he made a decision.
He was going to marry this minx.
But first, he was going to retaliate in kind.
He sank to his haunches, formed a snowball, and then took careful aim. The snowball hit her bonnet and broke, sending snow raining down into her face.
“Oh, you bounder!” Christabella exclaimed. “That was one of my best hats!”
He found himself grinning back at her. “I was merely showing you an example of excellent aim, Miss Winter.”
“That is the outside of enough. I declare this a war. Pru, start making snowballs,” she ordered her sister.
Miss Prudence began to protest when Ash threw a snowball, entering the melee. The missile hit her bonnet, interrupting her chastisement.
“Did you dare to throw a snowball at me, Lord Ashley?” she demanded.
“Yes, I did,” Ash called back. “Your sister announced this is war, after all. We must defend ourselves.”
A full snow battle ensued. Before long, the four of them were laughing, flinging snowballs at each other, and generally acting more like a quartet of children than the adults they were. As snow was flung at them from every direction, Gill met his brother’s gaze.
“I say we go in separate directions and try to lose them,” he said as another snowball landed on his chest.
“Excellent idea,” Ash agreed, dodging another burst of snow.
They turned and raced through the slippery snow, heading deeper into the maze. When they reached a wall of holly, Gill and Ash parted, with Gill heading to the left and Ash to the right. He could only hope the sisters followed and that, even better, the right sister chose his path.
He stopped when he reached a statue of Venus, the air cold in his lungs.
In the next instant, Christabella came careening toward him, her bonnet askew, cheeks even more flushed, her infectious giggle hitting him in the chest with the same force as her snowball. She slid in the snow just before she reached him, and he caught her in his arms, holding her there.
My God, she was lovely.
She took his breath.
He stared down into her dancing eyes, remembering his ill-timed proposal and the cowardly fashion in which he had run from her the day before. He ought to say something, he knew. If only he knew what.
She spared him by touching his cheek. Her gloved fingers were coated in snow, sending the strangest combination of heat and cold through him all at once. “I like your smile,” she said softly, disarming him utterly.
She made him smile. Her mischievousness nature was infectious.
“I cannot recall the last time I ever threw a snowball,” he said.
And wished he had not. He should have taken the opportunity to woo her. To somehow make amends for his foolish offer yesterday.
“You are too serious, Gill.” Her fingertips traced over his mouth.
Snow melted on his bottom lip. He wished she were not wearing gloves. He wanted her skin on his.
He settled for pressing a kiss to her fingertips, impeded by the barrier between them. “I am sorry.”
Her gaze searched his. “You should not be sorry for being too serious. You should smile more. Throw more snowballs.”
An easy solution.
He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. What would his life be like, with this unpredictable woman as his duchess?
One word, he thought.
Wonderful.
But how to persuade her? He would have to do better than he had yesterday, ravishing her against a wall and muttering a proposal.
“Perhaps I should practice kissing more,” he said, his voice low. “I find the act far more pleasing than throwing snow.”
Her lips parted. “Oh, yes. I do think you might also practice a bit more.”
He took that as an invitation.
And then he took her lips. The kiss was tentative at first. A mere joining. He was tense, the stakes were higher, the day was bright. They were out-of-doors, though hidden by the sculpted evergreen of the holly bushes. Still, Ash and Miss Prudence were just around the bend. And perhaps others were about.
Kissing her was dangerous.
But he was desperate for her mouth.
The need for her won over all else. Caution was forgotten when she kissed him back, her arms twining around his neck. Her tongue touched his. He groaned, licking into her mouth as the kiss quickly turned carnal.
He ended it before he lost control of himself. He could not press her into the prickly bushes the same way he had pinned her to the wall yesterday. Moreover, he had no desire for his brother to happen upon him whilst he was in the midst of ruining a lady. Nor did he have a wish to ruin Christabella.
He wanted to marry her.
They stared at each other for a heavy moment, silence broken only by the sound of voices in the distance. It was all the reminder he needed. Carefully, he set her away from him.
“We should rejoin my brother and your sister,” he said.
“Must we?” Her grin was teasing.
He wanted to kiss her again, but he did not dare trust himself. Instead,
he sank to his haunches and scooped up another ball of snow.
“I surrender,” she said, giggling again.
She was too late. He had already tossed the snowball softly, his aim perfect.
It broke open directly over her heart.
Chapter Six
The Duke of Coventry had thrown a snowball at her heart.
Surely it held significance?
Surely not.
Or did it?
With each step, she changed her mind.
It meant something.
It did not.
It meant something.
It did not.
Of course it did. He had proposed to her two days ago in the west wing. Not that she wanted to marry him. For of course she did not. She was meant to marry a wicked rake, not a man who had never before kissed a lady. Then again, for a novice at kissing, he had certainly learned enough to rob her breath…
Christabella sighed as she tramped to the breakfast room the next morning. She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not see the lady rushing down the hall from the opposite direction until it was too late. They collided, the impact sending them both to their rumps. Christabella attempted to catch herself and twisted her ankle quite viciously on her way down.
“Oh,” was all Christabella could think to say, rubbing her smarting bottom as her gaze settled upon the lady she had crashed into. “I am so sorry, my lady.”
Lady Adele Saltisford was a shy, quiet wallflower.
The daughter of a duke.
Rather the sort of woman Christabella imagined would suit Gill. Aristocratic, pretty, and with an ice to rival his own. The thought had her grimacing as she rose to her feet and offered Lady Adele a hand. Not just grimacing. It sent an unwanted pang to her heart. Something akin to pain.
But then another pain entirely shot straight through her. Beginning with her ankle and shooting, white-hot, up her leg.
“Forgive me, Miss Winter,” Lady Adele said, looking flustered. “The fault is all mine, I am afraid. I was not watching where I was going.”
“I was not watching either, my lady.” Christabella felt guilty for her lack of circumspection, even as the pain throbbed. She had been every bit as responsible for what had happened as Lady Adele.
She had been gadding about like a whirlwind, thinking only of herself, after all.
And Gill.
Of course, Gill.
Er, the Duke of Coventry.
Lady Adele gained her feet as well and brushed at her skirts, wincing. “Are you in pain, my dear? Have I injured you with my thoughtlessness?”
“I am perfectly fine, Lady Adele,” she lied, gritting her teeth. “Please, do not allow me to keep you from your destination.”
Lady Adele frowned at her. “But you look rather pale. And I do believe I saw you limping, just now.”
“Nonsense.” Christabella forced a smile. “I was not limping at all. You have nothing to fret over, my lady. I shall be fine.”
Lady Adele had been traveling somewhere in haste, that much was certain. She had a twin sister, and an older, widowed sister accompanying her at the house party. But neither of those two ladies were in sight. Christabella was curious what was making Lady Adele run. But the insistent pain in her ankle reminded her she had far greater worries of her own to attend to.
“You are certain?” Lady Adele asked.
Christabella noted she seemed rather pale. Perhaps she was ill? Either way, Christabella had no wish for Lady Adele to feel responsible for her twisted ankle, especially since she was as much to blame.
“Certain.” Her smile felt more strained than ever. Almost as painful as the aching in her limb. “Thank you for your concern.”
Absolved of her culpability, and still looking as if she were about to cast up her accounts, Lady Adele apologized once more, before continuing down the hall as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. Alone once more, Christabella took a deep breath and strode forward.
The pain in her ankle radiated through her, making her gasp.
Oh, dear.
This was not good.
Not good at all.
A glance over her shoulder confirmed Lady Adele had disappeared from sight. There was no one about to offer her aid. Feeling ill herself, she leaned against the wall, alongside a portrait of one of her sister-in-law, Lady Emilia’s, ancestors. A dour-faced man sporting a ruff and an expression of disapproval. He looked as if he had scented dung, she thought rather unkindly.
Someone ought to have thrown a snowball or two at him. Perhaps he would have smiled for his portrait.
But she needed to attempt another few steps, at least. To find her way to the breakfast table. Her stomach rumbled in agreement at the thought.
Pushing herself away from the wall, she took another step. Then another.
The pain was outrageous. She started hopping on her good foot.
And of course that was when the Duke of Coventry rounded the bend, finding her limping about like a wounded hare.
He stopped where he stood, offering her a formal bow that belied the last time their paths had crossed, during their impromptu snowball fight. He had been laughing, lighthearted. She had chased after him, delighting in the sight of him so free, so joyous.
She felt none of that delight now. Only irritation.
“What are you doing here, Your Grace?” she asked.
Was it not bad enough that he dominated all her thoughts? That he had threatened everything she thought she knew about herself? Now he must also appear when she was wounded?
“Walking to the stables after breaking my fast, of course,” he told her, startling her with his instant response. “Why are you hopping on one foot?”
He had witnessed her ignominy in full, it would seem.
Oh, how wonderful.
Would it have been too much to ask that he pretended she was walking in an ordinary fashion?
“I seem to have twisted my ankle,” she admitted reluctantly. “It is rather tender at the moment, so I was seeking to keep the weight from it.”
“Good God, woman, why did you not say so immediately?” He strode forward, closing the distance between them.
Before she could protest, he had lifted her effortlessly into his strong arms.
And once she was there, she could not recall how to form a single protest anyway. Her arms wound around his neck. Being in his arms was…
She searched her mind for a suitable description.
Shocking. Improper.
Wicked. Delicious.
“You cannot carry me to breakfast in such fashion,” she chastised all the same. “It will be quite the scandal.”
“I can do what I wish,” he argued mulishly.
“You can,” she allowed, trying to ignore the masculine scent of him, along with the urge to kiss his stubborn mouth. “But you should not. Indeed, you must not.”
Now that she had known the pleasure of his kiss, she could not seem to stop wanting more. But the Duke of Coventry was altogether wrong for her. Just as she was altogether wrong for him. She wanted a rake. A man who knew how to seduce and thrill and show her the heights of passion.
He frowned at her now. “If you do not want me to carry you there, then where shall I take you, my dear?”
My dear.
Those two words should not send heat flooding to her core. And yet, in his deep voice, his strong arms tight around her as if he would hold her forever there, they did.
This was getting dangerous. The longer they lingered here in the hall where anyone could come across them, the greater their chance of creating a scandal.
“There is a writing room, just over there,” she said, nodding toward the closed door with her head. Not because she did not wish to release her hold on his neck, of course.
But his hair was so soft. Soft and thick. He was like a tall, golden warrior. A beautiful, patrician duke with the body of a man who labored for his bread. And clinging to him felt nothing short of wondrous.
Very well, she did not wish to release her hold on his neck.
Because clinging to him made her feel secure and aflame all at once.
“Third door on the left?” he asked, moving in the direction of her nod.
“Yes,” she answered simply. For what else was there to say?
He was silent as he stalked to the door in question, and she took the opportunity to observe him. His jaw was rigid, his stare straight ahead. What a strange sensation, being carried in a man’s arms. She felt as if she were floating. And in this man’s arms, in particular…
They made it through the door, which he managed with one-handed aplomb, and then he carried her to a divan. The writing room was blessedly empty, the door closed at their backs. As he lowered her to the cushion, she knew a keen surge of disappointment.
Regret.
She hated to let go of him.
But she must, and so she did, but still, the duke did not move. He was near, hovering over her. Close enough to kiss. She told herself she would not move. Would not press her mouth to his, no matter how tempting such a notion may be. She told herself she would not give in.
“Thank you,” she said, hating how breathless she sounded. Hating how much he affected her. He was not supposed to make her want him so, this icy man who was the opposite of a rake.
And yet, he did.
She found his silence endearing.
She found his kisses entrancing.
And the way he had touched her the other day, beneath her gown…
“May I see your ankle?” he rasped.
Those eyes, brighter than a country summer’s cloudless sky, burned into hers. Their faces remained indecently near. It was as if neither one of them wanted to end this moment, the sorcery of their aloneness.
She forgot his question. She was confused. And famished, but not just for eggs and hothouse pineapple any longer. Rather, for this man. For the Duke of Coventry.
Gill.
He quirked a golden brow. “Yes?”
What a daft chit she was. Had she said his name aloud?
“You ought to go,” she told him, even if it was the last thing she wished. “Tell my sister Pru where I am, and she can aid me.”
His gaze searched hers. “I cannot leave you if you are in pain.”
Wild in Winter Page 6