“I am wonderfully comfortable.” Her lips twitched as if she were stifling laughter.
“What else do you sit upon?” he could not resist teasing. “Pray tell me you do not sit upon small dogs or teacups to keep them warm.”
She did laugh then. Her laughter was tinkling and beautiful, and it sent a bolt of need straight through him. “Why those choices, of all things?”
“They were the first that came to mind.” He was smiling with her, falling into her eyes all over again.
Her gaze searched his, and whatever she saw there made her levity fade. “I only sit upon books and seats, I promise.”
He gave her fingers another squeeze. “Do you sit upon all your books, or just books you are seeking to hide from me?”
“Why should you think I am seeking to hide it from you?” she countered.
Easy answer for that one. “You are sitting on it.”
She was staring at his mouth now. “You do know you are behaving in scandalously improper fashion by sitting with me here in my chamber, do you not?”
He wondered if she was thinking about the kisses they had shared, and tamped down a wave of longing. “I do. However, I deemed the risk worthwhile, considering I had no other means of knowing how you fared. Your absence left me concerned.”
She raised a brow. “You could have asked my sister, Pru.”
He cleared his throat. “She was not present at the afternoon’s entertainments.”
Christabella frowned. “That is odd. When she left here earlier, she said she was going directly to the drawing room.”
All the more reason to suppose Miss Prudence had arranged for an assignation with his rakehell of a brother.
“She is a good woman, your sister?” he asked, feeling a surge of protectiveness for Ash, whom he knew so often felt the same way about him, thanks to his affliction. “Kindhearted?”
Christabella smiled fondly. “Oh, yes. She has the kindest of hearts. There is none better. Why do you ask?”
He shifted in his seat, growing uncomfortable. “No reason.”
Her eyes narrowed. Christabella Winter was no fool. “Tell me.”
Damnation. Now he would have to share his plan with her. What if she told Miss Prudence and the whole affair was muddled?
He considered his options.
“Gill,” she prodded sternly.
“I will tell you, as long as you promise me you shall carry it no further,” he said at last. “You can tell no one. Not any of your sisters. Do you promise?”
“Not even my sisters?” She pursed her lips, rendering them all the more kissable. “But they are my best friends.”
The Winter family was notorious in many ways, one of which was their fierce protectiveness over one another. Her objection came as no surprise. But he remained firm. He wanted happiness for Ash, and he was not about to allow anyone to ruin it. Even if she was the most delicious creature he had ever beheld.
“Not even them,” he insisted.
She sighed. “Very well. I do hate secrets. I cannot bear to go on now, knowing you are keeping something from me. I promise I shall not tell my sisters. What is it?”
“I am playing matchmaker, of sorts,” he revealed, feeling silly by the mere utterance of the words aloud.
For after all, he knew nothing of courting. Until this house party and Christabella, he had never kissed a lady. Who was he to believe he could play matchmaker for his brother? To win a lady for his brother, who was handsome and charming and who knew how to make a lady fall into his bed with the mere quirk of a well-timed eyebrow?
“Matchmaker,” Christabella repeated slowly, blinking. “You?”
“Yes.” His ears were hot. As were his cheeks. He wondered if he were flushing. Gill fidgeted with his cravat, suddenly feeling as if it were too restrictive. “My brother is a good man. He has spent far too much time fretting over me and my—my affliction. Indeed, his presence at this house party is down to his desire to aid me, for I am the one who is in search of a bride. But I saw the way he looked at your sister, Miss Prudence. And I made a wager with him that he could not woo the lady of my choosing on my behalf. I chose your sister. He believes he is courting her for me.”
Her frown returned, this time quite fiercely. “Lord Ashley is courting Pru on your behalf?”
“He thinks he is,” Gill repeated, hastening to reassure her. “In truth, my interest lies elsewhere. But Ash believes he is happy devoting his life to being a ne’er-do-well second son, luring London’s ladies out of their gowns.”
“Well he is most certainly not allowed to woo my sister out of her gown!” Christabella’s outrage echoed in the chamber as she released his hand. “She is a respectable lady, even if she is a Winter.”
Blast. It seemed he was muddling this up well enough on his own.
He took her hand back in his. “I am not encouraging him to ruin her, Christabella. I would never do such a thing. I want to see him married to her.”
That rather took the vinegar out of her expression. “Oh. But Pru does not want to get married to anyone.”
“Perhaps she will change her mind,” he said pointedly. “Did you not see the way the two of them were looking at each other after our snowball fight in the gardens?”
She was silent for a beat, apparently mulling over her recollections. “Yes, I did. And now that you mention it, she did look awfully mussed and rumpled when I bumped into her in the hall the other day. As if she had been thoroughly kissed…”
“He will do the honorable thing by her,” he vowed. For he knew his brother. Rakehell though he may be, Ash was a gentleman. And he did have honor. He had simply needed to find the right woman.
Just as Gill had. For altogether different reasons, of course.
“He had better,” Christabella warned, “or I shall be forced to enact revenge upon him.”
He was sure he did not want to know what Christabella Winter’s idea of revenge was.
“He will,” he reaffirmed.
She gave him a hard look. “Is my sister alone with him now?”
“I do not know.” That, at least, was complete honesty. He knew not where the devil Ash had gone. All he did know was that neither Miss Prudence nor his brother had been present in the drawing room earlier.
“Gill.” She squeezed his hand, as if in warning.
“Christabella.” He squeezed back and thought about kissing her, to erase all the questions from her sweet lips.
How odd it was to think their mouths had met. That he had held her in his arms. That he spoke to her, without the affliction rendering him mute. So much had changed in the course of this house party.
Everything had changed.
She was watching him now, her stare curious. Probing. Intense.
He stared back, and his heart pounded, but not with anxiety. Rather, with sensual intent. Their palms remained sealed, fingers laced.
“If Lord Ashley is a rotten cad, I will never forgive you for your interference,” she warned.
“He is not a rotten cad.” On this, he was certain.
Just as he was certain that he was about to kiss her yet again.
“But I do think it is sweet of you to want to see your brother happily settled.” She paused, eying him shrewdly. “And I do think it was sweet of you to check on me, even if you should never have come here to my chamber.”
Progress, so it seemed.
“How is your ankle?” he asked again, for he had not forgotten her injury.
A small smile flirted with her lips. “It only pains me when I stand on it for too long. I am quite able to walk about, however. Fortunately, the damage was of a temporary rather than permanent nature.”
“Pity,” he said, eyeing her mouth. “I rather enjoyed carrying you about in my arms.”
Her lips parted. “Oh.”
Had he rendered her speechless? Feeling as if he had won the greatest battle of a war, Gill leaned into her, lowering his head. The sweet scent of summery blossoms and Christabella
hit him. “But I am glad your ankle is not paining you now nearly as much as it was earlier.”
She swallowed, looking suddenly vulnerable and unlike her bold, assured self. “Why is that?”
“Because that means I can kiss you again.” And with that, he lowered his head the rest of the way and pressed his lips to hers.
Chapter Eight
Gill was kissing her.
In her chamber.
Kissing her madly, passionately, and deliciously.
He had released her hand, and now he cupped her face instead, angling her to him. There was none of the initial hesitance in this kiss. There was only urgency. Full, unadulterated need. A need that echoed within her, in her core. In the wicked place she had read about in The Book of Love again and again. The place where he had touched her, only deeper still.
Her flirtation with him was growing dangerous, that much was certain. Dangerous because instead of recalling she had spent the last few years of her life swooning over the notion of being seduced by a rake, all she could think of now was the man kissing her.
The Duke of Coventry.
A man who had never kissed until a few days ago.
She could hardly tell so now, for he was kissing her as if his very life depended upon it, and she was kissing him back with the same desperation. The same fervor. Heavens, she would collide with Lady Adele a hundred times over as long as each instance led to this, Gill finding her alone, sitting so near to her she could see every fleck of color in his beautiful eyes and smell his musky citrus scent. Just so she could tangle her fingers in his and chat with him, unencumbered.
She liked this man far, far too much. More than was proper, it was certain. More than she ought to like a gentleman who was not a rake. Not the man she was going to wed.
But he had proposed to her, had he not?
Yes, though it had been abrupt and punctuated by his hasty retreat from the salon that day, he had indeed asked her to marry him. What would she have said, had he not gone? What would she say if he asked her now?
Yes.
No.
Yes.
Certainly not.
Oh, what a dreadful snare to find herself trapped in: a handsome man who was not a rake. A man who had never even taken a woman to his bed. Christabella knew she ought to be ignorant of such matters, but the books she read, along with some light lectures from her sister-in-law Lady Emilia, had given her all the knowledge she needed without a physical demonstration.
Obviously, the physical demonstration would be preferable to words.
Yes, indeed. It would be.
She forgot all the reasons why she should tell Gill to go. Why she should insist upon guarding her reputation. Because kissing him—good Lord, his lips on hers—it felt unbearably wonderful and wild. And she could not get enough. She was pulsing and aching everywhere, coming to life. She was a bud blossoming into a hothouse flower.
And she wanted to bloom.
For him.
With him.
His tongue toyed with hers. This was the most delicious part of kissing, she found—open mouths, tongues writhing—carnal and raw. Or perhaps it was simply the act of kissing Gill, a man who seemed so serious and icy, but who melted for her with such ease.
Her arms were around his neck, and she was clutching him to her, breasts against his chest, tongue meeting his for every thrust. If there were any lingering throbs of pain in her ankle, she forgot them altogether. Her nipples tightened into hard peaks. Her breasts felt full and achy. Her entire body felt as if it had been doused in flame.
In sensual flame.
They were seated alongside each other, making their embrace awkward, the angle of their necks uncomfortable. Instinct guided her. She placed her hands flat on the hard plane of his chest, and gave him a gentle shove.
He ended the kiss, his sky-blue gaze glazed, the obsidian discs of his pupils huge. He blinked, confusion evident on his handsome face.
“I beg your pardon,” he began, clearly thinking he needed to apologize.
How wrong he was.
She gave him another tender push, guiding him so that his broad shoulders met with the back of the settee. And then she grasped her skirt in her hands, lifting it to her waist as she straddled his lap. Fortunately, such a position did not require any weight to be distributed upon her ankle.
But who cared about ankles now?
As the already sensitive flesh between her thighs met his breeches and the straining bulge of his manhood beneath them, the breath fled her lungs. She did not think she even knew what an ankle was. Nor would she ever require one again.
All she did require was this. Him.
He was so large, larger even than he had seemed as he sat alongside her. She could see it now, from her vantage point atop him, in a way she had not been able to truly appreciate before. His shoulders were strong and wide. His arms were muscled and long. His chest was hard. His abdomen was flat and lean.
She liked this, being the one in control. She liked being on his lap.
And he liked having her there.
“Belle,” he said, his voice low. His countenance was slack with pleasure. His body was taut with need. “What are you doing?”
No one had ever called her Belle before. Christabella, yes. Christabella Mary, also yes. Belle? No. Not anyone. Not until him. And she had to admit, she liked it. As much as she liked the sensation of his rock-hard staff beneath her.
She moved over him, relying once more on her instinct. She arched her back, grinding her core upon his breeches-clad member. It was the part of him that should go inside her, if they were lovers. If he were her husband.
He was not.
Nor were they lovers, she reminded herself.
And yet…
How good it felt. God, how good it felt. She rocked against him with greater purpose as the need inside her continued to build. Wetness gathered between her thighs. She could feel how slick she was, and she was certain she must be coating his breeches. They were fawn, of fine quality, and she did not care.
All she did care about was seeking the satisfaction only he could give her.
“My God, Belle,” he said again, his hands finding her waist.
She realized, quite belatedly, and somehow through the fog of desire permeating her mind, that she had never answered him the first time. He had asked her a question, had he not? Yes, he had. But she could not remember what it had been now. Not with him beneath her, not with her atop him, not with their bodies separated by only the thin barrier of fabric.
Scarcely anything at all.
She found a particularly responsive part of herself, jerking when she brushed herself over his length. Pleasure spiked through her, sharp and unexpected. Wanting more of it, greedy for it, she moved again. His fingers dug into her sides as he gripped her, helping her to move, to angle herself over him.
“Oh, Gill,” was all she could manage to say.
The pleasure was too intense. Too overwhelming. She could do nothing but writhe over him, riding him, driving them both ever closer to…something. To the pinnacle she had only read about. To the mindless, sated bliss. She wanted that. He wanted that. She knew it without having to ask.
But then, his fingers somehow found their way beneath her skirts. And they found, unerringly, the part of her that was hungriest. She cried out and slammed her mouth down on his.
He had only intended to come here to inquire after her ankle. To reassure himself she was not suffering from too much pain. But somehow, in spite of all his good intentions, Christabella was in his lap, and his hand was beneath her gown. She had just been riding his cock through his breeches, and the falls of them were kissed with her dew.
His fingers explored. Parted her. She was slick and hot. A dream. Familiar, too. His, all his. He circled her pearl with his forefinger, exerting more pressure than he had the last time. There was no hesitance in him now. Only hunger. He learned her, listening to the sweet hitches in her breath that told him when she liked w
hat he did. To the throaty cries and the jerk of her hips that told him she wanted more.
And he gave her more.
He wanted to make her spend. Wanted to feel her lose herself. Wanted to watch as pleasure rushed over her and she became helpless and mindless. Their lips met once more and clung, this kiss more passionate even than all the others that came before. Although it had been mere hours since their sultry interlude in the writing room, he was on fire for her.
His entire body vibrated with the need to be one with her. A need he could not fulfill, a desire he could not yet quench. Because she was not his wife. She had not even agreed to marry him yet. The reminder should have quelled some of the lust raging inside him. It should have made him pluck her off his lap and put some necessary distance between them.
But he did not. Because she brought him to life in a way he had never imagined possible. She made him believe, for the first time, that happiness would not forever hover beyond his reach. That he was stronger than the affliction which had chased him all his life.
Faster and faster he worked over the swollen bud. His hand was coated in the evidence of her desire. She moved with him, undulating her hips and thrusting over him in a delicious rhythm. Their kiss turned voracious. He was almost on the edge himself, his cock aching after the way she had moved over him. His ballocks were drawn tight, white-hot desire licking down his spine.
She was ready.
Gill did not know how he knew, for he was a novice at pleasuring a woman. Perhaps it was the way she sped up. Or the way she cried out into his mouth. Or the way she slammed her cunny against him frantically, as if they could become one with this single act alone.
He circled her pearl, rubbing harder.
Until she stiffened, her body shuddering. She moaned. It was the most erotic sound he had ever heard in his bloody life. He ate up that moan. Ate up her kiss. Her lips. Continued pleasuring her even as need hummed through him, threatening to make him lose control.
She never stopped kissing him, rocking into his touch. Her cunny was even wetter now than it had been before. Ready. He wondered what it would feel like to slide deep inside her. Inside her heat, her wetness. It would be bliss, he had no doubt. The sort that would tear him asunder.
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