“Would kissing me really be such a hardship? Think of the risks you’ve taken already for your sisters. I would consider this quite a small thing in comparison.”
“No.”
“It’s entirely your choice, of course.”
Gabby was left with nothing to say. You have the most kissable mouth. Unbidden and unwanted, the words scrolled through her mind. She glanced away from him, chewing her lower lip. A kiss. One kiss, to safeguard Claire. A peck on his mouth, and it was done. As he’d pointed out, it was not so great a thing, after all. What bothered her most about it, she realized with some chagrin, was that she had been wanting to kiss him, wondering how his lips would feel against hers, imagining the deed, since he had first said that about her mouth.
All she had to do was strike another bargain with the devil, and she would know.
The temptation was almost irresistible. Gabby felt like Eve must have when eyeing the apple, tantalized but afraid.
She swallowed, and met his gaze. “One kiss, and you give me your solemn word that you will stay away from Claire?”
“I give you my solemn word that I will treat Claire as chastely as if she were my sister in truth,” he temporized. “I really cannot promise to stay away from her entirely, since for the forseeable future we will all be living under this same roof.”
Gabby thought that over. It seemed an acceptable compromise, providing . . . “How do I know I can trust you to keep your promise? Criminals aren’t, in general, noted for their honesty.”
He smiled at her, a slow, intimate kind of smile that did unexpected things to her pulse rate. “As my partner in crime, you’ll just have to trust me.”
“I am not your . . .” Her voice trailed off. Under the circumstances, to say nothing of his mocking gaze, there seemed little point in protesting. However inadvertent her coupling of her deception to his had been, she supposed that she was now, to all intents and purposes, just what he had described her as: his partner in crime.
It was a mortifying reflection.
“Well?” He lifted his brows at her. “Have you made your decision? I don’t propose to sit here and bandy words with you all night. There are many more enjoyable ways I could be passing the time—such as in planning my assault on your lovely sister’s virtue.”
Gabby stiffened. “You are the lowest form of life in nature.”
He chuckled. “That may well be, but the question is, will you kiss me? To save your sister?”
Gabby glared at him, realized that trying to stare him down or bring him to any sense of shame about his own lack of gentlemanliness was useless, pursed her lips—and bent down and kissed him.
Smack on the mouth. Quick as that, and it was done. Really, for all her soul searching, nothing could have been easier—or more disappointing.
The warm, dry surface of his lips barely registered with her senses. No cataclysm of emotion assailed her. Her heart and pulse and breathing remained undisturbed. In the end, all her fantasizing came down to this: as in so much else in life, kissing a man was much ado about not much.
Pleased with herself for having had the courage to face the devil she knew head on, relieved to have gotten it over with, and as a result feeling almost smug, she looked down at him with a small smile.
“There,” she said. “The deal is struck.”
He laughed, and, reaching up, closed a hand around her wrist before she realized what he intended. The wrist belonged to the hand that was clutching the quilt closed, and in her surprise her fingers relaxed. The edges parted and the quilt slipped, dropping soundlessly to the floor.
Without it, despite the dual protection of her wrapper and night rail, she felt naked. She could not erase from her mind the thought that he knew just what lay beneath her garments. Trying to tug her arm free, she clamped her other arm over her breasts.
Registering the gesture, his eyes gleamed wickedly at her.
She tried to tug her wrist free. “What are you doing? Let me go.”
“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Not yet. Not until you pay up. That little peck was no more a kiss than a crumb is a meal.”
“You gave your word.” She glared at him, standing perfectly still now as she preferred not to risk her dignity by fighting for the return of her wrist when she knew as well as she knew her own name that she had no chance to prevail. “I might have known you wouldn’t keep it.”
“So did you give your word,” he reminded her. “And the rule is pay or play, my girl.”
Then, without warning, he gave a sharp jerk on her wrist that brought her tumbling down into his arms. They closed around her like the jaws of a trap, and to her horror she found herself sitting on his lap.
“Let me up.” Her book had tumbled with her, and was wedged between her thigh and his stomach. Panicking, she grabbed at it as the only weapon that was within reach, meaning to whack him in the ribs with it if necessary to secure her release.
“Ah-ah,” he said reproachfully as he fielded the intended blow with an elbow. “Would you undo all your good work and injure me anew? What a bloodthirsty creature you are, to be sure.”
As he spoke, he wrested the book from her hand with ridiculous ease. The small thump as it hit the floor only underscored her determination to win free. Deprived of her weapon, she elbowed him hard in the chest, earning from him a pained grunt, and lunged for freedom. Then his arms wrapped around her, securing her arms to her sides and her person on his lap. She found herself a helpless, furious prisoner. Determined to preserve what little dignity she had left, she disdained to struggle further. Instead, she sat stiffly within the confining circle of his arms, quivering with temper.
“When I was shooting you, I would I’d had a truer aim!”
“Ah, well, it’s a sad fact of life that we all have to live with our mistakes.”
“Bastard.” The shocking word, which she had never uttered before in her life, exactly expressed her sentiments.
“Sticks and stones, Gabriella,” he said mildly.
To meet his gaze, she had to tip her head back. Tipping her head back brought it in contact with his upper arm. That his upper arm made a solid support for her head, and was hard with muscle besides, she could not help but notice.
The fact that she noticed merely heaped coals on the fire of her anger.
“I knew you could not be trusted.” Bitterness iced her voice.
“On the contrary, you’re the one who didn’t live up to her end of the bargain.” He smiled at her then, almost tenderly. Despite her fury, that smile made her breath catch.
He was really the most damnably—and under the circumstances that was precisely the word she wanted—handsome man.
“I kissed you. You know I did.” With her head resting on his arm, his face was so close that she could see every individual whisker that darkened his jaw. She could see the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he smiled down at her. She could see the texture of his skin, the shape of his ears, the twinkle of amusement that lurked in the depths of his blue eyes.
The twinkle was what did it, she thought: it told her that she was being teased. It also eliminated any last trace of the sudden, instinctive fear of a predatory man that being pulled into his arms had roused. But that didn’t mean that she wasn’t still angry at him, because she was. She was irate at being tumbled willy-nilly into his lap, outraged at finding herself imprisoned in his arms, and uncomfortable at sitting nestled on his thighs. Also, she didn’t much like being tricked.
“That was the kind of kiss you’d give your maiden aunt on her deathbed. It doesn’t count.”
“It’s the kind of kiss I’d give anybody. And it does, too, count.”
The amusement in his eyes grew more pronounced.
“What do you know about kissing, anyway? I’d be willing to bet anything I possess that you’ve never kissed a man before.”
Looking up into those teasing eyes was having the most amazing effect on her, she discovered. Almost she felt her anger sta
rting to slip away. Realizing this, she rallied enough to snap: “I’d say that’s a pretty safe bet, considering that you don’t seem to actually possess anything. Everything here belongs to the earl of Wickham, and you are not he.”
He ignored that home thrust in favor of sticking with the original topic.
“Tell the truth now, Gabriella. You’ve never kissed a man before, have you?”
Gabby bristled, lifting her head from his pillowing arm as she replied. “What makes you think that?”
“The kiss you gave me is not the kind of kiss a woman gives a man. And that’s the kind of kiss I meant.” His voice was firm.
“I don’t recall there being any particular specifications attached to the bargain,” Gabby said, with her nose figuratively in the air. She was leaning against his chest now, and his arms were wrapped—rather more loosely than before—around her waist, trapping her arms as well. She could probably have pulled her arms free if she tried, but she couldn’t discover in herself much inclination to do so. Instead she was almost—comfortable in the shocking position, she realized, and, just as bad, enjoying bandying words with him. “You agreed that if I kissed you once on the lips—which I did—you would treat Claire as if she were your sister in truth. I kept my end of the bargain. Now it is up to you to keep yours.”
“Gabriella.”
He was smiling at her with that tender look in his eyes again, and the warmth of his gaze made her feel deliciously languid. “Hmm?”
“If you want me to keep my end of the bargain, you’re going to have to kiss me the way I want to be kissed. Otherwise, the deal’s off.”
Their gazes locked. Her heart was beating far faster than was its norm, she realized, and her breathing had quickened, too. Her muscles were starting to feel weak, and her insides were as trembly as if they had turned to jelly. She was conscious of feeling very relaxed, and at the same time more than a little confused.
This man was dangerous; he was engaged in a criminal enterprise; he had threatened her life; he had handled her in a way that should fill any gently-bred female with enough shame to last a lifetime.
And yet—all she had to do was breathe, and the scent of him made her dizzy. All she had to do was lean her head back against his arm, and the hardness of the muscle there made her own muscles dissolve. All she had to do was nestle against his chest, and the warm resilience of it sapped her strength.
Sitting on a man’s lap was undoubtedly sinful. It was something that a demirep might do, perhaps. Certainly no lady of quality would indulge in such a practice—would she? In any case, never in her wildest flights of erotic imagination had she pictured herself doing such a thing. Yet—she liked it. More than liked it, in fact. She would not be averse to remaining exactly where she was for hours on end.
What would it be like to kiss him as he wanted her to? What would it be like to find out for herself “the way a woman kisses a man?”
If, with twenty-five years in her dish, she had never kissed a man like that, then it was likely she never would. She was firmly on the shelf, she knew. Romance had passed her by. No knight was ever going to come riding in on his white horse to sweep her off her feet.
If she wanted to learn what kissing a man was all about, here was her best chance.
Perhaps her only chance.
And she discovered, with some vestigial dismay, that she very much wanted to take it.
“Very well,” she said, the forced crispness of her tone belying her inner quaking. “What is it exactly that you want me to do?”
24
“First put your arms around my neck.”
Gabby stared into his dark, amused eyes. Then she swallowed, and, lifting her arms, slid them rather gingerly around his neck. The silk brocade of his dressing gown felt very smooth beneath her fingers. Beneath it, the broad strength of his shoulders and back felt almost jarringly masculine in contrast. His hair, crisp and cool, just brushed her fingers. She curled them into his nape in unconscious response.
“That’s good.” If his voice was a little huskier than it had been, she barely noticed.
“Now what?” The reason she barely noticed was because she, in turn, was finding it hard to breathe.
“Lean forward, put your lips against mine, and open your mouth.”
Gabby’s brows knit. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why open my mouth?”
“So I can put my tongue in it.”
“What?” Gabby recoiled. He had to catch her arms to keep them in place.
“No backsliding now,” he warned.
“You—put your tongue in my mouth?” It was an appalled whisper.
“Mm-hmm. And you put your tongue in mine.”
“Oh, dear Lord.” Gabby stared at him, desperate for a gleam that would tell her that he was teasing. He was, she decided after a searching glance, dead serious. “I don’t think I can.”
“Certainly you can. Come on, Gabriella, I haven’t got all night. You agreed to the deal. Now do what I told you, and kiss me.”
Gabby looked up at him, at the hard-planed, handsome face just inches above her own, at the indigo eyes that had somehow, during the course of their interchange, darkened almost to black, at the not quite smiling, beautifully shaped mouth.
Her heart pounded. Her palms grew damp. He was going to put his tongue in. . . . It was so shocking that she couldn’t even finish the thought. What would the reality be like?
Gathering every last bit of her resolve, she clutched the front of his dressing gown and leaned forward. Her breasts brushed his chest, and the sensitive tips tingled and grew hard. His hands dropped away from her arms, moving down to rest lightly on either side of her waist, neither imprisoning nor compelling her as he seemed to wait. Gabby understood. For the bargain to be met, this was for her to do.
She pressed her breasts more firmly against his chest, then lifted her mouth to his.
This touch of their lips was, like their last, quick and tentative. Gabby couldn’t help it. She brushed her mouth across his, briefly registered the dry heat of his lips and the abrasion of his unshaven jaw against her skin, then pulled back.
His eyes were impossible to read as their gazes met.
“Still not good enough. Try again. And this time, close your eyes, Gabriella, and open your mouth.”
The words were a throaty murmur. She could feel their warmth against her mouth. Just a little closer, just a hair, and she would be able to feel his lips moving against hers.
At the thought, a scalding heat suffused her veins.
“Oh, I—can’t.” But she didn’t draw away. Instead, her fingers clenched even tighter on the fabric of his dressing gown. Her body felt curiously boneless. Her breasts swelled against his chest. The place between her legs began to tighten and ache.
He had fondled and kissed her breast, run his hand over her lower body, pulled up her skirt. . . . The memory made her feel like she was going to faint. Her body seemed to burn. Desperately, shamefully, she realized that she wanted him to do it all again.
The kind of kiss he wanted led to that.
“Yes, you can. Put your lips against mine, and then slide your tongue in my mouth.”
Gabby took a deep, shaken breath. There was no help for it, she realized—and she realized, too, that she didn’t even want to turn back. Still hanging onto his dressing gown for dear life, she lifted her face, and pressed her lips to his. Then, remembering his instructions, she closed her eyes, and tentatively put out her tongue.
It encountered the barrier of his closed lips. As soon as she touched them, they parted, and she screwed up her courage and slid her tongue inside his mouth.
It was wet and scalding hot and tasted, faintly, of fine brandy and cigars. His tongue touched hers, stroked it, then pushed inside her mouth, claiming it with a boldness that stopped her breath. His lips molded themselves to hers, and her head began to spin. Goose bumps prickled to life all over the surface of her skin. Her stomach clenched.
His lips moved against hers, compelling a response. His tongue explored the hidden crevices of her mouth. Lying across his lap, her arms locked around his neck, Gabby savored the sensations like a gourmet might savor the flavors and presentations of a rare feast. Shyly she stroked his tongue with hers, and was rewarded by a sharp indrawing of his breath.
It was good to know that she was not the only one affected by their kiss.
Then she felt his hand cover her breast.
It was her turn to catch her breath. Although two layers of cloth—her nightgown and wrapper—separated her flesh from his touch, she could feel the heat and strength of his hand with an acuity that shocked her. Her nipple swelled into his palm as if begging for attention, as if her body, remembering his touch, longed for more. Her loins clenched, then began to throb in an aching, thrilling, too well-remembered rhythm.
He ran his thumb over her nipple, pressed against it, and her body burst into flames.
Her senses were overwhelmed. She could no longer think, but only feel. She clung to his neck, returning his kiss with growing abandon, suffering his hand to caress her breast—no, loving it as his hand caressed her breast. She was trembling, she realized groggily, and her body was arching hungrily against his chest and the place between her thighs was once again beginning to melt. . . .
She could feel the male part of him beneath her thighs, she realized, and realized too that it was hard and heavy with wanting. Unable to help herself, she squirmed against it, and felt it boldly pressing up against her bottom.
That was what she wanted inside her. . . . At the knowledge, a tiny moan escaped her, only to be swallowed up by his lips.
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