“I never doubted it,” he grumbled, scrubbing a hand along his jaw.
But he did not go. She took it as a sign of his acquiescence.
“I am going to kiss you,” she pronounced.
Gill had misheardthe maddening creature.
Surely, he had.
For there was no other explanation to describe the words he thought he had just heard her utter. Individually, they meant nothing at all. Strung together, one sentence of six little words, they proved his undoing.
“You,” he sputtered, then stopped.
Because he was not certain if his tongue would properly function. Or that his breeches could survive the painful surge of his cockstand.
“Me,” she said brightly, her tone agreeable.
As if they had been speaking about a triviality such as the newly fallen snow, or the unseasonable cold. As if they exchanged pleasantries in a drawing room. As if she had not just spoken the sentence that had set him aflame.
“Miss Winter,” he began, “surely I misheard you. You could not have said what I thought you just uttered…”
“Of course I could have.” She smiled at him yet again, sending prickles down his spine. “And I did.”
Her boldness should be aggrieving. Shocking. Instead, he found it entrancing. Intoxicating. Perhaps because all the blood in his body had rushed to a singular portion of his anatomy.
Because she had stepped even nearer. Her gown—white satin with an ivory lace overlay—fluttered into him. Her hands settled upon his shoulders. Her face—utterly lovely—tipped back. Her blue-green eyes seared him. Her mouth was a sinful promise he could not deny.
Yes, he could, he told himself. He was stronger than seduction. He could withstand her greatest efforts.
He had never kissed a lady before.
He would not begin with this flighty Winter chit, who followed him about and touched him as if it were her right. Who announced she was going to kiss him with such cool calm. Who was bold and daring, with her blazing hair, her sharp tongue, and her maddeningly divine scent of summer blooms.
“Miss Winter, you cannot simply go about kissing the gentlemen in the house party,” he told her.
But the words lacked the sting they should possess, and he knew it. And one of his hands had settled upon her waist whilst the other had found its way to her shoulder. He was touching her,by God. Without the affliction setting in as it had on previous occasions. His heart did not pound. His skin did not perspire.
Impossible.
She was warm, heating his skin through all the layers of fabric keeping him from her flesh. And soft, so bloody soft.
“I do not want to go about kissing all the gentleman,” she said softly. Sweetly. “I only want to kiss you.”
Her cheeks turned pink as she said the last.
It was the first sign this wild Winter was capable of experiencing embarrassment. She was so forward and bold, where he was quiet and contained. He was a breeze whispering through a vast forest, and she was a maelstrom overwhelming the coast.
Somehow, he found that intriguing. He foundherintriguing.
His own gaze slipped to her lips. They were full and pouty, inviting and wicked. Everything a woman’s mouth should be.
He swallowed. “You want to kiss me.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Only me,” he clarified.
As if that mattered. The voice inside him was strident and demanding.Kiss her, it said.Take her mouth with yours.He had already forgotten his stern inner admonition to kiss only the woman he would wed. All he could think about was the way this woman’s lips would feel beneath his. Would they be soft and supple? What would happen after their mouths met? He had read a great deal on the subject in an effort to better prepare himself for the inevitable bedding he would need to do with his duchess.
