Kissing practice.
His cock twitched.
His inner sense of right and wrong, however, would not be seduced. “You are betraying your betrothed, Miss Winter.”
“I do not yet have a betrothed.” She smiled. “You see? My plan is flawless.”
Shewas flawless.
Thank Christ she did not already have a betrothed.
The notion had been enough to make him feel itchy. And angry. And jealous.
Irrationally so.
He struggled to follow her logic. “You said you are marrying a rake, Miss Winter. What else was I to surmise from such a statement?”
“Oh, I am,” she said, her smile deepening to reveal a lone groove in her left cheek. “However, I have yet to meet him. There is no better time than now to perfect my kissing skills. I shall need them, of course. I would hate to think my husband found my kisses regrettable and untutored.”
He almost choked. First, that dimple.Good God, that fucking dimple. Second, no one would ever find the kisses of Miss Christabella Winter regrettable and untutored. He was bloody well certain of it.
No betrothed, taunted the voice.
Kissing practice. What sort of female arrived at such a nonsensical notion? And why could he not seem to send her from his arms?
“Very well,” he found himself saying. “But just this once, Miss Winter. Never again after this sole occasion.”
“You will not regret it, Your Grace,” she said, still smiling like the Bedlamite she undoubtedly was. Still beautiful, damn it. She caressed his cheek then, just fleetingly, before stepping out of his embrace. “Our practice will commence tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” The word was torn from him, a denial. If he was to kiss her, he wanted to kiss her now,damn it.
“Yes, tomorrow, Your Grace.” She was already halfway across the salon. “We have lingered alone together too long as it is. I dare not remain much longer, for fear we are caught. A forced marriage is the last thing either of us wants, yes? Kissing practice must wait for another day. But, oh, I am so pleased you have seen the wisdom of my plan! I will meet you in the west wing, shall we say, around two o’clock? Far less chance of discovery there.”
Everything she said made sense.
Of course it did.
What did not make sense was the ache left behind by the absence of her in his arms.
“I am not certain I will be able to accommodate an assignation,” he informed her, feeling churlish at the unaffected manner in which she was flitting away. She had just changed everything inside him and tied him up in veritable knots.
“You will,” she said as she reached the door, spinning back to face him. Her tone was confident. Knowing. She looked like a goddess come to life.
One sent to tempt and torment him.
“And how do you know that?” he asked, irritated with her. Irritated with himself as well. He should be able to withstand this beautiful minx.
“Because you want to kiss me, Your Grace,” she announced, her smile turning into a rakish grin. “And also because I disarm you. You have just carried on an entire conversation without once turning into an icicle.”
He did not turn into an icicle,by God.
He opened his mouth to tell her so.
“Yes, you do turn into an icicle,” she argued before he could speak. “But a very handsome icicle, Your Grace. You see? You are ice, and I am flame. I melt you. That is why my plan is so perfect. Tomorrow in the red salon, in the west wing, at three o’clock.”
She was right. Blast her. Except for the time.
Her back was to him once more when he called out.
