“Yes.”
Her sweet susurrus only served to inflame him more.
He parted her folds, his fingers seeking her pearl. When the pad of his forefinger brushed over the nub, she moaned her approval. He moved slowly at first, then with greater assurance. She seemed to prefer a faster pace, a less ginger touch.
Their cheeks were still pressed together, their bodies flush. There was just enough room between them to allow him to explore her. He wanted, with everything he had, to slide a finger inside her channel. Better yet, his cock. But he would not do it. Because he was not marrying Christabella Winter. She did not belong to him.
Why not,asked that blasted voice inside his head.
It was a fair question.
He needed funds. Christabella was a Winter. She was the only woman who had ever set him at ease. And he wanted her more than his next breath.
And so, it was without finesse or thought, and utterly without consideration, preparation, or the chance to weigh the merits of such a question at such a moment, and sadly without actually making Christabella spend, that he jerked his head back, and stared into her upturned face.
“Will you be my wife?” he found himself asking.
Almost as if another were speaking on his behalf.
He heard his voice as if he were detached from it. And he saw the surprise flare in Christabella’s gaze, the passion give way to confusion.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked.
Good God, what a fool he was. He had touched his first cunny and had promptly asked the owner of said cunny to wed him. Worse, the lady in question looked neither impressed nor pleased.
His passion and his courage fled him.
He took a step in retreat, disengaging from her, releasing her skirts. Her hem fluttered to the floor, obscuring her stocking-clad legs from view. His fingers were still wet with her dew as he offered her a bow.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled.
At least, he thought he did. The roaring in his ears was too much to withstand.
He turned and quit the chamber with all haste.
Chapter Five
Christabella blinked asthe door to the red salon slammed closed, stealing from her the tempting sight of a broad, muscular back and long, lean legs striding away. Her mind, fogged as it was by desire, struggled to make sense out of what had occurred.
The Duke of Coventry had just kissed the breath out of her.
And then he had lifted her gown and touched her in precisely the place where she had stroked herself last night to thoughts of him.
It had been absolute bliss.
Until he had asked her to marry him.
With shaking hands, she smoothed the wrinkles from her skirts. A glance down at them revealed they were hopelessly crushed, the signs of what she had just been doing despicably evident. She would have to sneak back to her chamber for a change of gown without anyone being the wiser.
She should flee with what remained of her reputation still intact.
And yet, she could not seem to force herself to go.
Instead, her feet were moving, leading her across the chamber, and out the door. Chasing him, it seemed. Foolish as that was. Yes, she was running after Coventry—Gill—because he had looked distressed in the moment before he had retreated. And her reaction to his proposal had been,well, rude.
Because she had been shocked, of course, but he was not privy to her thoughts and could not know that. If his feelings were bruised by her words, she would never forgive herself. For she liked him, she was startled to realize as she continued her chase.
Very much.
