Now that she had known the pleasure of his kiss, she could not seem to stop wanting more. But the Duke of Coventry was altogether wrong for her. Just as she was altogether wrong for him. She wanted a rake. A man who knew how to seduce and thrill and show her the heights of passion.
He frowned at her now. “If you do not want me to carry you there, then where shall I take you, my dear?”
My dear.
Those two words should not send heat flooding to her core. And yet, in his deep voice, his strong arms tight around her as if he would hold her forever there, they did.
This was getting dangerous. The longer they lingered here in the hall where anyone could come across them, the greater their chance of creating a scandal.
“There is a writing room, just over there,” she said, nodding toward the closed door with her head. Not because she did not wish to release her hold on his neck, of course.
But his hair was so soft. Soft and thick. He was like a tall, golden warrior. A beautiful, patrician duke with the body of a man who labored for his bread. And clinging to him felt nothing short of wondrous.
Very well, she did not wish to release her hold on his neck.
Because clinging to him made her feel secure and aflame all at once.
“Third door on the left?” he asked, moving in the direction of her nod.
“Yes,” she answered simply. For what else was there to say?
He was silent as he stalked to the door in question, and she took the opportunity to observe him. His jaw was rigid, his stare straight ahead. What a strange sensation, being carried in a man’s arms. She felt as if she were floating. And in this man’s arms, in particular…
They made it through the door, which he managed with one-handed aplomb, and then he carried her to a divan. The writing room was blessedly empty, the door closed at their backs. As he lowered her to the cushion, she knew a keen surge of disappointment.
Regret.
She hated to let go of him.
But she must, and so she did, but still, the duke did not move. He was near, hovering over her. Close enough to kiss. She told herself she would not move. Would not press her mouth to his, no matter how tempting such a notion may be. She told herself she would not give in.
“Thank you,” she said, hating how breathless she sounded. Hating how much he affected her. He was not supposed to make her want him so, this icy man who was the opposite of a rake.
And yet, he did.
She found his silence endearing.
She found his kisses entrancing.
And the way he had touched her the other day, beneath her gown…
“May I see your ankle?” he rasped.
Those eyes, brighter than a country summer’s cloudless sky, burned into hers. Their faces remained indecently near. It was as if neither one of them wanted to end this moment, the sorcery of their aloneness.
She forgot his question. She was confused. And famished, but not just for eggs and hothouse pineapple any longer. Rather, for this man. For the Duke of Coventry.
Gill.
He quirked a golden brow. “Yes?”
What a daft chit she was. Had she said his name aloud?
“You ought to go,” she told him, even if it was the last thing she wished. “Tell my sister Pru where I am, and she can aid me.”
His gaze searched hers. “I cannot leave you if you are in pain.”
Could he kiss her? She could not help but wonder.
