Although she knew quite well she should not.
This is not the man for you, she reminded herself. Even if he did propose. And even if he had thrown a snowball at her heart, as if he were declaring war upon that particular part of her. Even if she could think of nothing but his mouth on hers, his long fingers seeking her flesh…
This was not going well.
He seemed to be looking at her expectantly. Was it her turn to speak? What had he said last? Her ankle was aching, it was true, but it was nothing compared to the other ache. The other need.
“Why are you still here?” she asked.
They had pushed the boundaries of propriety—heavens, if she were honest, they had trampled over them like runaway horses—before. But that had been in a chamber where it had been far less likely they would ever be intruded upon. Not within a heavily used room, just out of earshot of the dining room where their fellow guests broke their fasts.
She did not want to be forced into marriage. Or ruined, she reminded herself. No matter how deliciously wicked the Duke of Coventry made her feel.
“You are injured,” he said, his tone concerned, his brow furrowed. “I cannot leave you in such a state.”
The state she was in had far more to do with the man before her than with her ankle, and that was the truth. What would the harm be, the wickedest part of her wondered, in keeping him here with her? In basking in his presence, his touch, just for a few moments more?
She could not.
She dared not.
Did she?
She thought of the snowball hitting her heart, the expression upon his handsome face.
Oh, yes, she dared.
“There is a way you could help my ankle to feel better,” she said before her rational mind attempted to divert her from her course.
“Tell me,” he urged.
“Kiss me,” she said.
“Kiss me,” Christabellatold him.
Gill stared into her face. Into her beautiful, haunting, lovely face. Into her blue-green eyes. He tried to remind himself his original purpose in bringing her here, to this chamber, alone. Tried to recall she was injured, that she had somehow hurt her ankle and had been in true pain when he had first come upon her in the hall.
But all he could think about was her lips.
About taking them again.
“You are hurt,” the gentleman within him protested. “Allow me to tend you. To make certain you have not done yourself serious injury.”
Still, he did not make an effort to put more distance between them. One dip of his head, and he could claim her mouth as his own. Which it was, because he was going to make her his duchess. He was decided upon his path.
“I think we need to continue our lessons,” she said, her voice low. Husky.
Sensual.
His cock, already hard, twitched.
“Lessons?” Mindlessly, he drew nearer, as if he were a bee drawn to the blossom.
There was almost no distance between them. He was on his knees before her, his body pressed to her limbs. He wondered if she could feel the effect she had upon him, even through the layers of his breeches and her petticoats and gown.
Eight-and-twenty years he had remained a virgin, and yet he had never felt so tempted, so desperate, as he did now. As if he would explode if he did not have her. Or at least touch her. If he did not raise her skirts and place his mouth upon her where he truly wished. Upon that slick flesh he had scarcely been able to pleasure two days ago. Upon her cunny.
“Our kissing lessons,” Christabella elaborated then, her hands fluttering back to his shoulders.
