“Higher.”
He reached her knee, desire burning anew. “Here?”
Her pink tongue darted over the lushness of her lower lip. “Higher.”
Was she trying to kill him? He had just determined not to be improper. He ought to lower her skirts, step away from her. Leave the chamber. But he was ensnared, falling into her eyes, his fingers traveling higher of their own accord. To the place where her stockings ended.
There, he hesitated, grazing warm, silken, womanly flesh.
“Christabella,” he said her name on a groan.
Because from here, there was not far to go until he reached her quim.
And that was all he could bloody well think about.
Until the door to the writing room swung open.
Chapter Seven
The shocked gaspof Lady Adele cut through the silence of the writing room.
Christabella’s heart was suddenly pounding for a reason that had nothing to do with Gill’s hands upon her bare skin. Her gaze shot to Lady Adele’s. The door was ajar behind her, but the hall appeared to be clear. Meaning there was only one witness to the Duke of Coventry’s hands beneath her gown.
Unfortunately, the divan upon which he had settled her faced the entry, which meant Lady Adele had an unfettered view of Gill on his knees before her, hems raised to her knees.
“Forgive me,” Lady Adele said, her countenance pale. “I did not mean to intrude.”
Gill flipped her gown down, then stood, towering over Christabella and blocking her from view. He bowed, as if they had not just been caught engaged in shockingly inappropriate behavior.
“Lady Adele,” he said.
And then said nothing else.
Oh, dear.He was not helping matters.
Christabella peered around his imposing form. “His Grace was helping me with my—”
“Torn hem,” Gill blurted, shocking her by speaking.
“Yes,” she lied, hoping Lady Adele could not see her flawlessly intact hem around Gill’s imposing body. “And he was just about to fetch my sister for me. Were you not, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice wooden. “Er, yes.”
He bowed again, and then he stalked from the room, saying nothing more. Christabella winced as he retreated as if he were fleeing a burning building. In some ways, perhaps he was. Her gown was now on full display for Lady Adele’s inspection. Christabella debated the merits of running herself, sore ankle or no, when the other woman glided across the chamber and settled onto the divan at her side.
“I am so sorry for bumping into you,” Lady Adele said. “And you need not fear I will tell anyone what I saw just now.”
What she had seen had been scandalous.
Christabella knew it.
Just as she knew it could prove her ruin. If Lady Adele were to speak a word to anyone, Christabella would find herself the next Duchess of Coventry.
Why did the prospect not fill her with dread? Why did it instead fill her with a strange feeling of rightness?
“It was not as wicked as it looked,” she offered lamely.
Which was a lie, of course.
