Page 28 of A Winter Scandal

He was only teasing, Thea knew, yet she felt herself begin to blush. It was completely infuriating. What if the blush made him think she was wanting to kiss him? It only made it even more appalling to realize that she would not at all mind a repetition of the kiss he had given her last night.

“Don’t be nonsensical.” Thea closed the door a bit more forcefully than was necessary. “I was simply about to hang it.”

He glanced at the ceiling, then back at her. “By yourself?”

“I was going to stand upon the bench.”

“Please. Allow me.” Plucking the decoration from her hand, he lithely stepped onto the bench and tied the mistletoe to the large nail.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” Thea strove for the proper formality of tone. It would be extremely embarrassing if he realized that her lips kept wanting to smile.

“So prim and proper, Miss Bainbridge.” He reached out a forefinger and touched one of the soft curls at her temple. “I like the way you did your hair.”

Thea’s stomach fluttered, and she looked away quickly. She was filled with such a tumbling rush of unusual feelings—an undeniable pleasure that he liked her hairstyle combined with the horrifying prospect that he might think she had arranged it that way in an attempt to please him, and sprinkled over it all a sizzling physical response to his touch—that she could not seem to find her mental footing. “I am sure you are an expert on such matters,” she replied tartly, then was washed with embarrassment that she had responded with such a lack of social grace.

He chuckled. “Whether I am an expert is questionable, but I am definitely an interested observer.”

She could not hold back a little smile at his words, though, again, she had no idea how to respond.

Gabriel leaned down toward her. “It seems foolish not to take advantage of the fruits of our labors.”

He glanced up significantly, and Thea followed his gaze to the ball of mistletoe above them. Before she could move or speak, he kissed her. She threw her hands up against his chest as if to ward him off, but her arms had no strength to push him away. She felt limp and wobbly all over, her head light, as if she had been spinning, and Thea found herself curling her fingers into Morecombe’s jacket and holding on to steady herself.

She had told herself that their kiss last night had not been as pleasurable, as shattering, as she remembered. Clearly, however, she had been lying to herself. His mouth was delicious, intoxicating. She was avidly alive to every sensation. Even the air against her cheek or the scent of the evergreen garlands or the sounds of pots rattling in the kitchen was suddenly sharper and clearer. Thea knew she was trembling a little, and it embarrassed her that he must feel it, but she could not seem to control her own body. She wanted to drink Gabriel in, to wrap her arms around him and press her body into his. Her body thrummed, something hot and dark and liquid growing deep within her.

The strange sensations shook her, and when Gabriel raised his head and looked down at her, she could not move, could only gaze back at him in stunned pleasure. His lips were dark and full, his eyes black under the shadow of his thick lashes. Thea wanted to touch him, to trace the lines of his face with her fingertips, feeling the warmth and texture of his skin, the hard lines of the bony outcroppings of cheeks and jaw and brow. The very forwardness of her longings shocked her.

Gabriel smiled a little, but his expression carried no hint of mockery or teasing, only a faint, almost sweet, hint of surprise. “Miss Bainbridge,” he whispered. “You have a way of leaving me all a-sea.” He brushed his lips against her mouth, soft and brief as the touch of a butterfly’s wings. “I think I know you, and then I find …” He kissed her on the lips again, punctuating his words, the kiss growing in heat and length with every repetition. “You’re … never … what … I expect.” His mouth settled on hers with a hungry finality, and he kissed her as deeply as he had the night before.

Of their own volition, Thea’s arms twined around his neck, and she moved onto her toes, pressing her lips into his. He let out a low groan deep in his throat, and his hands slid down her sides, his palms brushing the soft edges of her breasts before traveling farther down and around to curve over her hips. He dug his fingertips into the soft, rounded flesh, squeezing and pushing her into him.

Thea knew it was mad to be doing what they were. They were in the middle of the house in the middle of the day. She should pull away; she should be indignant, insulted. She should probably slap his impertinent face. But she could not bring herself to do what she should. She wanted only to taste more, feel more. She relished the surge of heat within her, the unaccustomed throbbing that started between her legs, the tightening of her nipples into small, hard points. Last night, when he’d kissed her, she had thought the feelings that had blossomed inside her must be the peak of desire, the height of sensation. But now, with every movement of his hands, each deepening of his kiss, the pleasure grew, her own hunger pulling her in further so that she wanted even more. Thea sensed that there must be still more awaiting her along this path. Gabriel, she was suddenly sure, could lead her beyond anything she had ever known, and she wanted, with a deep, physical ache, to let him take her there.

At that moment, the baby’s wail arose from the sitting room.

With a gasp, Thea broke away from Gabriel. She stared at him, the full realization of what had just happened dawning in her eyes. Her fingertips came up to press against her full, damp lips, her eyes huge above her hand. He gazed back at her without a word, his chest rising and falling in quick pants. Gabriel took a step forward, one hand going out to her, and Thea whirled and ran for the sitting room.

She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, trying to regain her senses as well as her breath. What had she done? What had she been thinking? Her face flooded with color as she recalled how wantonly she had responded to him—not just now but last night as well. He would be justified in believing her a hussy. Thea had never considered that she might have such loose, immoral behavior in her. She had never been silly over men or indulged in daydreaming about courtship and marriage. She had always considered herself practical and unromantic, the last sort of woman to feel the pull of desire.

But she could scarcely deny that her blood was running like a fever in her right now. Nor could she ignore the hot, empty ache deep within her that made her squeeze her legs together tightly in the vain hope that it would disappear. Clearly she was just as vulnerable to temptation as anyone else. And just as clearly, she would have to guard against it. Just as she would have to guard herself against Gabriel Morecombe.

Matthew’s cries had not ended, and Thea pushed away from the door and went to pick him up. She held him to her, murmuring softly and patting him on the back, and his squalls diminished, then, after a final little hiccuping sob, stopped altogether. She looked down into his face and smiled. His wet lashes were stuck together into points like stars around his bright blue eyes. How, she wondered, could he look so utterly beautiful after crying like that?

She leaned her head against his, forehead to forehead, and he giggled, which meant that she had to do it several more times, and with each repetition, his giggles erupted into greater and greater laughter. If only she could stay in here playing with Matthew, she thought, and never have to go out to face Lord Morecombe. But obviously that would be impossible. She wasn’t sure how she could face the man after the way she had just acted. Of course, last night she had felt the same way—was it always going to be this way around Gabriel Morecombe?—but eventually she had recovered enough to act normally. The happy thought occurred to her that he might just leave if she stayed in here long enough, but right after that the door opened and Gabriel stepped into the room.

“Do you always just walk into closed rooms wherever you find yourself?” she asked him crossly, grateful at least that her annoyance overcame her embarrassment.

“Only if I wish to see what’s behind them,” he answered imperturbably. His eyes went to the baby in her arms, and he smiled. “Well, Master Matthew, you seem to have changed your tune.”

Matthew began to thrash his arms and gurgle in the way that meant he was happy, and he held out his hands to Morecombe in clear invitation.

“Traitor,” Thea breathed, and walked over to hand him to Morecombe. She had no desire to meet Gabriel’s eyes, but she made herself do it. She refused to be a coward.

“I don’t pretend to know why you have decided to—to act in this way.”

“In what way?” He looked puzzled.

She shot him a quelling look. “Please, my lord, I think we both know what occurred in the entry. There is no need to spell it out.”