Wild in Winter by Scott Scarlett

Author:Scott, Scarlett
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Historical
Publisher: Happily Ever After Books, LLC
Published: 2020-02-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Gill was kissing her.

In her chamber.

Kissing her madly, passionately, and deliciously.

He had released her hand, and now he cupped her face instead, angling her to him. There was none of the initial hesitance in this kiss. There was only urgency. Full, unadulterated need. A need that echoed within her, in her core. In the wicked place she had read about in The Book of Love again and again. The place where he had touched her, only deeper still.

Her flirtation with him was growing dangerous, that much was certain. Dangerous because instead of recalling she had spent the last few years of her life swooning over the notion of being seduced by a rake, all she could think of now was the man kissing her.

The Duke of Coventry.

A man who had never kissed until a few days ago.

She could hardly tell so now, for he was kissing her as if his very life depended upon it, and she was kissing him back with the same desperation. The same fervor. Heavens, she would collide with Lady Adele a hundred times over as long as each instance led to this, Gill finding her alone, sitting so near to her she could see every fleck of color in his beautiful eyes and smell his musky citrus scent. Just so she could tangle her fingers in his and chat with him, unencumbered.

She liked this man far, far too much. More than was proper, it was certain. More than she ought to like a gentleman who was not a rake. Not the man she was going to wed.

But he had proposed to her, had he not?

Yes, though it had been abrupt and punctuated by his hasty retreat from the salon that day, he had indeed asked her to marry him. What would she have said, had he not gone? What would she say if he asked her now?

Yes.

No.

Yes.

Certainly not.

Oh, what a dreadful snare to find herself trapped in: a handsome man who was not a rake. A man who had never even taken a woman to his bed. Christabella knew she ought to be ignorant of such matters, but the books she read, along with some light lectures from her sister-in-law Lady Emilia, had given her all the knowledge she needed without a physical demonstration.

Obviously, the physical demonstration would be preferable to words.

Yes, indeed. It would be.

She forgot all the reasons why she should tell Gill to go. Why she should insist upon guarding her reputation. Because kissing him—good Lord, his lips on hers—it felt unbearably wonderful and wild. And she could not get enough. She was pulsing and aching everywhere, coming to life. She was a bud blossoming into a hothouse flower.

And she wanted to bloom.

For him.

With him.

His tongue toyed with hers. This was the most delicious part of kissing, she found—open mouths, tongues writhing—carnal and raw. Or perhaps it was simply the act of kissing Gill, a man who seemed so serious and icy, but who melted for her with such ease.

Her arms

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