Page 70 of The Captive Duke
“The leather’s not stressed, and we see no unusual wear on the greater area, no rub marks. Believe me, my lady, the night before a battle, a cavalryman inspects his gear and puts it in as near perfect working order as he can. Your saddle was tampered with.”
A feeling went through Gilly, like the shock when her coziest socks scuffed over a thick rug. The sensationstartled, like a bad scare, and made her insides tangle uncomfortably. She recognized the sensations as first occurring on her wedding night, a condensed and physical form of dismay with not a little panic thrown in.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Who knew when you were traveling down from Town?”
“You think somebody loosened the coach wheel?” She picked up her drink and took a preoccupied swallow, only to take too much. As she set the glass back down and tried to keep the coughing ladylike—and how did one do that?—His Grace patted her back.
“You need water,” he said, drawing her closer to the sideboard.
“I’mfine,” she countered, dragging her feet on general principles. “Stop towing me about like so much cargo, and the wheel was not tampered with, and my girth just…just broke.”
“You’re trying to be brave.”
Gilly might have hit him, but he was passing her a glass of water. She made herself take a deep breath and let it out, lest she grab the glass and dash the contents in his face.
Except he looked so…concerned, and she knew he was right: she was trying to be brave or rational or something. Trying to cope when she thought the worst of her coping days were behind her.
“Just a sip.” He scolded like a mother hen, as if he expected her to do exactly as he said even though she was no longer coughing.
She took one sip, set the glass aside, took two steps closer to the duke, went up on her toes, and kissed him.
Her actions hadn’t been the result of any mental process identifiable as a decision, and thus made no sense to her mind, but to her body…oh, to her body, kissing was the logical reaction to any and all situations involving proximity to Christian Severn, much less a situation that had left her frightened and flustered.
She’d meant this kiss like a slap, an abrupt, riveting departure from expected behavior. A means of disconcerting a fellow who showed every sign of assuming command without Gilly’s consent.
But his arms came around her slowly, carefully, and his tongue traced her lips as he groaned a sort of sigh, and his embrace alone was enough to have her clinging back, tucking herself closer to him to feel how their bodies pressed together.
“Kiss me.” His voice was low, just above a whisper, and his mouth tasted of the sweet brandy when he opened it over Gilly’s.
His tongue came gently exploring, and Gilly’s insides collapsed in on themselves, like a house of emotional cards disintegrating when a window bangs open in a stiff breeze. Had she not been gripping him tightly, her knees might have given up the job of holding her upright.
And then she was scooped up, hoisted against the duke’s chest, and carried to the sofa, where he laid her down, her head propped on the brocade pillows.
She wanted to protest the loss of his warmth—of his mouth—but he was back, perched at her hip and leaning down close enough she could see the variations in the blue of his eyes. This was much better. Prone, she needn’t worry about standing; she need only concern herself with pulling him closer, getting his hair loose from its queue, and fusing her mouth to his as he invited her to do exploring of her own.
“Gilly, we have to stop.”
She blinked; his forehead was pressed to hers. “Why?”
“Because the door is unlocked.”
Well, that was plain enough. Gilly thought about sitting up, but that would precipitate an awkward discussion and mean she couldn’t lie there, inhaling ginger-and-lemon aftershave while her fingers stroked over silky golden hair and her heart thudded against her ribs.
He left her to lock the door and came back to sit at her hip. “You started it, my lady.”
Must he look so pleased?
And yet, he was sodearwhen he was pleased.
“No denying that,” she said, hoping he’d think the flush was from the brandy—not the kiss. And it wasn’t a blush. Was. Not. “But you were hovering.”
“I shall hover more often.”
“I do apologize.”
“There’s no need for that,” he said, and she hoped that was the start of a smile in his eyes, except it wasa fairly fierce expression for it to be a smile. “Can you explain, at least?”
