skirt.
“Now I must leave your glamorous room and seek out my daughter, before another man—who is a courtier—gets his claws into her. Can I convince you to accompany me in my search?”
As Rose and Gabriel walked, she found herself mentally bouncing back and forth between trying to be her most charming and marveling that the Duke of Bridgewater was choosing to spend so much time with her. As a result, she feared their conversation had been a bit stilted.
But that was only to be expected, was it not? After all, they hardly knew each other. Still, her family had always been rather vocal, discussing anything and everything with great enthusiasm, so the awkward silences made her uncomfortable.
“What do you think,” she asked after a particularly long gap in their dialogue, “of the maritime agreement we have just signed with France?”
“Maritime agreement?” The duke’s perfect brow creased in puzzlement.
Did people not discuss these matters at Court? Did he not read The London Gazette ? She plucked a yellow bloom off a hollyhock plant. “English ships will now be permitted to carry Dutch cargoes without fear of French interference.”
A little chuckle burst from his lips. “What would a woman know about that?”
“Oh, just something I heard.” She forced a laugh in return, cursing herself silently.
Though she wasn’t a student of history or prone to philosophical musings, she’d always been interested in what currently went on in the world. But how could she have forgotten her own rule to dazzle men without revealing her intelligence?
She sniffed the flower daintily. “I was just wondering if you could tell me what the agreement might mean to us here in England.” When he gave her a blank stare, she worried that he no longer liked her. “The significance of such an action escapes me,” she lied in a desperate effort to redeem herself.
“ ’Tis quite all right.” Walking her closer to the building, he squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, my dear.”
Could he still like her, then? she wondered. But suddenly he drew her between a turret and a stand of trees, and she knew.
He still liked her. In fact, he was going to kiss her.
She could tell when a man was aiming to kiss her. After all, it had happened before. She’d lost count of the number of men who had contrived to press their lips to hers. She supposed it wasn’t surprising, given that she was a comely woman and not nearly as proper as her sisters. And they were only kisses, for God’s sake—’twas not as though she allowed men to take further liberties.
So she’d been kissed before, and she knew what to expect. But she had a sad secret.
She didn’t much care for kissing.
“Gabriel,” she whispered when he turned her to face him. “May I call you Gabriel?”
“But of course, sweet Rose.” His voice had deepened, and he raised a hand and skimmed her cheek. Then it curled around the back of her neck as he drew her closer, and before she could say anything further—before she could attempt to slow him down, to possibly suggest they get to know each other better before sharing this intimacy—he lowered his head.
His other arm went around her, and his hand pressed into the small of her back, drawing her against his body. As the flower dropped from her fingers, his mouth crushed down on hers.
She stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice. His lips coaxed hers open, and his tongue pushed into her mouth, wet and frantic. Just as she’d expected, she thought with a mental groan. Most men seemed to prefer this kind of kiss, and the duke was apparently no exception.
Gabriel let out an amorous little moan and shifted her in his arms, slanting his lips across hers. Faced with such honest passion, she tried to relax and participate, tried to learn to enjoy this kiss. But try as she might, it didn’t feel as wondrous as it was supposed to. In fact, it didn’t feel like much at all beyond a messy mashing of
“Now I must leave your glamorous room and seek out my daughter, before another man—who is a courtier—gets his claws into her. Can I convince you to accompany me in my search?”
As Rose and Gabriel walked, she found herself mentally bouncing back and forth between trying to be her most charming and marveling that the Duke of Bridgewater was choosing to spend so much time with her. As a result, she feared their conversation had been a bit stilted.
But that was only to be expected, was it not? After all, they hardly knew each other. Still, her family had always been rather vocal, discussing anything and everything with great enthusiasm, so the awkward silences made her uncomfortable.
“What do you think,” she asked after a particularly long gap in their dialogue, “of the maritime agreement we have just signed with France?”
“Maritime agreement?” The duke’s perfect brow creased in puzzlement.
Did people not discuss these matters at Court? Did he not read The London Gazette ? She plucked a yellow bloom off a hollyhock plant. “English ships will now be permitted to carry Dutch cargoes without fear of French interference.”
A little chuckle burst from his lips. “What would a woman know about that?”
“Oh, just something I heard.” She forced a laugh in return, cursing herself silently.
Though she wasn’t a student of history or prone to philosophical musings, she’d always been interested in what currently went on in the world. But how could she have forgotten her own rule to dazzle men without revealing her intelligence?
She sniffed the flower daintily. “I was just wondering if you could tell me what the agreement might mean to us here in England.” When he gave her a blank stare, she worried that he no longer liked her. “The significance of such an action escapes me,” she lied in a desperate effort to redeem herself.
“ ’Tis quite all right.” Walking her closer to the building, he squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, my dear.”
Could he still like her, then? she wondered. But suddenly he drew her between a turret and a stand of trees, and she knew.
He still liked her. In fact, he was going to kiss her.
She could tell when a man was aiming to kiss her. After all, it had happened before. She’d lost count of the number of men who had contrived to press their lips to hers. She supposed it wasn’t surprising, given that she was a comely woman and not nearly as proper as her sisters. And they were only kisses, for God’s sake—’twas not as though she allowed men to take further liberties.
So she’d been kissed before, and she knew what to expect. But she had a sad secret.
She didn’t much care for kissing.
“Gabriel,” she whispered when he turned her to face him. “May I call you Gabriel?”
“But of course, sweet Rose.” His voice had deepened, and he raised a hand and skimmed her cheek. Then it curled around the back of her neck as he drew her closer, and before she could say anything further—before she could attempt to slow him down, to possibly suggest they get to know each other better before sharing this intimacy—he lowered his head.
His other arm went around her, and his hand pressed into the small of her back, drawing her against his body. As the flower dropped from her fingers, his mouth crushed down on hers.
She stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice. His lips coaxed hers open, and his tongue pushed into her mouth, wet and frantic. Just as she’d expected, she thought with a mental groan. Most men seemed to prefer this kind of kiss, and the duke was apparently no exception.
Gabriel let out an amorous little moan and shifted her in his arms, slanting his lips across hers. Faced with such honest passion, she tried to relax and participate, tried to learn to enjoy this kiss. But try as she might, it didn’t feel as wondrous as it was supposed to. In fact, it didn’t feel like much at all beyond a messy mashing of
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