She hadn’t really touched Gabriel, but somehow she knew he’d be soft.
She shoved both hands under Kit’s surcoat and pulled at his shirt, wrenching the bottom from his breeches. As her fingers worked beneath it to encounter bare flesh, he responded with a low groan. “Rose…”
“More.” He was warm, so much warmer than she. Firm. Her palms burned against his skin.
“More?” he asked.
“More.”
He lightly bit a nipple, at the same time reaching down to encircle one of her ankles with a hand.
What, she wondered dizzily, was so erotic about an ankle? And one covered by a stocking, no less? She didn’t know, couldn’t know, but his fingers around her leg seemed to shoot heat up higher, while the suckling on her breast drove her to the point of distraction.
She was melting inside. “A thing of beauty,” she breathed aloud.
“Oh, yes.” While his lips trailed up to kiss her mouth, his hand slid up too, a breath-stealing glide over silk. And higher, over her garter, his tongue tracing her lips while his hand skimmed warm on her thighs.
All her air rushed out in a shudder. “Good God.”
And higher, until he cupped where her ache was suddenly centered.
The ache was more than an ache; it was a need, an all-consuming need so exquisite it bordered on unbearable. She felt herself damp beneath his hand, and she squirmed, wanting more. More.
More.
Wanting something inside her to ease that exquisite ache.
Might he slip a finger inside? She didn’t know where such a scandalous idea had come from; surely men didn’t do such a thing. Another part of their bodies was meant to fit there.
Words from I Sonetti flitted through her head: Such pleasure I feel with my yard in your hand, I shall explode…
She reached to the front of his breeches.
“Bloody hell,” he said, sitting up and jerking his hand from beneath her skirts in the process. His eyes closed momentarily, then opened as he rushed to rethread her laces. “We must go back inside.”
She sat up, too, disoriented and bereft. “Didn’t you like that?”
“I liked it too much.” He kissed her softly, apologetically. “You have no idea what you do to me, Rose.”
She had an idea, because he did it to her, too.
But she knew better than to say that aloud.
THIRTY-FOUR
ROSE AND KIT returned to the house to find Chrystabel and Ellen laughing, a smudge of flour on Ellen’s nose.
Kit stayed just long enough to down two servings of the apple fritters they’d prepared. Just long enough to lock gazes several times with Rose. Just long enough to surreptitiously touch her a few times beneath the table.
The same fingers that were grazing her body over her gown had been under there mere minutes earlier. She could hardly believe she’d allowed it—encouraged it, truth be told—but now, recalling those shared moments, she felt that heat simmering again and felt that urgent, exquisite ache.
The apple fritters were sweet and crispy, spiced with nutmeg, mace, and cinnamon. Yet Rose could hardly eat a bite. These were not common reactions to a friend.
But she didn’t want anything more with Kit.
“It was delicious,” he said at last, rising from the table. “Ellen, you can make apple fritters for me anytime. But I must leave. I’ll need to head out to Windsor very early in the morning, and I must get some sleep.”
“I know.” Ellen’s earlier gaiety disappeared as she and Rose walked him from the dining room to the door. “You’ll be back soon?”
“Day after tomorrow.” He stopped to kiss her on the forehead. “Be good, will you? In the meantime, I expect you to spend a lot of my money at the dressmaker’s. I trust that will give you some measure of revenge.”
“My earrings,” Rose reminded him.
“Oh.” He dug them out of his pocket and deliberately folded her fingers around them, holding her hand wrapped in both of his when he was finished. “I like your ears better without them.”
Her whole body flushed with heat, remembering his mouth on her earringless ears. He gave her a smoldering look—a knowing look—before he dropped her hand.
She expected his sister to comment. But Ellen just gave him a wan smile as he headed out the door, then sighed when his carriage rolled out of the square.
Rose drew a deep breath and released it slowly, willing her racing heart to calm. “Is something amiss?” she asked Ellen.
“I hate it when he’s nice. It almost makes me forget that I loathe him.”
“You don’t.”
“Not really. I’m just…very angry with him right now. He shouldn’t have the right to dictate my life.”
“But he does.”
“But he shouldn’t. And it makes me sad to be at odds with him, because I know he cares underneath.”
“Underneath? He cares every way that matters, Ellen—any fool could see it.” Just like he cared for her, Rose…any fool could see that, too. And Rose feared she was denying it much the same as Ellen.
“Whose side are you on?” Ellen asked. “I thought we were friends. You promised to intervene on my behalf.”
“I did. There in the square we talked of little but you and your situation.” It wasn’t quite a lie—they hadn’t talked about much else. “He doesn’t want to listen. But I’d lay odds he listens other times, your brother. He wants only what’s best for you. What he thinks is best for you.”
“I know.” Looking very pale, Ellen sighed.
Rose remembered Kit’s concern for his sister’s state of mind. “Shall we translate another sonnet?” she asked in an attempt to cheer her.
Ellen perked up. “Have you made any progress?”
“Not really. Mum and I lived in close quarters at Windsor, and when we arrived here yesterday I was fitted for new gowns and then went to bed. I needed to catch up on my sleep. Unlike
