Least Likely To Marry A Duke. Louise Allen

He had been lying along the trunk and must, she supposed, have been asleep.

      ‘What the devil?’ He had himself under control in a breath, swung his feet down and stood up. ‘I apologise for my language, Miss Wingate. But what—’

      ‘What the devil was I doing?’ she enquired as she took his hand and allowed herself to be hauled up. It was not very ladylike. She should not care, but it was galling to keep meeting him when she was sprawled on the ground. ‘I did not see you. I had my eyes on a deer that was coming down to drink and I was edging towards the tree trunk to sit down.’ Verity brushed the dried leaves and moss off her skirt and wondered what had possessed her to go for a walk in her Sunday best.

      He was fuming, she guessed, although the only outward evidence was a slight flaring of his nostrils and the tightening of his lips. She added a mental rebuke to herself for allowing her gaze to linger on his finely sculpted nose and the sensual curve of his lower lip. It was a very bad mistake to equate good looks with a pleasant character and William Calthorpe appeared to combine outward perfection with a starchy, judgemental interior.

      ‘I trust I did not hurt you?’ She was not quite certain exactly where on that long body she had sat. She had already been the cause of an injury to his posterior. It hadn’t been his legs this time, he did not appear to be winded, so it was probably not his stomach, which left...

       I will not think about that. I will not look at the area concerned.

      He was not writhing in agony, which was the usual result of hitting a man where it hurt most, as one of her governesses had explained and she had later discovered for herself, so it could not have been too bad.

      ‘This is a most pleasant spot,’ he said with the air of a man determined to make polite conversation against great odds. ‘I was trying to work out whether it is my or your father’s land.’

      ‘Papa’s.’ She felt ridiculously flustered because she was beginning to suspect that the tension emanating from him was not anger, or embarrassment alone, but quite a different emotion altogether. One that she was experiencing, too, to judge by the fluttering in the pit of her stomach and the unsteadiness of her breath. ‘Yours begins on the far southern edge of the copse.’ She flapped a hand in the general direction.

      Why on earth did she have to keep encountering him in situations that put her at a disadvantage? Clutching a skull at the bottom of an excavation, hosting a female party including one naked model—and now sitting on him.

      ‘Oh.’ He looked around.

      Anything rather than risk making eye contact with her, Verity suspected. Or perhaps her dishevelled appearance offended him. Good.

      ‘A pity, I was planning to build a small summer house here.’

      ‘I doubt Papa would wish to sell.’ She realised that she was edging away, poised for flight before she did something obvious like licking her lips or twirling her hair or, for goodness’ sake, batting her eyelashes.

      ‘Look out!’

      She glanced round, then down at the edge of the pond crumbling under her heel. She flailed her arms wildly and was seized by the wrist, then tugged forward to land against William’s chest with a thud that knocked the air from her lungs.

      ‘Oh,’ she said inanely. ‘You seem to keep rescuing me.’

      Only this time he did not let her go. His arms were around her and she was clutching at his lapels and they were pressed together, her head tilted back, his down, so their breath mingled. How did that happen? She could see his individual eyelashes and the pale lines at the corners of his eyes where he had screwed them up against the light, or in laughter. His pupils were wide, dark and Verity found herself unable to tear her gaze from them.

       Fallen angel... I would like to fall with you... No, stop it. You know where that leads.

      ‘Miss Wingate.’ The Duke lowered his head further until their noses were almost touching. She felt his voice rumbling in his chest where they were pressed together. ‘Do you by any chance want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you?’

      ‘I... Yes.’

      Oh... What had happened to the starched-up, perfectly proper man? What had happened to her, for that matter? And then she stopped wondering and simply kissed him back. His mouth was warm and firm and, when she pressed against him, he licked between her lips, startling a moan of pleasure from her.

      Verity came to herself to find they were sitting side by side on the log, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her. ‘Your Grace...’

      ‘I think after that you had better call me Will.’ His voice was curiously husky, as though he was experiencing some strong emotion, not simply the after-effects of a kiss.

      ‘Will?’

      ‘Yes, Verity?’

      A duke—this Duke—was asking her to call him by his first name. This Duke—Will—had just kissed her and she had kissed him back. So, what did that mean? That she was dreaming? That she had completely lost her grip on reality?