“No.” His voice was low, and his gaze hot. “I absolutely intend to have funwithyou.”
She gave him a saucy grin and sauntered ahead, in part because the path through the trees was plenty narrow for one person to manage whilst balancing skis on her shoulder, and partly because...
Well, because she adored spending time with him, too.
Cynthia was used to people finding her spontaneous and unpredictable, but she’d never imagined feeling the same way about the Duke of Nottingvale.
No matter how many times she poked at him or how far he ventured from his usual comfort level, he remained a constant good sport; agreeable and easy-going. If hehadn’tbeen born anchored to a dukedom, who knew what manner of antics he might have got up to?
Without that deuced dukedom, they might even have become more than friends.
Very well, they were more than friends. Or different from friends, anyway.
There wasn’t really a word to describe two people who were completely wrong for one another, yet delighted in each other’s company and indulged in forbidden kisses because they couldn’t stay away from each other.
She suspected the only reason they weren’t kissing at this moment was because of the six-foot skis forcing them to keep a respectable distance.
For now.
Her poles were in her other hand, and she used them to brush stray branches aside as they climbed through the woods.
Alexander’s home was as close to the castle as possible without being inside its ramparts, but the thick snow and steep incline had them both breathing heavily by the time they burst through the trees up to the clear mountain peak.
“See?” she huffed as she rested her skis on the snow. “Going down will be positivelyrelaxing.”
Alexander sent her a dark look rather than dignify her comment with a response.
She led him around the ramparts, away from the woods, to the spot she’d scouted the day before.
“Step one,” she announced. “Arrange your skis just so.”
His attention was riveted on her, and he copied her movements minutely.
“Step two,” she said. “Climb on.”
He stared down at his skis doubtfully.
She sank to her knees and lightly tapped the back of his muscular calf. “Come on, I’ll strap you in.”
“You’re kneeling on snow,” he said. “Aren’t your legs freezing?”
“They would be,” she agreed, “if I weren’t wearing buckskin trousers beneath my gown and petticoats.”
“Of course you are,” he muttered.
But he lifted each of his boots with obvious trepidation and placed his feet atop the skis.
She made quick work of the leather straps, ensuring the fit was secure and snug before adjusting his grip on his poles.
They spent the next half an hour going over how to steer, how to stop, and how to fall safely if necessary.
“Where did you learn this again?” he asked.
“Norway,” she reminded him. “We have relatives who live there. My cousin Olaf is a captain in the Cadastre Corps. Did you know that the Scandinavian military has trained with skis for over one hundred years?”
“I did not,” the duke said faintly.
“Of course, Scandinavian farmers and hunters had already been using skis for centuries,” she explained. “For the Corps, it was all very practical. Military drills over rough terrain, cross-country journeys on skis, target practice whilst on skis, and so on. Until Olaf decided to do somethingimpractical.”
