Page 52 of Counting on a Countess
“What of the village?” he urged.
“It’s a fishing village like any other,” she said, her words deliberately airy. “Hardly worth a gentleman’s interest.”
“Your aunt and uncle sound like a right pair of bastards,” Kit said bluntly.
This startled another laugh out of her. “I’ve thought the same,” she confessed lowly. “But never said it aloud.”
“I’ll give voice to whatever you want to say but can’t,” he declared. “Just write it down on a piece of paper and I’ll bellow it from the rooftops.”
“Our neighbors might take issue with that,” she cautioned. “I think an awful lot of things that shouldn’t be spoken. Don’t forget, I grew up around fishermen.”
His grin was sudden and wrapped her in warmth. “I knew there was a reason why we were well suited for each other.”
His praise felt far too good, yet she wanted to bask in it. And the way he looked at her—as though she was the most enthralling creature alive—made her hot and shaky and excited all at the same time.
For the remainder of the meal, she tried her best to keep from falling under his spell, but she struggled. His irreverent humor made her laugh, while his direct, unwavering gaze sent her pulse fluttering. He told her the story about the near disaster that had been his presentation at court—“Watch how many drinks for courage you have beforehand”—and described the exhibit of Lord Elgin’s Grecian marbles in such a thorough manner she felt as though she had seen them with her own eyes.
Yet he never talked again of the War or his time in the army.
In fact, all he spoke of was strictly related to amusing and diverting issues. No unpleasant topics. Nothing grave or serious. As though he avoided such things. As though he pretended they didn’t exist.
But she saw how his head turned slightly when a footman entered the room carrying a tray of cake and fruit. Kit seemed aware of his surroundings at all times, marking where the servants stood, or the distance between his seat and the window, in case a threat suddenly appeared.
As the meal came to its close, she rose. He looked up at her with a quizzical expression. “Where are you going?”
“To the drawing room,” she explained. “So you can enjoy the company of your port and tobacco. Isn’t that the way of fashionable folk?”
He waved this aside. “It’s a bloody foolish concept. Never happier than when I’m in women’s company.”
“A glutton for adoration.” She raised a brow. What woman wouldn’t fall all over herself to earn one of his smiles or be on the receiving end of his attentive gaze?
“Nothing of the sort.” He scowled with aversion to the idea. “Everyone knows that women are more logical than men. They can also have conversations that don’t center on their...” He glanced down at his lap.
Her cheeks bloomed with heat as she realized his meaning. Oh, she’d heard more candid talk in taverns, but context changed everything. A handsome, elegant man in a handsome, elegant room didn’t speak so openly around ladies.
She liked that he could feel so comfortable around her, however. That he didn’t think her in need of coddling or pretty obfuscations. Unlike most of the aristocratic men she’d met in London, Kit talked to her like an equal. And that was something she appreciated.
But she realized suddenly that she stared at Kit’s groin. He followed her look, and then gazed back at her, interest hot in his eyes.
A wave of need pulsed through her. Yet she wasn’t certain what to do with it. She didn’t know how to feel about him. He was her husband, but she had to protect herself and her secrets.
“Are you very tired?” he asked her suddenly.
“I’m not seeing double yet,” she answered.
“Then join me in the parlor.” He stood and offered her his arm. When she took it, he nodded with approval. She tried to keep herself from squeezing his forearm just to feel its solidity, but he looked so blasted attractive and trim in his evening clothes it was all she could do to touch him lightly.
They left the dining room and they strolled to the parlor, with her profoundly aware of his large male presence beside her.
Once in the parlor, he moved away from her to the sideboard. “A drink to celebrate our first evening at home.” His hands moved from bottle to bottle. “There must be cordial water around here. That’s what ladies drink, correct? Cordial waters and ratafia?”
“Brandy,” she said at once.
He lifted his brows, but poured them two glasses. As he did, she drifted to stand by the fireplace.
Holding the drinks aloft, he went to her. “To domestic suppers.” He raised his glass.
She took her drink from him. “To unexpected pleasures,” she answered.
