Page 53 of Counting on a Countess
The corners of his eyes crinkled. Together, they drank.
Tamsyn made a sound of appreciation. This was fine brandy, even better than the kind she smuggled.
But Kit’s brandy wasn’t contraband. A vine of ice wove down her spine as she considered this.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said admiringly.
“In the absence of ratafia,” she answered, “I’ll do my best to choke it down.”
He smiled before taking another sip. “We’ll make our debut as a married couple soon.” She tried to keep her expression neutral, but must have shown her dislike because he said in a teasing voice, “Surely I’m not as disgraceful as that.”
“Youare perfectly delightful,” she answered with a shake of her head. “Only...” How to phrase this politely? “What I’ve seen of London Society hasn’t been precisely enchanting.”
He lifted a brow. “Balls, regattas, teas? None of them charmed you?”
“You sound shocked.”
“I thought respectable ladies of qualityadoredthe Season’s whirlwind,” he admitted.
She held up one finger. “Firstly, I would take issue with describing myself as a ‘respectable lady of quality.’”
He looked intrigued. “What are you, then?”
Tamsyn pondered this. “I’m... more wild than tame. If I had to choose between a ballroom and the prow of a fishing boat, I’d take the fishing boat every time.” She waited to see a disgusted or appalled look cross his face, but instead he appeared thoughtful.
“Those are in short supply in London,” he finally said.
“I know.” She sighed wistfully.
For a moment, he studied her, and she felt his scrutiny in the way one wolf assessed the other. It was fed by curiosity rather than wariness.
“And secondly?” he asked.
She held up another finger. “From what I have heard, you aren’t much enamored of virtuous Society, either.”
He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Touché. Though I’m a man.”
“I am well aware of that,” she murmured, taking in the width of his shoulders and the length of his legs. Her heart sped in response to his masculinity. Though they kept a few feet apart, he seemed profoundly close, almost oversize in comparison to her.
There was no mistaking the carnal shift in his gaze. His eyes were fiery blue as he contemplated her face, her mouth, and the skin just above the low neckline of her gown.
Her breasts grew sensitive, and warmth coursed low in her belly. She felt dazed by his proximity.
“As a man,” he continued, his voice husky, “there are certain privileges I enjoy. Certain desires I am free to pursue.”
Images of him entwined with lithe, worldly women jabbed her. His reputation as a voluptuary was based on fact. She tried to shove the mental pictures away but they lurked in the back of her mind.
At some point, he would return to that world of pleasure, leaving her to spend her days and nights like any sophisticated woman, taking lovers—or not—as she wanted.
It seemed a very lonely way to live. She’d gone over a decade without the love of her parents. Could she endure without the love of her husband, too?
Yet she couldn’t hold him off forever. She had agreed to this marriage and its conditions—including giving him an heir.
No one ever got with child through long, lingering glances. All she had to do was keep her heart protected, and she wouldn’t be hurt.
Just go slowly. Step by step.
She drained her glass and set it carefully on the mantel before facing him.
