Page 62 of Counting on a Countess
“Almost savory,” the viscountess added.
Lord Marwood chuckled. “It starts as dessert and finishes as dinner.”
Kit’s frown smoothed as he rejoined the conversation. “Which is what I preferred when I was a child. Pudding first, then roast.”
“And now?” Tamsyn pressed, eager for any bit of information about him. “Which do you favor—sweets or savories?”
“No preference,” he replied. “So long as something tastes good, my appetite isn’t easily sated.” His seductive smile heated her far more than the whisky. She knew the alluring power of his lips, and could still feel his kiss from last night.
I want that kiss again. I want so much more.
Tamsyn hid her reaction by taking another drink. The whisky was easy to swallow, and by the time she saw the bottom of her glass, she felt a pleasant looseness through her body, as if all her burdens had been taken away.
She looked at her husband and a surge of feeling moved through her. He was so kind, so giving. Would he mind if she wrapped her arms around him and simply held him tight? But she kept her arms at her sides, uncertain how he’d react to a semipublic embrace.
“One more whisky!” Lord Marwood declared. He hummed to himself while he picked out another bottle. “The malt in this one’s triple distilled. Comes from the Scottish Lowlands, near Glasgow.”
As before, Lord Marwood served up the drink, but he was getting far more generous with his pours as the evening progressed. Tamsyn didn’t want to be rude, yet as she eyed the amount of honey-hued whisky she had to drink, she feared she’d be well in her cups before too long.
“Reminds me of Christmas oranges,” Kit said after he took a sip.
“And almonds,” Tamsyn noted, then gave a small hiccup. The others laughed quietly at her approaching inebriation. But she didn’t feel embarrassed and drank her liquor.
When she finished her glass, the room seemed to have unmoored itself from gravity, drifting gently about the world. Or maybe that was her head. She wasn’t entirely certain.
“What did you think of the dancers tonight at the Imperial?” Lady Marwood asked Tamsyn. “Did you like the music?”
“Only the fiddlers at the Tipsy Flea play better,” Tamsyn declared. “That’s our public house, you know, in Newcombe. The Tipsy Flea. Everyone gathers there after a night of—”
She slammed her mouth shut. God, she’d been so close to simply blurting out her secret. Tamsyn glared at her empty glass. Damn that tongue-loosening whisky.
Lady Marwood continued, her own words slurring slightly, “Bloody good tune, methinks. I won’t sing it, on account of me sounding like an ill cat, but I can hum with the best of them.” She hummed a melody and thumped her hand upon the counter in a rhythmic beat. It was a reel that made Tamsyn’s toes tap.
“Shall we dance, Blakemere?” Lord Marwood set down his glass, then bowed at Kit.
“I would be charmed, Marwood,” Kit answered loftily, performing his own bow.
The two men hooked elbows and spun around the small room in time with Lady Marwood’s humming. Tamsyn clapped along as they danced, her smile making it impossible to add her voice to the impromptu music.
Kit twirled away from Marwood and toward her. Before she knew what was happening, she was in his arms, whirling around the cellar. Lord and Lady Marwood also embraced as they took up the dance.
But Tamsyn only saw and felt Kit. His grip was sure and steady, and the solidness of his body surrounded her. He beamed at her, his smile turning his handsome face into something wondrous. She couldn’t stop the laugh that broke from her lips. Free—she felt free.
Was it the drink or Kit that made her head spin? She didn’t know and it didn’t matter. All that mattered was this moment, her charming, thoughtful husband holding her, dancing with her.
“We partner well,” he said as they moved. “Should dance together more often.”
She had no answer for him, turning with him, feeling the strength of his body and the brightness of his essence.
“One more drink!” Lord Marwood cried. He strode on not quite steady legs to the array of bottles. He pulled one out that was a little rounder and squatter than the others, its contents a dark, gleaming gold. “Armagnac from Gascony.” Four more glasses were poured. “A little more bold and fiery than Charente cognac.”
Tamsyn and Kit pulled apart slowly, but his heat lingered as it resonated through her. The room continued to move as she went to pick up her glass.
The first sip and its flavors of caramel and ripe pears brought her immediately back to Newcombe. This was a taste she knew well—French brandy. Many times had she felt its warmth on her tongue, taking a celebratory drink after a successful run. The faces of so many friends and allies would grow rosy with each toast, until they all staggered into the night, seeking home.
Her eyes felt hot as she blinked back tears. She missed everyone so much. She missed home. But she was fighting for them, for all of them.
They’d like this Armagnac, though. It was exceptional. At Newcombe, they mostly moved cognac brandy of decent but not exceptional quality. She could drink rather a lot of this Armagnac.
