Page 63 of Counting on a Countess
“Oh, this is—” She shut her lips, once more preventing herself from giving away too much. They would all be suspect if she pointed out that the drink had to be from Bas-Armagnac, rather than Haut-Armagnac or La Ténarèze. “This is good,” she finished awkwardly, then moved to tip back the rest of her drink.
Kit’s hand stayed her. “Supper was a long time ago,” he said gently as she swayed on her feet.
She tried to focus her gaze on him, but the cursed man insisted on being hazy. “Was it?”
“Yes—hours, and you haven’t had much to eat since then.” He carefully plucked the glass from her hand and set it on the counter. “Let’s be charming guests and leave before Lord and Lady Marwood find us tiresome.”
“We’d never do that,” Lady Marwood pronounced. Her cheeks were flushed and she leaned against her husband. “Would we, Cam?”
“Never.” Lord Marwood pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “But I think we’re all a trifle tired from the night’s adventures. We’ll see you out.”
It was quite complicated to walk down the hall, and climbing up the stairs required all of Tamsyn’s skill. Kit’s hand was warm and solid on her lower back as he helped her ascend. He offered encouragement with every step.
“Just lift your foot a little,” he coaxed, “there’s a lass. One more. And again. There! The heights have been conquered.” He put an arm around her shoulders when they reached the top of the steps.
Victorious, she lifted her arms into the air while Lady Marwood clapped. “I am the vanquisher of stairwells! Look ye, and tremble at my might!” Goodness, but her Cornish accent sounded stronger even to her own ears.
“Our carriage waits, mighty one.” Kit kept pace beside her as helped her to the front door. He was like a knight of old, her husband. Pure chivalry.
A sleepy footman was there with hats and coats, while Lord Marwood mused, “I don’t know why they say married life is dull. We always have a rollicking good time, don’t we, Maggie?”
“The verybestof times, my love.” She stood on tiptoe to give her husband an extremely enthusiastic kiss, which Lord Marwood returned. For a moment, it seemed as though they had forgotten about Tamsyn and Kit entirely, particularly when Lady Marwood’s fingers began undoing the buttons of Lord Marwood’s waistcoat.
Tamsyn watched with longing.
“Let’s leave them to it,” Kit murmured, then guided her out the open door.
“Good night!” Tamsyn called over her shoulder. “Thank you for the”—she hiccuped again—“refreshments.” She giggled at her own wit.
It took a small amount of intricate choreography to get into the carriage. She toppled in before clambering onto the seat. Kit did the same difficult maneuver with enviable effortlessness.
“How do you do that?” she accused as Kit settled into the seat opposite her. “Make everything look so easy?”
He rapped on the carriage ceiling and they were off. “It takes a good deal of work to appear graceful.”
“Always so ruddy handsome and strong,” she muttered.
“You think me handsome?” He asked this lightly, as if her answer didn’t matter. But his look was keen and curious.
“You know I do, scoundrel. And I know that makes you happy.” Yet she swam in affection for the good-looking rogue. She patted the cushions beside her. “Come here.”
He looked as though he considered refusing, but then the carriage tilted as he moved next to her. Their thighs pressed securely against each other, and she was aware of every fiber and sinew in his body. Wanting to feel more of Kit, she wrapped her arms around his bicep, her breasts snugly fitting to him.
“That’s another thing,” she announced. “You feel brawny like a laborer, but you’re not. No man can have muscles like these just from being a rakehell.” She squeezed the unyielding mass of his arm.
“Perhaps wenching and wine keep a man fit,” he offered. She made a rude noise, so he went on. “On Mondays and Thursdays I go to a fencing academy. Tuesdays and Fridays are for pugilism.”
“And Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday?” she demanded.
His grin flashed. “There are other kinds of exercise.”
“You mean thehorizontalsort,” she deduced. She poked a finger into his solid chest. “How much of that exercise have you gotten lately?”
“That sounds suspiciously like jealousy, Lady Blakemere,” he said wryly.
“No jealousy, right? That’s the rule.” She blew a strand of loose hair from her face. She added sullenly, “I always break the rules.”
“My lady,” he said softly, putting a fingertip beneath her chin, “if you’ve want of my amorous services, you have only to demand them, and they’re yours.”
