Page 14 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“We have time now.” She gestured to his tankard of ale. “Have a drink. And perhaps, whilst you’re drinking, take a moment to truly be there with the ale. Pick out its different flavors. Surely many ingredients go into brewing ale.”
“Water, barley, hops, yeast.” He could not understand where she was going with this, but there was no harm in following along for a moment or two. Bringing his tankard to his lips, he drank. All he could taste was a standard ale, no different from any he’d had over the course of his life. “It’s...”
She leaned closer, attentive.
“It’s fine,” he finally said.
With a rueful smile, she shook her head. “I did my best.”
“I cannot unlearn more than fifteen years of training in a single luncheon.”
“Well, you’re trying,” she said, “and that’s something.”
His food was getting cold, so he resumed eating. He did, however, point his fork at Lady Farris’s own tankard. “Your turn. Let’s hearyouexpress the ale’s inner beauty.”
Her nostrils flared, and he could not quite tell if his challenge irritated or aroused her. God knew, when it came to her, he himself couldn’t tell the difference.
With a queenly air, she picked up her tankard and sipped. Difficult not to watch her throat, which he saw now was long and sleek. She swallowed, and he was flooded with wanting to feel the texture of her bare skin. He had a fleeting impression that it would be soft beyond imagining—her life was surely one of limitless privilege and ease—and he craved the feel of it, his hand curving around her throat as he held her still for a kiss...
Duncan mentally shook himself. That was a trail down which he would not venture.
Slowly, she said, “It tastes...”
Right—they were discussing the taste of ale. He focused his attention on her face and refused to think at all about her silken neck.
“It’s slightly bitter,” she continued. “Not enough to be unpleasant, but it contrasts well with the subtle fruitiness. There’s some sweetness, too...”
“Most likely the malt.” He peered at her. “You’ve had ale before, surely.”
Her smile turned almost shy. “This is my first.” She suddenly laughed, the sound a rough tumble of velvet. “Here I thought I’d left virginity behind long ago.”
The heat he’d felt when watching her drink the ale surged higher, and the air went thick.
“My lady,” Miss Bradbury said with a shocked laugh. “You’re embarrassing Major McCameron.”
“I’m made of stern stuff, ma’am,” Duncan said. He took a sip from his tankard, though the ale didn’t cool him. “It takes far more than that to embarrass me.”
“And yet your ears have turned pink,” the countess observed, her lips curling.
Damn his fair skin. “The room is warm.”
“I find it quite pleasant and cool.” She took a bite from the plum side of the clanger. “You must know, Major, that you cannot say such a thing in my presence without me taking it as a personal challenge.”
“You must know, ma’am, that I’ve successfully defended towns and cities across the Peninsula. Fending off your attempts at embarrassing me will be easy.”
Her smile widened. “Oh, now, youarechallenging me.”
It was only when he saw how her eyes sparkled that he realized he smiled back at her. Rearranging his features into a neutral expression, he brought his attention to his meal.
The countess seemed to understand that their conversation had come to its conclusion. But rather than tease him over this, she turned to Miss Bradbury and began to chat. He tried not to pay attention to what they discussed—it had nothing to do with him—but it was difficult not to hear how she talked about her children, two of whom, he learned, were married, with the youngest still at Cambridge.
Her voice was full of affection when she spoke of them—Anthony, the eldest and now the earl; Victoria, the middle child and her lone daughter; and John, the boy who seemed to have a predilection for making trouble. Already, she’d had to threaten that his brother would curtail John’s allowance if he continued to play pranks on the other students.
“That’s several smiles in the span of an hour, Major McCameron,” she noted. “I must confess it alarms me—I am so unused to seeing such things on your face.”
“Cannot be helped, ma’am.” He took a drink of ale. “They have a will of their own and appear when properly provoked.”
“And what provoked this last smile?” Her own, he noted, had a charming lopsided quality that was far more genuine than he’d seen in most nobly born people’s expressions.
