Page 33 of The Lyon Whisperer
She eyed the glass in her hand with uncertainty. “Brandy?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever tried it. I’ve seen my father drink it on many occasions.”
“My advice? Take it slow.” He lifted his snifter in toast.
They clinked glasses.
She sniffed the aromatic liquid, inclining her head as if to say she approved the scent, then drew the glass to her lips.
A split second later, she leaned forward, sputtering and coughing. “You might have warned me,” she wheezed when she could speak, shooting him an accusing glare.
He laughed. “I believe I just did. Would you like me to take it from you?” He half rose, hand extended.
She sat up, never taking her glare off him though she pulled the glass out of his reach.
She sipped again, this time exercising caution, then nodded. She looked supremely pleased with herself.
“Do you like it, then?”
“No,” she said.
He laughed aloud.
“Maybe,” she amended a moment later, and took another small sip.
He raised his brows. “It’s quite potent. You needn’t go at it like a man on death row imbibing his last meal.”
Her violet eyes twinkled in the candlelit chamber.
Violet eyes, set against incandescent skin and a face hewn by the angels. She was stunningly beautiful.
“Thank you.”
He cocked his head. Had he complimented her aloud?
She went on, and he had his answer. “For treating me like”—she broke off, shaking her head—“a friend.”
Of all the things she could have said.
Her words reached inside him to a place he let no one venture, ever—least of all himself. A place long cold, exactly how he liked it. He didn’t want the ice within him to thaw, didn’t want the handicap of tender feelings and the incipient needs that went with them.
But surely he was in no danger of that simply by indulging his new bride. “You say that as if you haven’t any friends. But I met several, a few days ago, in your father’s garden.”
A fond smile tugged at her lips. “They are my dear, true friends. I only meant, at home, I have only my servants to keep me company. I have never had anyone to talk to like this.”
He frowned thinking of his own home, where he’d lived with his parents, prior to living with his aunt and uncle. “I take it your father spent a good deal of time away from home?”
She gazed at the snifter cradled between her palms. “No. But he was—is—a very busy man.”
“I see.” He took a slow sip of brandy. It slid down his throat in a lingering burn. “What of your mother?” he asked before he knew what he meant to say.
A frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. “I never knew her. She died when I was a babe.” She paused and a faraway look came over her. “They say she was very beautiful, and that my father adored her. He doesn’t talk of her much, but”—she flashed him an imp’s grin—“I found a few of her journals among some packed-away items several years ago, and reading them, I feel I’ve come to know her a little.”
He studied her, and said nothing, allowing her to go on, or not.
“Tell me something about your life. Something personal. Nothing to do with your estates,” she said, opting to let the subject of her mother drop.
