But no, they were not wed and he would not win her by pawing at her like some overzealous lout.
They paused a moment in their conversation while the maid returned to clear away the rest of their meal and take their clothing to be laundered for the next day. Once she had departed, Kendal turned to Sophia once more.
“You intended to create and sell an item you had not yet even tried.” He placed an empty glass on the table before her and dispensed a finger of whisky into it.
She straightened. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you about whisky.” He poured a glass for himself, this one with two fingers. “You were willing to risk everything, including your reputation, to set up a distillery when you haven’t even tasted whisky.”
Her lashes lowered as she gazed down at the drink.
“Unless, of course, you’re afraid to drink a man’s drink.”
She scoffed and curled her fingers around the glass.
“Whisky will pick up the flavors from its surroundings.” He swirled his whisky in his glass, so the amber liquid splashed gracefully against the sides. “Heather, peat, oak…”
Kendal closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scents, letting them carry him back to another time. One of brotherhood and camaraderie with his fellow runners, yes, but a tumultuous point in his life, rife with disappointment and resentment.
A choking cough interrupted his reminiscence. His eyes snapped open and he found Sophia gagging.
“Are you quite all right?”
“I don’t smell those things.” She dabbed at her watering eyes.
“You will taste them though.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast. “Once you sip it.”
She did the same, albeit with a touch of trepidation, and brought the rim of the glass to her lips. The tip of her tongue stretched over the rim and a scowl puckered her face. “That was cruel.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This isn’t whisky.” She set the glass down with enough force to make it slosh about.
“Isn’t it?” He lifted her glass and took a sip. The familiar fire of good whisky burned down his throat. “I assure you, my lady, it is.”
She stared at him, aghast. Her incredulity was so comical, the beginnings of a smile tugged at his mouth.
He covered it with a droll tone. “Do you not like it, then? Even if you were planning to sell it?”
That spark of defiance lit her gaze, the one that made others long to draw near. The one that had begun to lure him as well.
“Try it again.” He placed the glass in front of her so lightly that it made no sound. “But concentrate.”
She pursed her lips and stared down into her glass.
“Whisky takes on the notes of its surroundings,” he repeated. “In the Highlands, the mountains are shaded purple with clusters of heather. The scent is mild but pleasant, an earthy, herbal, floral perfume. See if you can taste it.”
She peeked up at him, her face partially scrunched with skepticism.
He chuckled. “Go on.”
She brought the glass to her lips, taking the smallest of sips. She shuddered.
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. The way her face screwed up in displeasure and how her whole body wracked with distaste was far too entertaining.
A smile touched her lips. “You have a pleasant laugh.”
The compliment warmed him. “Keep concentrating,” he encouraged.
Her gaze settled back on the amber liquid.
“Snow from the mountains melts and trickles down into streams,” he went on, “creating water so pure and clear, there’s nothing else like it. That’s used for malting and mashing the barley.”
He studied her face as he spoke. There was trust there, evident in her relaxed mouth, the way her eyes remained fixed on her drink. Her lashes were long and black where they lowered across her pale cheeks as she looked down.
It suddenly occurred to him that he could lean in and kiss her, let them taste the whisky from one another’s tongues.
Desire stirred to life once more in his groin.
“Try it again,” he said in a gravelly voice.
She put the glass to her lips and drank a little more. An apologetic smile flicked over her mouth. “I still don’t taste it.”
He moved closer without realizing he did so until his chair was directly beside her. “Then there’s the peat that warms the bellies of the kiln and gives off a hearty, smoky scent.”
She sipped again and slowly swallowed, her nostrils flaring ever so gently as if she were trying to find the scent of the drink. Whisky glistened on her mouth like sinful temptation.
A soft gasp pulled between her lips. “I taste it.”
“And oak.” His voice was a whisper now. “From the barrels where the final batch is stored.”
“I taste that too.” She looked up at him in wonder and pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, as though sucking it clean of whisky.
His cock pulsed with desire. He put his hand on the cool glass decanter to distract himself. “Do you fancy a bit more then?”
Her attention flew to her empty glass and she gave a shocked laugh.
“Or are the spirits too strong for you?” He winked. It was a flirtatious gesture, one he hadn’t bothered to waste time with in the past. And he knew exactly why he was doing it now.
Something changed in her expression, a subtle, coy shift of her mouth, a slight lowering of her eyes, so her sable lashes shaded the lovely blue. Her sweetness faded away and she radiated sensuality.
The impact was like a punch. The most welcome punch he’d ever received.
“They’re nothing I can’t handle.” She cradled the glass delicately in her fingertips and held it aloft. “I’ll have another.”
Sophia had often been told she was too stubborn for her own good. Her mother usually said it with laughter when she was a girl who found herself often in trouble. Henry had made mention in his light fraternal teasing and her father had groused over the characteristic with far less amusement than the other two.
But it was that obdurate disposition that led her to deviate from what was en mode, which, ironically, was one of the primary reasons people were drawn to her. Certainly, it was not simply her smiles when so many women went out of their way to be pleasing. Nor was it her appearance when there were ladies far lovelier.
Her obstinacy set her apart from others. It emboldened her to choose gowns others advised her against or would say things she felt rather than bowing to what the ton dictated was proper. It was the very razor's edge of daring, just enough to tantalize the ton, but not enough to be cut.
Until now.
Kendal sat close enough that she could make out the subtle spice of his scent, the sandalwood and cedar notes of his costly cologne.
He sat far too close to be acceptable by society.
But not nearly close enough for her.
The splashing of whisky in her glass was the sound of rules breaking, of new territory being forged. Of a life being lived to the fullest.
She kept her gaze locked on Kendal’s decadently dark eyes and sipped from her glass. The smokiness of the whisky was apparent first, underlying beneath the burn of alcohol, exactly as he’d described. He could coax her to enjoy anything with such a velvety, mesmerizing voice.
“Do you actually enjoy it?” He indicated her drink with a nod of his head as he lifted his own glass to his lips. They were full and soft now that he wasn’t smirking, a hint of pink against the black whiskers of his unshaven jaw.