“A mild headache?” she croaked.
“And to think, you had only two glasses,” he spoke quietly, the sound gentle on her pulsing temples. “My darling, you are not cut out for the whisky business.”
She wanted to protest that she could have made it work, but at that moment, he reached down and ran his fingers through her hair, lightly running over her scalp. Prickles of pleasure danced over her skin.
Whatever he was doing, it was heavenly and she didn’t want him to stop. She closed her eyes and gave in to his ministrations, quiet sounds of pleasure humming in the back of her throat with each stroking pass.
Just as she was being lured to sleep once more, he removed his hand. She blinked her eyes open and found him holding a glass filled with a thick, green liquid.
“If this doesn’t clear away the aches of too much whisky, then a solid breakfast certainly will.” He extended the putrid drink toward her.
The green concoction carried a terrible odor. Something that smelled of grass with brackish undertones.
Sophia recoiled. “Thank you, but no.”
He pushed it closer toward her. “This and a bit of tea will have you put back to rights. I swear it. Trust me.” He gave her a little smile then, one possessing a surprising amount of genuine tenderness.
It was that smile that finally convinced her—certainly not the horrendous potion itself—and made her finally accept the glass.
“Plug your nose.” He winked. “It helps.”
With one hand pinched over her nostrils, which admittedly already offered a marked improvement, she put the foul concoction to her lips and drank. It was thick and vile, tasting of plants she didn’t care to name, a brininess and something sweet that was most likely there to mask its foulness and failing miserably. But, by some miracle, she choked it down and through sheer willpower, she kept it from churning back up.
He took the empty glass from her. “Better?”
She gritted her teeth as though clamping her mouth shut would keep her tender stomach from upending its awful contents.
Whatever face she made in response made him laugh, the second time in as many days. She enjoyed hearing that sound, a rich timbre that made him seem less polished and more…real.
Her own lips tugged up in reply.
“Come, you’ve tea and a full breakfast awaiting you.” He offered her his hand, and she readily took it.
Only when she was upright did she consider how she must look, her gown likely rumpled, her hair in wild disarray from having fallen asleep with it still damp.
What a sight she must be!
The sudden flash of self-consciousness had her reaching for her tresses to smooth them or twist them back in a simple knot. Something more presentable, less intimate.
His hands caught hers gently and drew her touch from her hair. “You look beautiful.”
Beautiful.
Heat crept up her face. Had he ever called her beautiful before? His attention had indicated how he felt, but he’d never truly said it aloud.
“I feel quite unkempt,” she confessed as she glanced back toward the bed. The covers were still drawn up, and only the thin blanket she’d used appeared disturbed. Had he slept alongside her? Had they been…intimate?
“You needn’t concern yourself.” He guided her toward the table. It was once more laden with food, though this time with sliced ham, toast points, eggs, pastries, and at its center, a teapot. “I didn’t sleep with you.” His voice was velvet in her ear, his breath warm where it stirred the hairs against her neck.
Before she could react, he pulled out a chair for her. She sank onto the cushion seat as indecision warred within her. A prim, ladylike part of her was grateful he had been prudent. But there was another side to her, one that was drawn to him, one that harbored a curiosity begging to be sated—it was this part of her that wished he had slept with her.
What would it have been like to be cradled against the solid strength of his body? To be held in his arms and breathe in his comforting, familiar scent?
He poured her a cup of tea, as attentive to her as any servant. “How is your headache?”
Only when he mentioned it did she notice the absence of the thundering pain in her skull. She blinked in surprise. “Why, it’s gone.”
He gave an arrogant little smirk. “I told you. It may be vile, but that concoction works wonders.”
“Admittedly, it does,” she agreed, reaching for a toast point.
“Still, it would do you a world of good to take some time to recover.” He sat back and lifted his cup of tea, drinking it leisurely.
“I confess, the idea of getting back into a carriage to endure several hours of being jostled about, is wholly unappealing.” She grimaced at the thought and took a sip of her own tea.
“Our return to London need not be rushed.” He lifted a shoulder. “Indeed, it might serve our purpose to make an unhurried return.”
The tea was the ideal temperature, hot enough to sip without scalding, and brewed to perfection. “How so?”
“It will allow more time for us to get to know one another.” He casually crossed his ankle over his knee. “To convince others it was why we ran off.”
Ah, yes. There was that. She set her teacup down and tried to ignore the twist in her stomach. “You are still determined to marry me? Even after what I told you about how stubborn I can be?” A strange discomfort settled over her.
Regret.
A sudden longing to go back in time and snatch those words of warning away from their conversation.
He lifted his brows as he drank from his teacup. Somehow his refusal to answer the question rankled her nerves and made her desperate for a reply that did not come.
It shouldn’t matter. They both were being forced into this marriage. Him for his sister’s reputation and her for her own. Except that it did matter.
To Sophia, it mattered a great deal.
She didn’t want a man forced into marrying her any more than she wanted to be forced into it. A memory tugged at her from the prior evening. Well, several memories, really.
Her coercing the poor man to dance with her, begging for a kiss, sitting on his lap, the column of his arousal digging into her. How terribly wanton she had behaved.
He’d turned her away.
Her cheeks went hot. She blamed him, of course. And he’d declined to seduce her when she’d asked.
She pushed through the mortification burning through her as she made a vow to never, ever, drink whisky again.
But she also remembered one very important thing that was said: Kendal swore never to force her into anything.
And that would no doubt include marriage.
11
Kendal had never taken the time to enjoy Glasgow for all it had to offer. There were quaint shops to explore, a nearby park offering a sprawling oasis of spring grass amid the city’s towering buildings, which provided a considerable amount of amusement throughout the day.
During their exploration of the city, he had enjoyed not only Sophia’s company but also his subtle attempts to seduce her. A trinket here, a bouquet of flowers from a vendor there, a compliment he was sure would set her blushing beneath that hideous black widow’s veil and the occasional touch.
Those brushes of the hand were light and discreet, but they were titillating, nonetheless.