Page 50 of Lord Garson's Bride
“When was your last visit?” He should remember. But then he’d had no idea Lord Sefton’s quiet, bookish daughter would grow up to become his bride.
“Papa brought the family up for a hunting party when I was twelve.”
“Was I away at university?”
“No, you were there, but you and your friends were far too top lofty to pay attention to annoying little girls.”
He laughed at her mocking tone. “Top lofty at eighteen? I doubt my conceit was justified.”
The twitch of her lips sparked a sudden urge to kiss her. Except if he did, he wouldn’t want to stop. He was well aware that while last night had stretched their bargain almost to breaking, he was still bound to his promise that he’d kiss her only once a day.
“At eighteen, you were considerably more on your dignity than you are now.”
He suspected it was true. “I’m sorry I was a snotty-nosed little toad, Jane.”
“You were never little.” The twitch blossomed into a full smile. “Even at that age, you were a young Hercules.”
He stared at her, grappling with his wife having the temerity to call him a toad, if not in so many words. Then he burst out laughing. “I suppose I deserve that.”
“Actually you were very kind.” She touched his hand. “You always have been a kind man, Hugh.”
He caught her before she could withdraw. “So I didn’t break your tender heart?”
“Oh, you did that. You were my hero, and it was pretty clear that I was getting under your feet. But to be fair to you, I was absurdly shy and silly.”
“Never.” He raised her hand and kissed it. Her fingers fluttered in his, but she didn’t try to pull away.
“I’m still shy,” she said softly.
He took the words as a warning—or perhaps an apology. “I know, sweetheart. But never silly.”
The endearment made her gaze fall. “I can be silly.”
“So can I.” It was time to apologize for his drunken blunderings. “I’m sorry I was such a damned lout last night.”
This time, Jane’s smile conveyed secret amusement. “You weren’t so bad.”
“Still I owe you better than rolling home drunk as a wheelbarrow, then stumbling around in a stupor and waking you up.”
To his regret, she withdrew her hand and poured him some more coffee. He noted that she made it as he liked, with a dash of milk and no sugar. This honeymoon that was no honeymoon at all drove him mad with frustration, but it had its benefits. They grew easier in each other’s company, and more accustomed to each other’s habits.
“You were rather charming.”
Not so he recalled. “Was I?”
“Yes. Until last night, I didn’t know you had a whimsical bone in your body.”
Whimsical? Was that a good thing? He didn’t think so. “You’re truly not angry?”
She sipped her tea. “No.”
Her forbearance had him rushing into explanations. “I didn’t set out to get foxed. But after that drive back from Stonehenge, I had to clear my head.”
She arched her eyebrows. “So you drank?”
“It sounds asinine, I know.” He shifted awkwardly. “I assure you that I’m a man of regular habits. I don’t make a practice of staggering about in my cups.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, still with a trace of irony.
