Page 19 of Wickedly Yours
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m too tired to spar with you tonight. I reserve the right to trade insults with you on the morrow once I’m better rested.” A grunt sounded from him as the spring found its target. “Not a word, Arabella.”
A bottle of wine sat on the table next to the food and Rowan poured each of them a glass.
“I don’t drink spirits,” she informed him with a sniff.
The broad shoulders shrugged. “Well I certainly do. I asked for scotch, but I suppose this will need to do.” He held up the bottle. “I’m hoping it doesn’t taste like vinegar.” Taking a sip, he smiled and turned his attention to the food.
Beef, potatoes and peas graced two large plates. The food was not fancy in the least, but it was plentiful. A loaf of bread and a crock of butter completed the meal. Lifting the glass of wine in a mock toast he said, “Here’s hoping you don’t like your roast and the peas find no favor with you.”
Arabella stabbed at the roast, his cheery mood annoying her. “I adore roast.Andpeas. I am also fond of bread.”
Shooting her a mischievous glance, Rowan sliced off a hunk of the still warm bread, slathering it with butter before handing it to her. “I am relieved to find some things find favor with you.”
His tone was teasing, but the comment struck another nerve. Corbett too had mentioned the same deficit in her personality. No wonder she lacked popularity amongst theton. She had a distinct lack of positive character traits.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she took the proffered piece of bread. Eyeing the wine, she thought of the mountains of empty bottles her father would trip over in his study. Perhaps her father had also been filled with self-loathing.
Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the glass of wine from his fingers and took several swallows before setting the nearly empty glass back down. The taste, akin to some fruit gone sour lingered on her tongue. Not completely unpleasant. A warm, fuzzy feeling burst from her stomach and spread down her limbs.
“You just told me you didn’t care for spirits.” Malden sipped at his glass. “You are very contrary, Arabella.”
She ignored the comment, too engrossed in the light fluffiness filling her head. She admonished herself for enjoying the liquid, fearing for a brief moment that she would lose all control and instantly become a drunkard like her father. Ridiculous, of course. Nick drank spirits and was certainly not a sot. Besides, was her reputation of such importance? No one truly liked her anyway so she doubted drinking wine would make things worse.
They ate in silence for some moments before she reached across and poured herself more wine. The glow now spread through her entire body. No wonder her parents had been so enamored. Wine was synonymous with euphoria.
She snuck a look at Malden, who had fallen upon his plate like a ravenous beast and was now eyeing what was left of her roast.
Feeling emboldened, she took another sip. “Do you find me dour?” She pushed the remainder of her roast towards him.
He didn’t answer for the longest time, only stared at her intently considering how to answer. Heat suffused her cheeks and it wasn’t because of the fire. Or the wine. It was the way he looked at her. Pleasure twisted low in her belly and mixed with the wonderful feeling the wine gave her. Arabella had the sudden urge to curl around Malden like a cat and beg to be stroked.
“Dour women,” he leaned back in his chair, hooking one long leg over the arm, “do not wear,” he sipped his wine, “the undergarments of a courtesan. Particularly, a red chemise.”
Her cup trembled as it met her lips. The deep baritone of his voice caused a delicious sensation to waft across her body. Her toes actually curled at the sound. Then his words sunk into her wine fuddled brain.
Dear God, he’d seen the chemise.
“Do not drink so much or so fast.” His eyes ran over her form. “Are you wearing it right now? The red chemise?”
Her breath caught. “This is an improper conversation and I—”
“It’s a simple question, Arabella. Yes,” the length of his fingers stroked the stem of his glass, “or no.”
The way he touched the wine stem was fascinating. What would it feel like to have him touch her in such a way? Long ago, during her debut, there had been one or two gentlemen who dared to touch her. She’d allowed both a kiss but found she remained unmoved. Her lack of reaction caused one man to declare she was frigid. Corbett’s touch had disgusted her.
Instinctively, Arabella knew Malden’s would not.
“Yes. I’m wearing the red chemise.” She held out her glass for more wine. “I suppose you find that odd, given that I am so dour and unpleasant.”
“Indeed, I do.”
Arabella rarely spoke about herself to others, but the wine loosened her tongue. “I assume you are familiar with my parents?” At his nod, she continued. “My mother, the illustrious Charlotte, was fond of such undergarments. As a girl I’d often watch her dress for an evening out. She always chose such lovely materials and colors.” Her mother’s underclothes had been nothing short of scandalous and Charlotte wore them for her numerous lovers. Shortly after her mother’s death, Arabella had wandered into Charlotte’s dressing room. Her mother’s maid had rifled through Charlotte’s dresses but left the decadent underthings to Arabella. She supposed that had been the start of her affinity for such garments.
“We should not be speaking of such things,” Arabella mused in a soft voice. The entire night felt surreal. Perhaps she was dreaming and none of this was real.
“No. We should not.” He peered at her over his glass.
“Why did you come for me?” The question had plagued her since he had appeared brandishing a pistol at Corbett. “You don’t even like me.”
