Page 22 of Chasing the Earl
His big fingers plucked at the blanket. “Because poor behavior is all anyone has ever thought me capable of, and I don’t wish to disappoint them.”
Emmagene thought that a very telling andhonestbit of speech.
“You are a surprise, Miss Stitch.”
Huntly’s eyes on her were heated, for lack of a better word. Lustful, if she was being truthful. It had been years since she’d had such a look directed at her. Not since she’d been barely eighteen and so foolish. She’d missed the sensation. A delicate, insistent ache began between her thighs, one that had never really faded since their kiss in the woods.
“In what way?” She handed the flask back to him, trying to keep her fingers from trembling. She had a sudden, very real urge to touch him.
“In all ways,” he said quietly before taking another swallow of the whiskey. He handed the flask back to her once more, eyes intent as Emmagene took another large swallow.
“Where did you learn to appreciate whiskey?” There was a husky quality to his words that sent pulses of heat around the lower half of her body.
The whiskey, very delicious indeed, had given Emmagene a light, airy feeling, which often served to loosen her tongue. It had been Geoffrey who had introduced her to whiskey, along with other things. She could still see him standing before her with a bottle he’d pilfered from his father’s study. They’d taken turns sipping from it before undressing each other and making love. Her skin rippled at the memory. What would it be like to have Huntly undress her?
“A friend,” she answered.
Huntly’s eyes pierced her with blue flame in the rapidly fading light. “Ah. A gentleman friend.” There was no censure in his tone. No condemnation that Emmagene had been sampling whiskey with a man. And she didn’t think Huntly would judge her for her loss of virtue either.
“May I have another sip?”
He nodded, handing her the flask again. “You aren’t a sot, are you?”
“What?” Emmagene grabbed the flask, inhaling as he deliberately brushed his fingers against hers. “No. I am not a sot. I happen to enjoy whiskey,” she snapped. “Also, cognac and brandy.” The smoky caramel of the whiskey bathed her tongue. “I don’t care for ratafia or sherry.”
“Of course not. Who does?” Huntly, fingers thick and blunt, plucked at the blanket. “When did you learn to enjoy…a good whiskey?”
“I was barely eighteen.” The conversation was no longer solely about the appreciation of a fine whiskey. Emmagene stared back at him, daring Huntly to make some innuendo or derisive comment, but he didn’t, only continued to gaze at her with a thoughtful look on his rough features. “I haven’t enjoyed a good whiskey since.”
Huntly’s entire body uncurled in her direction, like some giant bear waking up from hibernation, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting rabbit that had the misfortune to hop by him. She understood, with startling clarity, as he studied her with heavy-lidded eyes, how Huntly, though reviled for his ill manners and rudeness, still managed to entice a startling number of women. There was a sensualness to him, well buried but present nonetheless.
A servant arrived bearing a platter of food, interrupting the charged silence between them. Cheese. Fruit. Bits of poached meat. A more substantial meal would be served once the fireworks ended and the guests returned to the house.
Huntly’s interest left Emmagene for the platter of food. He regarded the array of tiny plates and their contents with distaste.
“Is there a problem, my lord?” she said, somewhat relieved to have Huntly focused on something other than her. The air around them had grown combustible as if the blanket could catch on fire at any moment. “Surely you are able to throw a slice of apple as well as peas at an unsuspecting servant should it be required. You might need to try lobbing the fruit from a different angle—”
“There isn’t anything,” he interrupted, one of his large fingers flicking at the tray in dismissal, “robust.”
“Robust?” Emmagene plucked a bit of cheese from the tray.
“Yes, Miss Stitch.” His deep-blue gaze settled on her lips. “I’m a man of formidable appetites. You should know that.”
“I stand forewarned.” Emmagene swallowed the cheese, her pulse wavering in her throat. Such wickedness abounded in Huntly’s words, particularly when he was eyeing her with such intent, which he made no effort to hide. The animosity between them had shifted subtly into something else entirely. Encouraging it, and him, could be a mistake.
Her gaze trailed over his large, bulky form. The broad shoulders stretching his coat. The thick thighs and chest, heavy with muscle. What would it feel like to have his weight on her? Have him press inside her?
A tiny shiver shot down between her legs.
“Do you want more whiskey, Miss Stitch?”
The low timbre of his voice was better than the taste of chocolate hitting her tongue. Huntly was no stranger to seducing a woman; that much was evident.
“Are you trying to get me foxed, my lord?”
“I doubt very much you can be forced to do anything you don’t wish to.” He leaned closer to her. “Your eyes aren’t watering. The vinegar must be finally wearing off.”
It wasn’t; it was only that Emmagene’s other senses were so overwhelmed she could no longer smell it.
