She tugged on his hair and lowered her chin, thinking he would pull back. That he would either stare at her in horror or perhaps, gloriously, find her lips with his.
Fox remained still.
Silence.
“Fox?” She tugged at his hair again.
A sleepy snore was his only reply.
She deflated.
Fox Carnegie had been kissing her throat and, finding the experience so transcendent, he had promptly . . . fallen asleep.
Leah couldn’t decide if the tears pricking her eyes stemmed from disappointed hopes or exhausted hilarity. Perhaps a bit of both?
Leah Penn-Leith Carnegie. The woman who bored men so thoroughly one gentleman fell asleep in the middle of a seduction.
Mortification scorched her lungs.
Please, please, please let Fox have no memory of this in the morning.
Thank goodness, no one else would ever know the depths of her humiliation.
Movement up the stairs caught Leah’s eye.
Mr. Dandy sat three steps above them, staring at her with shrewd eyes, as ifheknew—knew the laird of the castle had preferred slumber over a romantic encounter with his lady wife.
With a flick of his tail, the cat leapt onto Fox’s shoulder and shot Leah a mocking look before jumping down and sauntering away, tail held high.
The weesleekitbastard.
Leah slumped back against the wall, Fox’s full weight resting upon her.
Unable to help herself, she pressed a kiss to his temple, pausing to breathe in the sleepy male smell of him. She ran her hand through his hair, tracing her fingers from his temple down to the scratchy whiskers of his jaw.
Wishing with all her might that she had his permission to do so anytime she wished.
16
Once more, Fox woke to a sore head, an unsettled stomach, and deep regrets.
Bloody hell.
When would he find the strength to cease this ghastly cycle?
Fortunately, some kind soul had left a chamberpot conveniently placed beside the bed. It took an hour, two heaves into the porcelain, and nearly a pitcher of water before he felt equal to rising from his bed.
Most of the night before was a blur. He remembered enjoying Malcolm and Ethan’s company. There had been whisky, talk of lions and tigers, and then . . . Leah.
Leah’s hands on his chest, the smell of her soap in his nose, the sound of her lilting brogue in his ear.
And then . . . fishing, for some reason.
Surely that had all been a dream.
Or had it?
He swore the smell of her still lingered in the morning air, on the collar of his shirt, on the tips of his fingers. An image of Leah rose in his mind, her face close to his, eyes pockets of shadow in the dim light.
