“This library furniture piece of small feels bloody lovely.” His eyes closed.
Was boxing his ears out of the question?
“Up with you, my lord,” she ordered in her sternest voice.
“Mmm,” he answered, and promptly began to snore.
She sighed and tapped his shoulder. “Huntingdon.”
No response.
“My lord.”
Another snore.
She decided upon a different tactic and moved to his stockinged feet. Careful to use only her fingernails, she trailed her fingers up the soles, tickling him.
He kicked and jolted awake once more, looking like a surly bear. “What the devil?”
“It is time to go upstairs.” She moved back to the other end of the chaise longue and offered him her hands. “Come along, my lord.”
It was rather the same fashion in which she might have spoken to a recalcitrant child. But it seemed suiting in the moment. The dangerously seductive husband of earlier, the one who had kissed her breathless and then stalked off to get himself thoroughly inebriated, was nowhere to be found. Drat him if there wasn’t something ridiculously charming about him, even when he was thoroughly in his cups.
Even when he was planning on leaving her in the morning.
She still had not determined what she could do about that. She had been hoping to use dinner as a means of offering persuasion in her favor. It would have been an excellent opportunity to attempt to explain to him. Or to at least convince him to allow her to accompany him on his trip to the country. Instead, she had been left all but weeping into her soup course.
“Playing the part of wife quite well, hellion,” he said then, grinning drunkenly at her. “What else do you have for me, concern from aside?”
Once more, he was speaking nonsensically. But she knew what he meant. Her cheeks went hot at the frank innuendo in his gaze. She was not about to attempt to encourage him to consummate their marriage while he was so thoroughly sotted, however.
“Come with me and you shall see,” she said, wiggling her fingers expectantly.
At long last he accepted her offer, taking her hands in his. The shock of awareness when her bare skin met his was, as ever, electric. It seemed he could drink all the spirits in London, and she was still aflame for him. As helpless to resist this man as she had ever been.
She pulled, steeling herself against the unwanted longing unfurling within her. Attempting to help Huntingdon to his feet was akin to pulling a piano uphill. He was making no effort to aid her. And his grin was wider than before.
“Help me, drat you,” she snapped, giving him another tug, using all her weight to haul him to his feet.
This time, he did as she asked, helping her to pull his reluctant body from the chaise longue. The haste with which he complied took her by surprise, and she stumbled backward, Huntingdon crashing into her. His hands settled on her waist, and his head dipped to her throat, his mouth finding her bare flesh.
“Mmm,” said her husband.
She knew the feeling. But this was neither the moment nor the place for lovemaking. She jerked away from him as if he had scalded her.
“None of that, my lord. We must get you upstairs.”
“Upshtairs,” he agreed, giving her a drunken leer. “Er, upstairs. Will you help me to disrobe like a good wife?”
How convenient for him that he only wished to consider her his wife in more than name when he was soused.
“You have a valet for that honor, my lord,” she said crisply, taking his arm as he swayed.
As if she would not enjoy aiding him in the removal of his garments. As if she would not wholeheartedly delight in seeing what that sturdy male chest looked like, divested of his clothing. Or that pronounced rigidity outlined by the fall of his trousers…
No, Helena. You must not think of that.
“But what if I wantyou, hellion?” He stumbled into her, bringing with him his scent, which overpowered the faint tobacco smoke and spirits, and his infernal heat.
