She shook her head. “Not another bite.”
“Wine?” He held up one of the bottles he had also managed to acquire in his absence earlier.
The Duke of Whitby was a very industrious man. In all matters, she was beginning to suspect.
She glanced at her glass, finding it almost empty, and knew she ought to refuse his offer but extended it toward him instead. “Perhaps just a bit.”
There was the embarrassing reminder, of course, of what had happened the last time she had imbibed too much wine at dinner. And her resulting sobriquet, which he seemed to enjoy using more with her every protest.
He finished pouring her wine and met her gaze, the mask of effortless rakish charm he so often wore gone for a moment. In its place was a look of frank affection, as if he enjoyed spoiling her.
But that was silliness, was it not? Tending to her was all a part of his seduction. And it was working too. She couldn’t recall the last time she had felt so very cared for. Not since before Waring had left England for America’s shores. But with the marquess, the feelings burgeoning within her had always been friendship and a deep appreciation for his aid. With Rhys, it was something else. Something bigger and almost frightening.
Holding his gaze, she took a slow drink from her wine. At his back, the fire crackled, the flickering light playing in the golds and hints of red in his hair. His feet were bare, and he had removed his coat and necktie, leaving him in shirtsleeves and trousers and waistcoat. The buttons at his throat called to her now, taunting. Above his collar, the protrusion of his Adam’s apple bobbed as he took a swallow from his own glass.
“Dinner was lovely,” she told him, suddenly flustered by his regard and the heat from the fire, which mingled with the warmth inside her. “It was kind of you to fetch me so many offerings and deliver them to me.”
He inclined his head. “Your loyal page, my queen.”
“Thank you for everything that you have done for me this evening,” she said quietly. “It was quite unnecessary.”
“On the contrary. It was absolutely necessary. I cannot have my queen go to bed hungry.”
“I do believe you revel in being as outlandish as possible,” she quipped lightly, before hiding her smile in her wineglass.
Oh, he was amusing. Too amusing. Too handsome. Too kind, too considerate, too charming by half. He was too much of everything, and she wanted it all.
The hour was late, and she knew she needed to go to bed. Alone. In her own chamber. The impromptu dinner’s interruption had shattered the earlier erotic spell between them. She should have gone by now.
She had wandered about his room during his foray to the kitchens, deliberating what to do with herself. Thinking she should leave until her stomach rumbled. Paging through a book of poetry at his bedside and wondering if he read it until he fell asleep. Or perhaps even first in the morning.
And then he had returned, grinning and handsome, bearing a massive tray laden with more food than she could dream of eating in one sitting, a bottle of wine tucked precariously under each arm. He had made a nest of pillows for them on the floor by the fireplace and had decanted wine and made up a plate to her specifications. She had eaten, and he had regaled her with tales of the rumors swirling amongst the revelers below, bringing her to so much laughter, in a few instances she’d been near tears.
“Are you sure I cannot convince you to eat anything else?” he asked softly, tearing her from her thoughts.
She swallowed her wine. “No, thank you. You are too kind to look after me.”
“If selfishness is kindness, then I am guilty.”
“How is fetching me dinner and rubbing my aching feet selfishness?” she couldn’t help asking, even though she knew it was dangerous to linger, to further question him.
She ought to scurry back to her room like a mouse saved from certain death at the paws of a merciless cat. But she remained, holding her wine, watching him, awaiting his answer, enthralled.
He slowly slid one foot flat upon the floor, leaving his knee bent and drawing her attention for a moment to how handsome his feet were. And what a startling intimacy. She didn’t recall ever even seeing Ammondale’s feet bare, but she was sure they would have been pale and unattractive, marked by spindly toes and dark hair.
The very notion of her former husband’s feet made her grimace, so she took another sip of wine.
“What are you thinking about now?” Rhys asked, his tone curious as he rested his forearm over his knee.
She swallowed hard, nearly choking. Good heavens, what was she to tell him, that she had been ogling his feet, of all things? Comparing his to Ammondale’s? No. She couldn’t bear such a mortifying confession.
“Nothing,” she lied, offering him a bright smile she hoped would fool him.
“Hardly nothing, I think. You’re blushing.”
She bit her lip, wishing she didn’t like him so much. Wishing he hadn’t proven himself to be considerate and kind, silly and whimsical, intelligent and protective. Little wonder his eyes were the color of a sky after a storm. The man himself was a storm, fierce and powerful. Capable of changing everything in his wake.
“And now you’re biting your lip,” he observed. “I do so hate when you torture your pretty mouth so.”
