“I would think that as lords, none of you would have had anything to worry about. I’d imagine the tutors would watch out for you.”
“It was part of our education. Navigating bullies. A rite of passage.” Julian slid her now half-filled glass across the table. “This one is 1780. Glenturret.”
Her mouth watered. “It’s from one of their early batches.” She had done her research. She lifted the second one to taste. Just as she’d expected, based upon the lighter amber color, it wasn’t nearly as flavorful as the first had been. “You were sent away for school then? Were the school masters cruel?”
“They weren’t necessarily cruel, just rigid. The older boys, however, those who’d already formed alliances… delighted in torturing the younger ones. We entered at the age of fourteen and not all of us had physically grown out of childhood.”
“I bet you weren’t one of the smallest, though,” she guessed, picturing him as a smiling gangling youth. It was impossible to imagine him without his cocksure smile and slouch.
“Lord Chaswick, dear God, had the bad luck of being born pretty. He quickly learned that running fast was his most effective protection.”
“I’ve heard you call him Chase. Is that how he got that name?” Charley took another sip, watching his features in the flickering light and feeling an unusual intimacy wrap around the two of them.
He nodded. “It didn’t take long for us to realize we needed one another. Chase, the Spencers, Greystone—even Blackheart. Manningham-Tissinton, Mantis, was more stubborn than the rest of us. He hadn’t grown into the hulking fellow he is now. He took more beatings that first term than all of the rest of us put together.”
As they tasted from the next few bottles, he regaled her with other interesting anecdotes from his school days. Strings of silk seemed to wind around the two of them, making her feel like they were the only people in the world.
And the only thing that mattered was scotch and the dancing candlelight.
And him.
When she reached for the next drink, he caught her hand. “Shall we make this more interesting?”
The words reminded her of what her father often uttered while playing a hand of poker.
“It’s already interesting. How can anything be more interesting than listening to tales of masculine tomfoolery while tasting scotch from the last century?” Charley stared at his hand covering hers. Her skin felt hot beneath his but cool where her palm grasped the tumbler. The pleasure she felt at his touch ought to have been more concerning than it was.
“For every drink I pour, you tell me something about you that I don’t already know.”
Charley lifted her gaze from his hand. “Are all earls like you? I thought they’d be...”
“Stuffy?” He finished for her.
“Proper.”
He waggled his brows, eyes dancing and one corner of his mouth raised. “What is so improper about wanting to learn more about my future intended?”
It would become very tiresome if she was to correct him every time he mentioned their courtship. “What indeed?” But if they were going to play a game, she’d make certain it was a fair one. “For every drink that I take, you must answer a question that I ask and for every drink you take, I will answer one from you.” Charley licked her lips. His eyes already appeared shinier than normal. Did he not comprehend whom he’d just issued this challenge to?
In response, he lifted his glass, sipped, swirled, and swallowed. “I’ll start with an easy one.” He tilted his head slightly. “What’s your middle name?”
“You should not waste these, my lord.”
“You should not waste these,Jules,” he corrected her.
“Jules.” His name suited him. It was warm, friendly, and yet dignified. “I was christened Charlotte Arabella Jackson.” Charley sniffed her glass. “Pungent. This one will be spicier than the others.” She sipped it slowly before swallowing. It didn’t taste anything like what she and her father produced.
But it tasted… rich. And old. And something about that made it quite spectacular.
“Do you enjoy being an earl?” she asked.
He furrowed his brows. “I’ve known I would be Westerley all my life. I don’t know if I enjoy it or if I do not. I simply am.”
His answer was what she ought to have expected from him. It explained some of what she’d first considered to be arrogance on his part. Not that he didn’t still come across as arrogant, but his brand of it differed from other noblemen. His confidence came from who he was rather than who he wanted others to believe he was.
He opened another bottle and, without rinsing the glass, poured a rather generous splash for each of them. “This one,” he tapped the side of the glass, “reminds me ofmygrandfather. Not because he was dirty and dry but because it was his favorite.” He tilted it back and swallowed half the contents.
“What do you like most about America?”
