“Yes.”
He narrowed his gaze and then reached for her hand. “Come with me.” He tugged her to her feet, through the door to the antechamber, past the settee, and through another door.
Into his chamber! Did he think she was nervous about…?
Surely, he didn’t intend to… Not in broad daylight?
But he released her hand and strode toward a heavy dresser. Consummation, for the moment anyhow, wasn’t what he had in mind. She took advantage of the reprieve to study the furnishings, which were very different than her own. Heavy and masculine. The bed was large but without the heavy drapes hanging from the ceiling. The palette chosen for his chamber was pleasing as well: deep greens, with subtle accents of gold, blue, and amber.
Her gaze skimmed over the bed again, and she shivered. Would they ever sleep in it together?
Or do… other things?
The sound of a flint striking had her turning back to see that he’d lit a candle.
“If I was feeling uneasy,” he spoke around an unlit cigar sticking out of his mouth, “not that I ever am, mind you.” He removed the cheroot and examined the end. “Smoking would ease my tension.”
He appeared even more manly and attractive with the cheroot sticking out of his mouth. She licked her lips and tightened the muscles in her legs, squeezing her thighs together.
“Sit with me.” He gestured toward a small settee. “I don’t bite.” And yet the look in his eyes was a devilish one.
He waited for her to take her seat before moving the candle to a low table and lowering himself beside her, the wool of his trousers brushing her hand as he did so. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and she pinched her lips together tightly. So far, his assistance was only stretching her nerves even tighter.
“How does it help you?” she asked in an effort to distract herself. “I know how opium works, but to my knowledge, you aren’t actually inhaling when smoking a cigar.”
He turned his knees so he was half-facing her. “How do you know about opium?”
His comment reminded her of something Westerley might say. “I’m two and twenty, Chase, not twelve.” She sat up straight.
He narrowed his gaze but then returned his attention to the cigar. “You are correct in that you do not inhale a cigar. You suck the smoke into your mouth, and then slowly allow it to escape.”
“But why?”
He held the tip of the cigar near the flame, slowly rolling it in his fingers.
“Because that is how you do it.” He slid her a condescending glance. “The leaves are cured and then rolled in paper.” He wrapped his lips around the cool end of his cigar and inclined forward, this time touching the tip to the actual flame. She watched his cheeks suck in even as the tip flared. They were sitting so close that she could make out new whiskers sprouting along his jaw. She leaned in toward him, fascinated by this particular detail of his beard.
Once satisfied that the cigar was lit properly, he pulled back, and she jumped guiltily.
“Burning the leaves releases relaxant into the smoke,” he explained. “And the relaxant is absorbed into the mucus membranes… inside the mouth. The smoke is too strong to inhale. Trust me, you don’t want to do that. Not pleasant at all.”
“Seems easy enough.” She kept her gaze locked on the glowing embers of the cigar, afraid that if he could look into her eyes, he would read her thoughts… guess as to the nature of her longings.
“It won’t burn on its own, so you have to pay close attention to the tip. Some people even count”—he slid his back gaze in her direction—“between puffs.”
She nodded, her interest finally piqued by something other than… well, other than him.
He handed it to her. “Suck in slowly,” he instructed.
She lifted it to her mouth, feeling unexpected intimacy. He’d had his lips on it just moments before.
“Careful now—”
But before she could heed his advice, she was coughing and choking, bent over, her eyes watering from the scorching in her throat and lungs. “Water!” she gasped.
“I told you not to inhale—”
She didn’t hear the rest of what he said as she was too busy gulping down the cooling liquid he’d placed in her hand.
