He stared blankly at her.
“Emmy,” she repeated. A grim line claimed her lips. “The woman you intended—”
“Ah,Miss Caldecott. All the sisters with their E-starting names makes it deuced difficult to keep track of.”
“I should believe it fairly simple, Your Grace. Elise is happily married and has never had contact with you. Edith is the Caldecott sister you dosed and sought to ravage, and Emmy is the one you want to marry.”
His mind skipped over the latter for the former. “Is that what she told you?” he asked, miffed. “That Idruggedher.”
“No.”
Some of the tension eased from his shoulders.
“You just have a reputation of doing so.” She looked deliberately at the burnished gold spirits.
His jaw locked pulling tight.
“They say the drink you offer women, is sweet.”
“Dothey?” he rejoined, with false cheer.
Not recognizing sarcasm if it bit her, the lady nodded. Adding insult to injury, Miss Kearsley picked his glass up. Then, like she were some sort of John Fielding, the chit drew the snifter close. She gave it several sniffs and set it back down.
Why did it not surprise him the raven-haired chit had experience with spirits?
Something pinched beneath his breastbone. Whatever it was that stirred inside him, he contained at once. “Anything off, Miss Kearsley?” he said pleasantly.
He didn’t compel her. He let the decision belong to Miss Kearsley.
When she made no move to pick up the snifter, he grabbed her untouched glass and finished all but a couple of fingerfuls. Argyll set it down softly, unassumingly in a quiet challenge.
Miss Kearsley pondered the drink and picked it up with that same careful consideration.
Under hooded lashes, Argyll took in the lady’s impressively stolid grip. No wilting lily, this one.
Again, the lady brought the snifter near her nose, and slowly inhaled.
The oddling’s expression grew more contemplative.
“What do you smell?” he asked coolly.
“It has a woodsy scent.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Woodsy. What else, Miss Kearsley?”
This time, she closed her eyes.
Argyll went still. The sight of her—lashes lowered, breath drawn slowly, lips parted just enough—caught him unaware.
Then, his quiet little reverent drank.
From that small, single sip, the room receded. Argyll’s attention narrowed to the small movement of her mouth.
Heat stirred low and expected.
Miss Kearsley set the empty snifter down slowly. She alternated her focus between the glass and the bottle he’d poured her drink from.
The lady stood.
