“You’re staring at me,” he said, “and I’m finding it hard to concentrate.”
“Am I?” She wiped her hands together to remove any crumbs. “My apologies, but there is nothing else to do.” The room held no books or newspapers. Besides she wanted to know at once, by the look upon his face, if he found anything untoward. “Shall I pour the tea?”
“Fine. Yes, please do. I like a teaspoon of sugar.” Then he added, “Perhaps everybody does.”
“I don’t think they do,” she said, and glanced to see if he’d been joking. He had a well-shaped nose, not too sharp. And while his cheekbones weren’t ridiculously protruding, they cast a slight shadow upon his cheeks.
“You’re still staring,” he pointed out. “Would you likemeto pour?”
“No.” She put a splash of milk in the bottom of each cup and then dispensed the tea on top, added the sugar, and even stirred both cups before handing him his.
“Your tea would stay hotter in the pot with a knitted cozy,” she told him.
“You’re distracting me, Miss Rare-Foure. I’m nearly done.”
She sat back with her tea and a wafer. After sipping as quietly as possible, she spoke again without thinking. “Plants bring a room to life, don’t you think?”
He didn’t answer.
“And with a silver candlestick on either end of that sideboard, maybe with a bowl of fruit in the middle or a large china figurine, it would look much more inviting.”
He turned his head toward her again.
“Even the red vase from the foyer would look good, right there.” She pointed. “It would bring in a dash of color.”
He blinked.
She sighed. “Your tea is growing cold.”
Setting the pages down on the table, he removed his spectacles, picked up his tea and drank it down quickly. “I don’t need a cozy on my teapot because I don’t sip and dawdle. I drink it before it gets cold.”
“What about brandy?”
“What about it?” he asked, both eyebrows raised.
“Do you sip it, or do you tip your head back and swallow it so quickly you barely taste it.”
“I sip it,” he confessed, “but brandy is not tea. Brandy is to be savored slowly. Like a kiss.” Those words froze all the thoughts in her brain, and she gaped at him.
Was he flirting with her?
Chapter Seven
“Oh,” Charlotte said after a pause, knowing the viscount had caused her to blush. None of the kisses she’d had with Lionel had been slow. Quite the opposite. They had been hurried and sometimes a little rough as he ground his mouth upon hers, always with both of them listening for footfalls.
Imagining how it would have been if she and Lionel had time at their disposal — she tried, but she couldn’t picture Lionel or his mouth when seated next to Lord Jeffcoat and his unfathomable blue eyes.
“My apologies,” he said, his gaze remaining locked on hers. “I should not have made reference to an intimate act when we are without a chaperone. That was poorly done of me.”
She swallowed, her glance dropping to his mouth.What would it be like to have a slow kiss with the viscount?They would undoubtedly savor the moment instead of grasping at one another and then breaking apart just as the excitement was building.
“That’s quite all right,” she assured him, lifting her glance to his again. “We’re not bashful debutantes. Or at least, I’m not. Of course, you’re not, either. Not that you could be. You’re a man.” She started to laugh, hearing the nervousness in her voice. She coughed. “What I mean is, I’ve had a Season, after all.”
Now it was his gaze that had dropped. While she was speaking, he studied her mouth — or so it seemed — before his glance flickered back to her eyes. He was also ever-so-slightly smiling. Hopefully, he wasn’t laughing on the inside at her addle-headed babble.
Regain your composure,Charlotte ordered herself, and she did.
“Besides, those of us who enjoy the taste of tea and don’t drink it merely to quench our thirst want to savor it, just as you do your brandy. And we like to savor it hot.”
