Her lips quirked. “I thought you’d be gone by now,” she said rather breathlessly.
Ah, there was that refreshing candor again. Most of the women in his acquaintance wrapped their words in careful implication, laced with coy glances and false innocence.
Clare Handleton didn’t waste time with such nonsense.
Honesty deserved honesty in return.
“I was just about to leave,” he admitted. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“My mother was up later than expected,” she said, rolling her eyes and smoothing down her flaxen hair. “Reading, no doubt.”
“Really?” he drawled. “What does she like to read?”
A sharp laugh escaped Clare. “Treatises on how to handle scandal-ridden daughters, no doubt.”
Ash couldn’t help his smile. She was funny, Lady Clare. Funny, self-deprecating, and sharp. All things he admired. Henarrowed his eyes at her. Tonight, she wore a bright-blue gown instead of a chemise. A real pity.
“Why weren’t you at dinner?” he asked before realizing he should have been more subtle about it.
Clare lifted a brow. “Didn’t Meredith tell you?”
“She said you had a megrim.”
“And?” A hint of amusement played at the edges of her full lips. “You doubted her?”
“Let’s just say,” he said as he moved to the sideboard, “you don’t strike me as a woman who suffers from megrims.”
He poured two fingers of brandy into a glass. He briefly considered pouring two glasses, but something told him she should be the one to decide if he drank tonight.
So he turned, extending the drink toward her. “Ladies first.”
She took it without hesitation, lifted it to her lips, and downed a hefty portion without so much as a blink.
Not even a cough.
He chuckled, watching her. “The lady can obviously hold her liquor.”
Clare handed the glass back to him, her fingers warm against his. “Are you surprised?”
“Not in the least.” He lifted the glass to his lips but didn’t drink. Instead, he tilted his head. “Do you have this at home?”
She gave him a knowing look. “Are you asking if I drink this every night?”
Astute.Very astute.
“Yes, that’s what I’m asking.” More honesty.
“Nearly every night.” She said it so matter-of-factly, as if it wasn’t something most women would never dare to admit. “Just enough to calm my nerves.”
He had expected her to dodge the question, to make a joke, to evade. Instead, she told him the truth again.
And he would be a hypocrite if he faulted her for it.
“I drink nearly every night too,” he said, taking a sip and handing the glass back to her.
She studied him. “For your nerves?” A slow smile played around her lips, teasing and clever.
“For the hell of it.”
