Free What a Lady Requires by Ashlyn Macnamara Page B

felt the heat of his glance trace her shoulders, the length of her arms, her face, almost like a touch. “I must say I like this.”
    “You like what?”
    “Your hair loose. It softens you. And this.” He plucked the spectacles from the bridge of her nose. “Much better.”
    “You think it better that I cannot see properly?” Somehow, the blur that settled over their surroundings brought him into sharper focus. Objects across the room became foggy, but she could still see Battencliffe clearly enough to detect the fullness of his lower lip, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that were even now deepening into crinkles.
    “Your spectacles won’t be a help to you once your eyes are closed,” he murmured. “Now perhaps if you didn’t hold yourself so rigid.” He proffered the glass.
    She wrapped her fingers about the stem quickly to hide their trembling and took a sip. The finest hermitage, rich, robust, and earthy.
Corsé,
as the French would term it, from Côte du Rhône. Hints of blackberry coated her tongue, and a chocolaty finish washed down her throat, trailing warmth to her belly. A glance at the label confirmed her suspicions. He’d been into the back of the wine cellar.
    “Will you not take any yourself?”
    His glance flickered about the chamber. “Perhaps I ought to,” he muttered, almost to himself. “But no.” He seemed to shake himself and stepped closer. “It’s best I keep all my faculties about me tonight. You, on the other hand, may have all you can manage. Drink up, drink up.”
    She sipped. “This is some of the best of my father’s private collection. He wouldn’t sell it to the king at any price—if the king even knew of its existence.” Good old King George would be entirely too likely to swill the stuff the way Battencliffe was encouraging her to do. “Wine this fine is meant to be savored, not guzzled.”
    “Savored, indeed.” Something in the way he drew out the syllables of his reply made it sound utterly wicked. “I can think of a few other things that are meant to be savored.”
    Her glance flitted to the bed. His followed, lingering for a moment on the soaring bedposts. Again that shake, so small she wondered once he continued if she’d imagined it. “Soon, but not just yet. Finish your wine, and while you’re doing so, we can chat.”
    “Chat?” They’d done that before supper—during supper as well—without getting anywhere. He’d claimed to want to get to know her better, but clearly, they still hadn’t progressed beyond the awkwardness of new acquaintances. Yet, society required her to remove her remaining garments, climb into that bed, and engage in all manner of intimacy.
    At the thought, something fluttered through her midsection, but whether that something was more nerves or a growing excitement, she couldn’t tell. She eyed her wineglass, considering the wisdom of downing its contents as he’d suggested. Or perhaps she’d simply reach for the bottle.
    He moved even closer, crowding her almost, and his hand brushed the side of her arm, the touch fleeting, nearly negligent. Should he continue to approach in this manner, she could almost pretend his intent wasn’t seduction.
    “If you have another suggestion as to how we’re to occupy this evening, I’m willing to listen.”
    “Oh.” To cover the sudden flutter in her belly—one that must certainly be apparent—she took another sip from her glass. “I must confess myself at a loss. My education on the relations between men and women is sorely lacking.”
    Drat. She’d meant that as a simple observation, but the wine was having a strange effect on her voice. It was somehow pitched lower. One might even apply the term
sultry.
    A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, and he traced a line up the length of her arm until his hand came to rest on her shoulder. Much more deliberate, that touch. Much harder to ignore.
    “We might find a remedy to the situation.”