Page 22 of A Scandal In July
His lips were positively sinful, too; full and firm, and when he tipped the bottle higher and swallowed again, his throat moved in a way that made her want to feel the muscles rippling against her fingers.
She took the bottle back and took a longer drink, desperate to cool the heat that was rising in her cheeks, and the liquid slid down her own throat, smooth and rich. When she lowered the bottle, she found him looking at her expectantly, as if waiting for her reaction.
“So? What do you think?” His voice was a little rougher than it had been. “What does it taste like to you?”
“Wine?” She teased, certain such a bland response would infuriate him.
He shook his head in mock horror. “Is that the best you can do? Try again.” He pushed the bottle back toward her and she took another long swallow. It settled in her belly with a lovely warming sensation.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered, “and concentrate on identifying the flavors in your mouth.”
She did so, and he took another sip himself.
“This wine is beautifully complex,” he murmured. “There are hints of smoke and tar, earth and leather. Maybe a little bit of spice at the back of your throat.”
Lenore’s skin felt flushed. His voice was as delicious as the wine, sliding over her like a velvet caress.
“Icandetect a bit of smoky flavor,” she admitted. “But I’m afraid I don’t have your extensive experience.”
“Have you ever been drunk before?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious. “And don’t lie. I bet you have.”
She opened her eyes. “A few times,” she admitted wryly.
She took another drink. The wine seemed to be improving the more she tried it. “When we were shipwrecked, off Madagascar, we were able to rescue most of the stores from the ship, because it didn’t sink, it just got stuck on a reef. Some of the men rowed out in lifeboats and brought all the wine back to shore. We drank most of it while waiting for rescue.”
“That sounds like the perfect shipwreck,” he smiled.
“The first—and worst—time was when Lucy and I stole a bottle of our father’s special brandy. We were about sixteen, I think. Lucy was sick in the window box outside our room, and I decided to give myself a haircut with a pair of crimping shears. I woke up with one side of my hair three inches shorter than the other, and the worst headache I’ve ever encountered in my life.”
Rhys snorted in amusement. “I once rode a donkey backwards through White’s, because Gryff bet me ten shillings I was too drunk to stay seated.”
“Did you fall off?”
“Absolutely,” he grinned. “But only because Morgan was pelting me with fruit to make me lose my balance.”
“You make me quite glad I never had brothers,” she smiled.
“You’re welcome to one of mine.”
His dark eyes glittered in the flickering light as he leaned closer. “I must admit, I’m intrigued to find out whatkindof drunk you are. Some fellows become quarrelsome and want a fight. Others get sad and start crying. A few even get amorous and try to compose love poetry.”
“I’m think I’m a happy drunk,” she said.
He waggled his eyebrows with a comical leer. “Scared I’ll reveal my true Davies nature and steal a kiss while you’re tipsy?”
She laughed. “You wouldn’t. You might be a dastardly Davies, but you’d never take advantage of a woman like that.”
“How do you know?”
“You were defending a woman against just such an offence the night we met. Gordon had insulted her or tried to kiss her—I didn’t quite catch what— but you were the one who was administering his punishment for being so ungentlemanly.”
“Ah.” He looked a little embarrassed as he took another long pull from the bottle. “Well, Annabelle is one of Carys’s friends, and she doesn’t have any brothers of her own so I—"
“—punched him into a fountain on her behalf?” Lenore chuckled.
“Something like that.” His lips quirked.
“A knight in shining armor, then,” she teased. “Or rather, evening clothes.”