Page 62 of Almost A Scoundrel

“Because you’re high on wine and God knows what else, love.”

“That’s not good.”

No, it was not. “Although I should kiss you for what you put me through this night. How did you think you could escape by drinking the wine?”

“If I took a sip, he would think he won.” She rubbed her cheek against his. “Then I would have blindsided him with a kick and run off.”

Deerhurst frowned. “But you didn’t take just a sip, did you? You had more.” Or she wouldn’t be so out of her head.

“He tipped the glass over.”

“Bastard,” Deerhurst exploded, sighing when she pulled back and her eyes widened at his outburst. He hoped he had cracked the man’s jaw.

“I never thought you to be a man with such a temper, Deerhurst. I find it quite—”

He shut her up with a kiss.

She didn’t object. Her hands circled his neck, her breasts pressing close up against him. His hands spanned her back, keeping her tightly locked against him as he teased her lips open with his tongue. She obliged.

He claimed her mouth, slow but demanding, leaving no doubt that no other man would ever kiss her like he did. It was primitive. It was possessive. It was damn madness. He didn’t care.

How the hell was he ever going to walk away from this woman?

Not a question he dared to contemplate.

But if he did not stop at this very moment, he wouldn’t stop at all. In Phaedra’s state she wouldn’t deny his advances. A dangerous situation to find themselves in. Because Deerhurst’s beast roared for release.

Reluctantly, he broke away from her lips.

His gaze darted to her scattered slippers and gaping cloak, revealing a snow-white chemise beneath.

He sighed.

Perhaps he was more of a saint than a scoundrel. Be that as it may, he had to sober her up. And there was only one way he could think of to do it.

His special brew.

Chapter Twelve

“Lud, what isin this stuff?” Phaedra pulled a face.

“Coffee beans.”

“It tastes nothing like its aroma.”Like you.

Phaedra felt happy, as though she belonged to the moment she was in—with the man she was sitting across from—and she never wanted to step out from it. She still felt as though the world might tilt at any moment, but that she could manage.

She didn’t know why Deerhurst was urging her to drink this ghastly black liquid. She felt fine. They had remained in the carriage, and a doctor had come to check on her as well. Three hours ago. And yet, Deerhurst had kept vigil over her every single second.

He’d told her the wine she’d drunk had been laced with druglike substances. Phaedra had a vague impression of drinking wine. Everything after that felt hazy. As though she had entered into a dream and the memories retreated farther and farther until nothing was left but the moment she found herself in.

Even their kiss had floated toward that haziness, leaving her with naught but a hot, black drink in her hand.

“Where did you get this anyway?”

Deerhurst had jumped from the carriage, ordered the driver to keep her inside no matter what, and dashed off to his residence. He had returned with this travesty.

“Wilson brewed it.”