Beth stiffened as he leaned into her, his chest brushing her side, his warm breath ruffling her ear. If her mother saw her now, seated on a dusty floor with Mr. Sandeman, allowing him to—her thoughts scattered as silk slid over her eyes. He tightened the knot gently, and the world plunged into darkness.
Her breath quickened, her skin tingled, and her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. This was utterly extreme! Surely, he wouldn’t make his gentlemen friends wear pieces of his clothing during a wine tasting.
“Easy now. I’m here with you.”
Far from diminishing his presence, the blindfold made him even more real—the only solid thing in a world gone dark. The quietness between them felt like a fragile gift, and she wanted to tuck it away, safe with the other impressions he had left on her.
When the bottle touched her lips, the wine’s aroma enveloped her senses, its acidity and bitterness sharper in the dark.
“There now, lass. What do you feel?”
“Can I have some more, please? To be sure?”
The wine unsettled her empty stomach, heat blooming between her breasts.
“There’s no right or wrong with wine,” he said softly. “The only thing that matters is whether ye like it.”
“Not what is proper or expected?” A ripple of excitement ran through her, a thrill at tasting and deciding for herself, unburdened by others’ expectations. “Then I don’t much enjoy this one. It feels too raspy. Can I have the next one, please?”
His breath was close to her forehead now, warm and steady. “Only if you demand it from me.”
She gasped. A gentleman didn’t demand things from his friends—only satisfaction. And she was not about to duel with him. Not over wine. “Boyd—”
“Just a wee joke, lass.” He brought the next bottle to her nose, but when he tipped it, the liquid spilled over her chin.
“This won’t do. Can’t have a lady leaving my office with more wine on her dress than in her belly.”
Before she could protest, his hands slid around her waist, lifting her from the floor. He guided her onto his lap, settling her securely there.
She was quite sure no gentleman tasted wine blindfolded while seated with a friend on his lap. Gasping, she grabbed his lapels for balance.
The heat of the man. Beth would have felt colder in a furnace. Shamelessly, her thoughts mulled, and she nestled closer. Well, if propriety had anything to say, it would need to shout over the liquor... and his chest. Perhaps he’d be more inclined to share his secrets in such an intimate position.
“Taste the wine, lass,” he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek.
His cool lips brushed against hers, a whispery contact that sent a shiver along her spine. His hand slipped to her nape, anchoring her as he deepened the kiss, and the wine poured into her mouth. Heat pooled low in her belly, and she touched his cheek, not sure if she had to push him away or pull him closer. Tongue brushing against hers, he coaxed her to take more, to savor the taste.
Bold and dark, rough and refined, fierce and intoxicating—the wine was as complex as the man. Her pulse quickened, and any thoughts of propriety dissolved in the heady warmth spreading through her, as if she’d sipped from his essence. The world beyond the cradle of her Scotsman’s arms ceased to exist.
She was willing to bet no friendship allowed the intimacy of sharing wine like this. Thank goodness for that—she would rather reserve the privilege for herself.
She pulled back, breathless, and removed her blindfold.
He was staring at her lips, his breathing rasping against her forehead. “Did you like this one?”
“I think,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I liked this one very much.”
She gazed at him openly. Beth doubted a gentleman would ever look at his friend with such rawness in his eyes, but the drink had made her bold. What was she doing? Trying to understand him, yet spilling reckless words that exposed far too much.
Frowning, Boyd glanced down. “I think I ruined your gown.” He brushed her bodice, where a drop had bloomed into a red rose. “Tell me, lass, why d’ye always wrap yourself in layers and layers? Isn’t it tirin’ to be so perfectly attired?”
“A person looks their best when dressed appropriately for their station and occasion,” Beth said, though her voice lacked conviction. The places he touched burned to life, mutinying against the fetters of fabric.
He traced the fur lining her decolletage. His lips followed, and his breath fanned across her chest, the warmth delicious and forbidden.
“I dare say you’d look best dressed in the freckles covering yer skin.”
Beth’s cheeks flushed hot, and she poked him in the chest—or had she missed and stabbed his ear? The wine had left her hazy, her propriety faltering. “I have no freckles, sir.” Her voice was soft, slurred, far too breathless for a proper lady seated on a man’s lap. “And it’s rude to point out a lady’s flaws.”
