She took the barest sip and swallowed. The sharp, vinegary taste made her lips pucker and sent heat up her nose. She pinched it to suppress a sneeze.
His grin said,I told you so.
“Actually, my brother is the one in charge of searching out the best brandy. I believe Father prefers whisky. Perhaps it’s Kincaid’s influence. He doesn’t much care for brandy.”
She sloshed the liquid, threads of memory swirling. Mother’s many lessons for Bakeley had included where and how to obtain the best brandy. She understood now—the veiled references had been to smugglers.
Were there smugglers around here? Was Fox involved with them at her father’s behest? Nothing her father did was random.
“And neither do you.”
His words pulled her from her train of thought. He was trying to befuddle her again.
She sighed, letting him have that point and lifted her chin.
Around her the air crackled. He towered over her, well over six feet of lean muscled man, his white shirt dangling open right over his heart.
Concentrate, Perry. If she must defend herself and pierce those firm muscles, there would be ribs there blocking her dagger. Her sister-in-law Paulette had shared the knife lessons she’d learned. That chest wasn’t a good target.
His strong corded neck would be the place for a blade.
The thought sent the brandy sloshing. She set the glass down. She could never do it. And besides, he could take the dagger away and push it into her if he wished.
Warmth tugged at her insides. If he wished he could push something other than a dagger in her. She would resist, of course, as best she could.
Probably. At least for a while.
His hands went to his hips bringing her gaze along, sending her pulse into a brisk tattoo. He was aroused and not at all trying to hide it. Her thoughts tangled and twisted, the heat melting her insides from the top of her head to her very toes.
“Perry,” he said softly, eyes dark, glittering. He saw her desire but how could he? She’d not moved. She’d not revealed anything. She felt as stupid as one of Charley’s society marks.
No, stupid was not the right word here. She felt addled yet focused, numb yet alive, weak-kneed yet strangely powerful. She pushed back at the desire, trying to remember why she’d come here.
“Perry. Why are you here in your nightgown? You should be in bed.”
He’d packed his questions with a sentiment more like brotherly frustration than a lover’s teasing, helping to tame her wild heat.
“To talk.” She flung a hand out. It landed on the sketchpad.
His gaze shot to the pad. He took a step closer. She flapped the cover open.
And lost her breath completely. The woman looking up from the page sparkled and smiled in a way she knew she never did in real life. She looked…beautiful. The face beamed a joy she’d rarely experienced in ten years. Only her horses, her nephew, and her new sisters could bring out this smile.
She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Fox since her mother’s death, all of them last winter. When had he seen her smile like this?
Blood clanged in her ears bringing warmth to her cheeks. And why, of all subjects, had he drawn her? That could not be her father’s commission, could it?
She flipped another page and there she was in the distinctive gown and headpiece she’d worn to Bakeley’s wedding ball. Another page, and she was inclining her head in a country dance.
She felt suddenly foolish, naked here in her nightclothes with her hair tumbling around her shoulders.
Tame Fox? She was an idiot.
She jumped to her feet. “Never mind. Talking to you is like talking to Father or Bakeley or Charley. Keep your secrets and lies.”
Fox sawthe moment she realized the drawings were of her. Another woman might be flattered, might decide to climb into his bed and relieve this throbbing reaction.
Perry would never be that easy. As a girl, she’d always become churlish and defensive. There was more to her reaction now, though, a shakiness within her. The drawings had frightened her. The rod in his trousers had frightened her. Her desire—so palpable in this small room—that had frightened her the most.
