“Of course not.” She lifted the goblet to her lips and took a dainty sip. It was quite good—sweet and spicy, and thick like nectar. She licked her lips and took another drink, then set the goblet resolutely on the table. The drink warmed her, spreading outward from her belly, tingling through her limbs.
Her appetite disappeared completely with the “mulled” drink. She was content to just watch Nicholas, and he didn’t seem to mind. He ate with surprisingenthusiasm for one so laconic. He was a very large man; of course he needed to eat a good deal, but somehow she’d envisioned him not succumbing to normal human frailties such as hunger.
He did not speak to her throughout, though he did occasionally glance pensively at her. Gillian wondered if the mulled wine he’d given her had other properties he’d not shared. Shewasfeeling relaxed, luxuriously heavy limbed and slightly drowsy.
She was on her second goblet when she asked, “Why did you order the dollhouse destroyed?”
“I didn’t. I said you could have it.”
She gave him a reproachful look as he chewed placidly. He was being purposely obtuse. “Before . . . years ago, is what I mean.”
He set his knife down. Then picked it up. Never looking at her. Finally he said, “It’s damaged.”
Gillian tilted her head incredulously. “I’m sure that it was no small investment of money and labor. Surely it makes sense to repair it.”
“Not to me.”
Before she could ask another question, he said, “You really should eat something . . . that’s not wine, and it’s very strong.”
Gillian raised her brows, surprised. “You said it was mulled wine.”
“No, I said it was mulled. It’s actually an Italian drink, made by their monks originally, but now I believe every Italian goodwife makes it.” He gazed into his goblet. “It’s spirits, like whisky, but mixed with various herbs and spices from the East. The papists think it’sgood medicine.” He drained his goblet, his throat working as he swallowed. “It will certainly get you sotted if you drink too much.”
Gillian set her goblet back on the table gingerly and began to eat a piece of bread. “Have you been to Italy?”
“Aye.”
“What’s it like?”
He shook his head, sighing. “Words are too poor, Gillian. I will take you there one day.”
Gillian leaned forward, bread forgotten. “Really?”
He nodded, smiling slightly, his gaze intent on her. Then the sensual line of his lips curved down moodily, his black brows lowering. He stood abruptly.
“I want to show you something.”
He came around the table and took her hand, enfolding it warmly. She rose and let him pull her along. They passed through several doors before stopping in a long, dark gallery. He had taken her through this room on their tour earlier, but they’d not lingered. He released her hand and moved away from her to light a candelabra. Paintings were arranged in sets of four the length of the gallery. He gestured for her to join him in front of a quartet of portraits.
Gillian studied the faces, three men and one woman. “They’re very nice,” she said politely.
He waved a hand at the portraits, encompassing them with his gesture. “This is my family, my ancestors.” He pointed to a man wrapped in a crimson-and-black plaid, a dog beside him. His reddish blond hair was cropped close to his head and topped with a capset at a rakish angle. His eyes were a pale, pale blue.
“That is my father, the earl before me.”
“Really?” Gillian said, looking from the portrait to Nicholas with more interest. There was no resemblance. His father’s nose was straight and pinched, whereas Nicholas’s was larger and aquiline, the nostrils slightly flared. His father’s skin was pale—and probably freckled, too—though the artist had been kind enough to leave that out. Nicholas’s skin was very dark, and other than the shadow of whiskers on his jaw and upper lip, there was not a single freckle or mark on his fine-grained skin. And his eyes . . . quite unlike his father’s. Nicholas’s were larger and deep set, shadowed and mysterious.
“That’s my mother.” He pointed to the pale blond woman, with pale eyes to match her husband’s. Though his mother and father could have been siblings, so similar did they look, they bore no resemblance to their son.
Gillian wasn’t certain how she was expected to respond. He was obviously making a point, but questioning some one’s—especially anearl’s—legitimacy was not something one did lightly. Not even his wife.Especiallynot his wife, if one considered his first wife’s rumored end.
Gillian turned the ring on her finger, searching her mind for an appropriate response.
“Don’t you see the family resemblance?” He tilted his head, as if to give her a better view of him. There was an odd note to his voice, a razor’s edge that made her uneasy. He was being facetious, she understood that, butthere was an unpleasantness in the twist of his lips and the glint of his black eyes that made her tense.
Gillian still could not formulate a proper reply. The mulled beverage seemed to have dulled her wits. So she said nothing, turning her ring, staring up at him silently, and wishing they could just leave the gallery.
He turned to face her when she didn’t answer. “What? You cannot see it?”
