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“Rethinking the beastly portrait you made of me, are you?” he queried lightly.
“I don’t know.” She considered him, trying not to observe the strength of his jaw or the way it was shadowed with whiskers that were already returning after his morning shave. “I still think you are something of a devil.”
He laughed, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth, as he pressed a hand over his heart. “I beg you, my lady, remember how fragile my poor heart is. I would so hate to expire before we have even made it through the soup course.”
Before she could return a quip, the door opened to admit a footman bearing a silver salver with a soup tureen atop. They were both quiet as the servant announced the course—le potage faubonne.
She waited until they each had bowls of the rich bean soup before them, their glasses filled with wine, and the footman had departed, to comment.
“You, sir, appeared hale and hearty earlier,” she said pointedly.
“Examining me, were you?”
Her ears were on fire now. Because of course she had been. Like the rest of the women in the library, she had been eagerly studying every inch of his body visible to her, from his toes upward.
“As much as I would study any subject I attempted to paint,” she informed him. “You may as well have been something commonplace. A frog, perhaps, or an onion bulb newly plucked from the gardens.”
“I suppose I shall have to be satisfied with the knowledge that the other ladies in attendance regarded me in a way that suggested I was rather a lot more intriguing than frogs and onions,” he said mildly, before reaching for his wineglass.
She had yet to eat so much as a bite of her soup, and not just because she was hopelessly distracted by Prestwick’s presence and conversation, but because doing so would require her to remove her gloves. And removing her gloves felt perilously near to losing the armor she had donned in preparation for this meal.
How was she to resist him at all, let alone with bare arms and fingertips, all the better to feel his touch?
There was no hope for it. She was going to have to remove them. Suppressing a sigh, she pulled them off with dainty tugs at each fingertip first. He watched her with a heavy-lidded gaze, and the air in the room seemed suddenly thick and sweltering.
She cleared her throat, turning her mind to what he’d said last. “I’m sure the ladies were all indeed eyeing you in the same fashion as the fox who has found its way into the chicken coop.”
His soft laughter felt like a caress.
“I can assure you that in all instances, my lady, I am the fox.”
A shiver passed through her that had naught to do with being cold. “I have no doubt you are, sir. But in that instance, you were decidedly outnumbered. I saw the way the ladies were studying you, rather as if they had never seen a man in dishabille before.”
As the words left her, a fresh rush of embarrassment turned her cheeks hot. Good heavens, why had she mentioned his nudity? Thinking about it made her recall how he had looked on the stool earlier, all that delineated muscle and masculine strength. It had been not only scandalous, but debauched.
He raised a brow. “Ah, but you were not studying me thus because I am an onion frog.”
“There is no such thing as an onion frog,” she pointed out, laying her discarded gloves in her lap. “There is either an onion or a frog.”
“Well, then. Am I green and slimy or odiferous and translucent when cooked? I confess, I am all agog to know.”
Ophelia bit her cheek to keep from laughing. “You’re mad.”
“No, I’m merely curious,” he corrected with a rapscallion’s grin that brought his dimples back to life. “First, I was Beelzebub, then a frog onion. I have been called many things, but none of these among them. I confess, I cannot help but to wonder what I shall be next.”
“A vexing dinner companion,” she suggested wryly.
“I should prefer to be an intriguing one,” he said smoothly, “but I am also quite adroit at compromise.”
Now she did inadvertently allow a giggle to escape. There was something about him that was just so…delightful. He was magnetic, he was ridiculous, he was handsome, and he never took himself seriously. She wanted to kiss him as much as she wanted to laugh with him.
“And what compromises have you made?” she asked as she took up her soup spoon. “I cannot recall a single one during our acquaintance.” She paused then, realizing what she had said. “Although our acquaintance has been but a few days,” she added.
He went still, his eyes burning into her. For a moment, he said nothing. She lifted her soup to her lips and sipped. The flavors were hearty and rich. It was as delicious as everything else that came out of the Wingfield Hall kitchens. But it barely moved her. All she could think about was Prestwick. He consumed every atom of her attention.
“I shall give you an example, then, if you don’t believe me,” he said, his voice low and soft, like sinful velvet as he leaned toward her. “There is nothing more I would like in this moment than to take you in my arms and carry you out of this room. I would take the bloody steps two at a time in my haste, and I wouldn’t stop until I had you naked in my bed and you were crying out in pleasure so loudly the entire household could hear it, your little library foxes included.” He straightened and gave her a calm, innocuous smile as if he hadn’t just stolen all the air from the room. “And instead, I am sitting here like any civilized gentleman, eating bean soup as if I don’t want you more than I want my next breath.”
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All she could do was stare at him. These were wicked things, what he had said. Things he would never have uttered to her if he knew who she truly was. Things she would later close her eyes and remember when she was alone in bed in the darkness.
