Page 73 of Notorious

He pulled a chair up next to the bed and lowered his elegantly clad body.

“You should have woken me,” she said, not taking her eyes from her cup and saucer.

“I did—several times last night. Or don’t you remember?”

Her head whipped up, and he laughed at whatever he saw on her face. Her cheeks flamed like a torch and—to her utter amazement—her lips curved into an answering smile.

“There, that’s better.” He motioned to the pot. “Fletcher said you preferred tea at breakfast rather than chocolate.”

“I am not fond of chocolate.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“You find that odd?”

“Eva and Melissa will drink as much as you give them, and my mother takes it in the morning and the evening. I don’t believe I’ve met a woman who does not care for it.”

Drusilla did not want to consider what other women he might be thinking of. Instead she took a sip of the dark, steaming liquid and closed her eyes in bliss.

The sound of his chuckle made her open them again.

He wore an indulgent—almost affectionate—expression. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone enjoy tea quite so much.”

“I cannot think straight until after my first cup,” she admitted, picking up a triangle of toast and nibbling one corner.

“Ah, so if I wish to be the victor in a dispute, I should call on you before you break your fast?”

She took another sip. “I sincerely doubt you need to ambush me before breakfast to triumph over me in a discussion.”

He grinned and sat back, crossing his arms. “Oh?”

“Well, at least not in all matters.”

“You must tell me what areas you mean, and I will apply myself to studying.”

She snorted, and he threw back his head as though she had struck him. “That was a cruel blow, Mrs. Marlington. Do you doubt your husband knows how to study?”

The word husband caused a dull ache to pulse between her legs and she had a flash of his face above hers, his features not playful and smiling but taut, hard, and intense as he thrust into her, his body buried deeply inside hers . . .

She swallowed convulsively and set down her cup with a shaking hand. “I’m sure you know how to study, but I’m not sure you actually did so.”

“Ah, so precise. That is a characteristic I greatly admire in you, my dear.” Drusilla tried not to preen at what was probably not an actual compliment. “I’m afraid you are correct. Books and studying are not my strong suit.” His eyelids lowered and his nostrils flared, his mouth pulling up into a smile that was suggestive and wicked. “I prefer more physical pursuits.”

Drusilla felt woozy. “Er.”

He leaned forward. “Here, let me top up your tea.”

She watched his hands, entranced by their strength and beauty and the memory of them on her body, in her body. It was beginning to be an effort to breathe and she was grateful when he sat back.

Her eyes flickered over his clothing—skintight buff pantaloons molded to his thighs, a forest green superfine coat that followed the contours of his powerful shoulders so lovingly it might have been cast from his body. He wore Hessians rather than top boots. He was not dressed for riding but in the clothes of a man who was paying calls.

Drusilla looked up from her thorough inspection of his body to see humor glinting in his eyes, his expression that of a man who was accustomed to female homage and comfortable with it. She was torn—alternately wanting to tear off his clothing and drag him into bed with her and wanting to beat him with a big stick for turning her into such a besotted slave.

Drusilla was not a violent person and the images—both images, actually—disturbed her.

He picked a speck of something from his sleeve. Drusilla could not get enough of his elegantly shaped, long-fingered hands. Yet again she was flooded by memories of how those hands had touched, opened, entered, caressed . . .

“If you continue to look at me like that, you will never leave this bed, Mrs. Marlington.”