Cocky Earl - Annabelle Anders Page 0,46

I can do to abate some of your disappointment.”

Chapter 13

COCKSURE GENTS

Charley’s heart skipped a beat. What did he mean?

Rather than explain himself, Lord Westerley opened a heavy door and motioned for her to enter into an even narrower corridor.

He grasped her arm from behind, however, after she entered the dark cavern, and slipped around her protectively. Scraping sounds echoed in the dark, and then sparks flared and then fell onto the stone floor. After a few attempts, the flint caught and fluttered to life. By now, Charley could just make out Jules’ profile as he lit a single candle.

“Stay close behind me. The stairs are uneven.”

A cool breeze floated up from below and a shiver danced along Charley’s spine. She wasn’t afraid, or cold even. No, she was excited. He was taking her into a cellar for only one likely purpose.

Whiskey was stored in such places.

She followed him closely and carefully down the rounded staircase, careful not to slip on the smooth stone. “It cannot be an easy task—bringing the barrels down here,” she commented as she imagined the practicalities.

“There is another entrance below. A secret entrance.”

Oh, this was exciting! It was just the sort of thing she would have expected, and the anticipation from a moment before turned into an almost giddy feeling.

At the bottom, he moved away from her into the dark chamber and lit three sconces and then placed the candle in the center of a long, thin wooden table that ran the length of the room. Two glasses and several bottles had been placed on the table.

He bowed. “Won’t you be seated, my lady?”

Charley cocked an eyebrow but lowered herself onto one of the benches, her mouth already watering as she noted some of the labels. If she were to guess, she’d imagine that the bottles without labels would be even more interesting.

This alone perhaps would make her journey across the Atlantic worthwhile.

“Where did these come from?” Her eyes widened. “They are yours? Your family’s?”

His low chuckle evoked an unusual warmth in her belly. “My father collected different ports.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But my granddad preferred whisky.”

Charley rubbed her hands together, noticing the varying colors of amber that went from almost clear to a dark brown. “Which one should we start with?”

“Shall we begin with the oldest?” At her enthusiastic nod, he grasped the first bottle lined up, removed the cork, and poured a splash into each of the small glass tumblers.

“Why would you do this for me?”

Rather than answer, he simply sent her a meaningful glance.

It was part of his pretend courtship, but it was also one of the most thoughtful things anyone had done for her.

Although he’d explained the importance of upholding his honor, he’d already asked for her hand and she’d rejected him. He didn’t have to court her. He didn’t even have to be nice to her.

“This one is from a private still.” He moved the bottle close to the candlelight. “1772.” Before she could stop him, he broke the seal and popped the cork.

At her gasp, he flicked his gaze toward her. Recognition struck Charley when he licked his lips. He was looking forward to this as much as she was. Her presence here gave him an excuse to enjoy something that might otherwise be forgotten.

“It’s too much.” But it was also perfect.

This was as much an adventure for him as a treat for her.

“This whisky has been sitting down here for almost fifty years. If not for a beautiful American girl who came thousands of miles to taste some good Scottish whisky, then who should it be opened for?” He lifted the bottle to his nostrils and inhaled and then handed it across to her. “I should have opened them last night. If I remember correctly, my grandfather once told me they’re better after having been opened for a few days.”

Charley closed her eyes and inhaled. The spicy scent calmed her nearly as much as this earl unsettled her.

“My grandfather was the Whiskey King before my father took over. His older vintages are hardly worth keeping though. Initially, he didn’t even bother aging them. My father brought out an old bottle that had been forgotten and gave me a taste.” She smiled. “It was clear as water. I nearly choked on it.”

“The Scottish have been making some form of whisky since—”

“The fifteenth century.” She tilted the bottle toward one of the short glasses. “May I?”

“By all means. Did you enjoy painting earlier?”

“I’ve no talent at all.”

“I’m quite aware of