Cocky Earl - Annabelle Anders Page 0,15
the manor now, sir.”
“My Lord,” he corrected.
“My Lord.” She turned her face away but not quickly enough for him to miss catching her rolling her eyes skyward.
“That wasn’t that difficult, now was it?” It was all too tempting to tease this chit. She went to draw away, but he merely placed his other hand overs hers in mock condescension. “What would you be doing right now if you were in America?” Perhaps if he showed interest in her world, she might soften a bit more in his favor.
His question seemed to surprise her. She contemplated the western horizon before answering.
“We’d be testing the mash. Checking for bacteria. Making sure the equipment is clean.” Her brows furrowed.
“Is that a problem?” Jules asked, suddenly more intrigued than he’d expected.
“It isn’t.” She glanced over. “But you aren’t really interested in any of this.”
“But I am.”
He walked along with her silently, curious as to the inner workings of a female mind for the first time in ages. Whereas any other lady of his acquaintance kept her mind occupied with fashion and gossip, Miss Charlotte Jackson occupied her mind by thinking about whiskey, of all things.
“The business is changing. As long as I can remember, my father’s company couldn’t make enough to meet demand. My grandfather, and then my father, succeeded by purchasing grain from every farmer they could. It was all about quantity.”
“And this isn’t the case now?”
“Not to the extent as it has been in the past.” She surprised him again—this time by kicking a stone . “But my father disagrees. That’s why he’s so set on working out of Tennessee. He can decrease his labor costs…”
“Slavery.”
“Yes.” Her lips pursed. “I hate the idea of using slave labor. It’s wrong. If we shift our focus to quality, we could…”
“Sell it for a higher price,” he finished for her.
“Yes. Do you drink it?”
“Whiskey? Of course.” One of his favorite pursuits for that matter.
She regarded him thoughtfully and then reached into her pocket and removed a small flask. “Try this.”
Jules couldn’t help but raise his brows but took the container she offered.
“It would be ideal if I had a glass.” Jules met her gaze but when he went to lift it to his lips, she reached out and stopped him.
“Inhale first. Tell me what you smell.”
Intrigued, Jules removed the cork and raised it to his nostrils. “Oak.”
“That’s from the barrel. What else?” She pinned him with a questioning gaze.
Jules inhaled, concentrating.
“It helps sometimes to close your eyes.”
She was right. “Cinnamon.” He inhaled again. “Maple.”
“Now taste it.” Her voice sounded almost breathless. Whiskey excited her. An odd heat shot through him, and he hadn’t even tasted her yet.
It.
He hadn’t tasted the whiskey yet.
Staring at her over the top of the small bottle, he tilted some of the liquid into his mouth and allowed it to drizzle down his throat.
She waved a hand in the air, as though to stop him. “You need to hold it in your mouth longer than that.” Whereupon she reached up and tilted it to his lips a second time. “Savor it. Roll your tongue around it. Allow it to engage all your senses.”
At the mention of the word tongue, and mouth, Jules couldn’t help but wonder who was wooing who this morning.
He covered her hand with one of his and took a second drink. Slowly this time. He couldn’t help but feel the intensity of her attention, expectant almost. He held the liquid in his mouth and then swirled it around just as she’d advised.
It was sweeter than what he normally drank. Swirling it around a second time, he could still taste the oak, but something else. Vanilla. When he swallowed, it didn’t burn quite as much as the first sip had. In fact, it warmed more than it burned.
He nodded in approval and a satisfied grin stretched across her lips.
“It’s not the same as the whisky I keep in my cellars. Produced at your father’s distillery?” He asked, certain that it must be.
“Yes. And ours is whiskey, w-h-i-s-k-e-y. Just so you know. Unlike Scottish whisky, American Whiskey is spelled with an ‘e.’ I made this batch four years ago. I made my first batch when I was seventeen. I’ve been adjusting my formula ever since. This is the latest one that’s had time to age. It’s tolerable after just two years, but four seems to be ideal.”
She reclaimed her flask, inhaled, and then swallowed a sip before capping the bottle again and tucking it back into her coat.
“But this is