Trenwyth let out a sound that could have been mirth or bitterness, it was impossible to tell. When he leaned forward to have his glass refilled, Imogen had the bottle at the ready. “You don’t believe them, do you?” he whispered to her as though they shared a private joke while she poured him another.
“Not a word,” she replied, granting him the first genuine smile she’d given all night.
“I knew you were clever.” She didn’t tense half so much as he again brushed his lips across her shoulder, this time closer to her neck.
Over the course of the next hour or so, Imogen’s back relaxed by incremental degrees Eventually, she allowed her shoulders to lean against him as the men turned guessing his next assignment into a drinking game. The large buttons of his coat dug into her back, so she straightened again. Shifting her effortlessly, he unfastened the buttons with one hand and divested himself of his coat, settling her back into the circle of his arms as though she’d often been there. The movement increased her body’s awareness of him a thousandfold. Also, she noted, most men of her acquaintance weren’t half so thoughtful, and her opinion of him rose incrementally.
Against her back, his wide chest was hard as iron and warm; with every movement she could feel naught but honed muscle bunch and flex beneath her. She even caught herself enjoying the way he smelled, like the cedar chest where he, no doubt, stored his dress uniform and good sharp whisky, underscored by something she couldn’t at all place. Something that couldn’t strictly be identified nor reproduced, like the scent of a rainstorm or a perfectly ripe berry.
The men settled on Afghanistan as his next target, due to the trouble erupting there between Russia, Britain, and the Ottomans, and the drinking games dissolved into drunken stories, then into an abnormal amount of toasts. They toasted the queen, of course, and fallen comrades, living comrades, battles they won, battles they lost, ships they’d sailed on, and, most vehemently, women they’d loved. Imogen found it strange that they didn’t toast the new Duke of Trenwyth, or his recently deceased family. Though, she supposed, he seemed to very much want to avoid the subject altogether.
Of course, it was not her place to say anything, but she found herself sneaking surreptitious glances over her shoulder at him. He didn’t join the toasts, but he certainly drank to all of them. He didn’t tell any stories, but he made the appropriate noises. He seemed pensive. Withdrawn. But his stunningly handsome features were always kind when he looked at her, and his touch was more casually sensual than demanding or tawdry.
That in itself was a pleasant change. Most men tended to become heavy-handed when they drank, pinching, slapping, or squeezing bits of her until she wished she had nothing feminine with which to draw their attentions. But Trenwyth’s hands, while uncommonly large, were caressing as they occasionally tested her curves. He’d rest them in her skirts on her thighs, or slide them up her waist causing her heart to trill in her chest, though he’d stop just shy of her breasts, his fingertips barely grazing beneath them.
Still, it set her teeth, but not with disgust. With … something else altogether.
By now, half the men had disappeared through the curtain adjacent to the bar, behind which a long hallway with many doors stretched the length of the building. Those who went through those doors with one of the kittens paid del Toro first.
When Trenwyth adjusted his position, his leg rubbed against her so intimately, a stab of sensation caused her to gasp and clench her feminine muscles.
His thigh instantly tensed beneath her and, for a moment, Imogen was terrified that she’d offended him.
Until he did it again.
She had to reach out a hand to the table to steady herself against an assault of wicked pleasure.
His sex hardened against her backside once more, and he leaned up to gather her close. “I have a distinct feeling that you’re quick tinder to set ablaze, aren’t you?” His words slurred a little, but his movements were steady as one hand drifted down her waist and the other up her thigh, angling to meet in the middle.
Imogen caught his wrists, and he allowed her to hold him as though she had the strength to do so. “I’m compelled by your earlier directive to disagree,” she said solicitously, mostly because she had no idea what he’d meant. His mouth quested behind her ear, down her neck, until he nibbled the slight rise of her muscle as it angled south down the column of her back.
Delicious shivers again erupted over her entire body, and she was unable to control the clenching of her thighs as a concerning rush of warmth pooled between her legs.
“It makes no matter to me.” His voice was deeper than before, rougher, and her nipples tightened in response. “You could take as long as you like.”
CHAPTER TWO
Swallowing around a tongue gone suddenly dry, Imogen tried with everything she had not to pant, though her lungs felt heavy. “Would you … like another drink?” Failing that, she handed him the half-full glass he’d set on the table, hoping to distract him.
He paused and pulled back, as though pondering the question.
“No.” He answered with the careful diction of a man aware of his own inebriation.
“Then … is there aught else you need?” she queried. “I really should be getting back to my … to my duties.”
“I’ve kept you for quite a while without recompense for your time,” he said ponderously. “That must be why your … employer keeps glaring.”
“Not at all,” Imogen rushed to soothe him. Del Toro had been sending her warning looks, reminding her not to cock this up or it would be her hide.
Trenwyth’s strength astounded her once more as he lifted her bodily and settled her on the bench beside him as though rearranging a sack of potatoes. “Excuse me,” he muttered, then stood and made his unsteady way toward del Toro.
Imogen was surprised he could walk at all, as he’d imbibed enough Scotch to drown an elephant. Every tense moment he and del Toro conversed was an eternity, but they seemed to come to an understanding that pleased them both. Trenwyth paid, and disappeared behind the curtain without a backward glance.
Imogen didn’t take the time to wonder why a pang of disappointment deflated her before she rose and made her way toward the sideboard, meaning to pick up a tray and a cloth with which to start cleaning up.
Del Toro intercepted her, and the gleam in his eyes sent her heart plummeting into her stomach with a suspicion he quickly confirmed.
She cut him off at the pass. “You gave your word that I’d never have to—”