Scoundrel of My Heart (Once Upon a Dukedom #1) - Lorraine Heath Page 0,51

try a cheroot?”

One corner of his mouth hitched up. “What a wicked woman you are, Lady Kathryn.”

She did feel a trifle naughty. Because she shouldn’t be here, and yet she was. Because she shouldn’t enjoy his company, and yet she did.

Without touching her, he guided her to a table where a large dark intricately carved wooden box rested. He opened it and removed a long cylinder of pressed tobacco leaves. “I’ll prepare it for you.”

“It has to be prepared?”

“What? Did you think you just lit and smoked it?” He picked up a silver device, placed it over the rounded tip of the cheroot, and snipped it off.

“I did rather.”

He met and held her gaze. “The most pleasurable aspects of life require preparation.”

She was left with the impression he was speaking about more than cheroots, was referring to something a bit more personal, an aspect of life that required closed doors.

Using a nearby burning candle, he lit a small paper taper and held it to the end he hadn’t cut, running the flame slowly over it. Mesmerized, she watched as he placed the cheroot in his mouth, turning it as he applied the taper again. When he was apparently satisfied with the results, he inhaled, removed the cheroot from his mouth, and exhaled the smoke.

After extinguishing the flame, he set the taper aside and studied the end of the cheroot. “You don’t want to inhale.”

“You did.”

He shook his head. “I drew the smoke into my mouth. You don’t want it going into your lungs. A nasty bit of work there. The first time I wouldn’t let it fill more than half your mouth. Just draw in the smoke, savor it, release it.”

“Savor it?”

“Hmm. Afterward you can tell me what you tasted.” He held it out to her.

She was going to place her mouth where his had been. At the prospect of it, she shouldn’t be quivering with warm sensations and forbidden thoughts. She certainly shouldn’t take delight at the intensity with which he watched her. Even as she told herself he was merely interested in gauging her initial reaction to this novel experience, she couldn’t seem to dismiss the thought that she wanted a husband who would always look at her thusly, who wanted more from his wife than convenience and quiet.

Placing the collection of tobacco between her lips, she drew the smoke in—

Too far, too fast. It hit the back of her throat, and she thought she might be ill. She gave a little gag before coughing in the most unladylike manner. The smoke was hotter, thicker than she’d expected.

“Easy, easy. Blow it all out. Get some fresh air in there. Come on.”

He’d placed his hand on her back, near her nape, his fingers kneading and massaging the space on either side of her spine, and she focused on the roughness of his skin against the silkiness of hers. She blinked back the tears that had filled her eyes, studied the concern in his.

“I handled that . . . rather poorly,” she croaked, before taking another cleansing breath. “There was so much more of it than I was anticipating.”

“It’s all right. It takes practice to achieve a proper puff. Did you get any taste at all?”

She shook her head, held her hand to her mouth as she coughed again. “Somewhat of a chocolate flavor, perhaps?”

“It does dominate, but there are other subtle aspects. Did you want to try again?”

“I don’t think so. I fear I’ve gone a bit green.”

“Only a bit. I’m impressed, though. I cast up my accounts the first time I tried a cigar. But then I was only twelve. Snuck one from . . . the duke’s study. Gave it a go behind the stables. The coachman caught me. Taught me how to do it correctly.”

She didn’t miss how he referred to his sire, so formally, and she wondered at the emotions that might be roiling through him with the thought of his father. He had yet to move his hand away from her back, and he seemed as lost in the sensations as she.

“What happened to your hands? How did they get so scarred?” She’d noticed them last night, the faint white lines on the back of his hands, the result of cuts or scrapes, but it was his palms that concerned her most. Ropy bits of raised flesh and calluses. Strange that he didn’t wear gloves, didn’t try to hide them. Perhaps he wanted them seen, perhaps they delivered a message, and she wanted to