Regency Scoundrels And Scandals. Louise Allen

non, un moment, la fromage.’ Jack wielded the bread knife and passed her a slice.

      ‘Coward! You cannot hide behind the servants for ever.’ She forced a smile as the waiter brought the cheese. The door closed. ‘How dare you?’

      ‘I thought the my dear added verisimilitude. Some wine?’

      ‘Yes, please.’ A stiff drink was what she really needed. Brandy at the very least. ‘That was not what I was referring to and you know it. How dare you refer to lust in my hearing?’

      ‘I apologise for my choice of words.’ Jack passed her a glass of white wine and took a thoughtful sip from his. ‘Amorous propensities? Uncontrollable desire? Satyr-like tendencies? Ardent longings? Any of those any better?’

      All or any of them involving Jack would be sinfully wonderful, as would throwing the cheese board at him. Eva gritted her teeth and persisted. ‘It would be highly improper for us to share that bed. It is far too small.’

      ‘And you expect what, exactly, to occur as a result?’ Jack began to carve the legs off the capon. Something about his very precise knife work suggested repressed emotion at odds with his dispassionate tone.

      ‘We might touch. Inadvertently.’ Eva took a deep swallow of wine, nearly choked and took another. A capon leg was laid on her plate. ‘Thank you.’ Even when discussing lust one could maintain the courtesies, she thought hazily, reaching for the decanter and refilling her glass. ‘Some greens?’ She lifted the serving spoons competently.

      ‘Please.’ Jack passed her the butter and took the lid off the casserole with a flourish. ‘Pommes Dauphinoise?’

      ‘Allow me…’ To upend it over your head. Eva wielded a serving spoon with practised elegance.

      ‘Thank you. Has it occurred to you that we have been touching—inadvertently or otherwise—all day?’

      ‘Of course. It was unavoidable. Butter?’

      ‘Thank you, no. And?’

      ‘And nothing. Touching in bed is quite another matter.’

      ‘That, my dear, is indubitably true.’

      Eva almost choked on a further incautious mouthful of wine and stared at Jack across the steaming dishes. ‘I do not need you to tell me that. I am a mur…married ludy. Lady.’

      ‘Widowed lady,’ he corrected gently. ‘More wine.’

      ‘Yes.’ She was obviously tired, despite that nap in the carriage. Otherwise why was her tongue tangling itself? ‘Please.’

      ‘So.’ Jack chewed thoughtfully. ‘How to avoid this undesirable inadvertent touching? Whilst allowing me a decent night’s sleep.’ He reached across the table and lifted the second bottle of wine and the corkscrew. ‘What forethought on my part to order two bottles.’

      ‘It is a tolerable vintage,’ Eva allowed, fanning herself with her napkin. It really was warm in here. ‘As to the bed, thatsh—I mean, that’s your problem, Mr Ryder. You arranged it.’

      ‘What if I sleep on top of the bedclothes and you under them? More capon?’

      ‘Thank you.’ She was obviously hungry or why was her head spinning so? ‘Wearing what?’

      ‘Me or you?’

      ‘You, of course.’ Her glass was empty again. It really was a most excellent vintage.

      ‘A nightshirt.’ He lifted his wineglass, then glared at her over it as she snorted. It wasn’t a very elegant reaction, Eva acknowledged vaguely. Grand duchesses never snort, but really!

      ‘What, exactly, is there in that to provoke a snort?’ Jack demanded.

      ‘Men look ridiculous in nightshirts. Hairy legs sticking out of the bottom.’ Did I just say that? She blinked at the wineglass. It appeared to be half-full now. How many had she drunk?

      ‘Well, in my case you won’t be looking, so if you can just steer your imagination away from the aesthetic horror of it, we will be all right.’

      He isn’t pleased I commented on his hairy legs. I suppose he has got hairy legs, all men do, don’t they? He has a hairy chest. Not very hairy, though, just nicely hairy. Some remnant of restraint, surfacing through the effects of four glasses of wine on a nearly empty stomach stopped her complimenting Jack on the niceness of his chest. A creeping feeling of unease that perhaps this conversation was not all it should be began to steal over her.

      ‘I think I am going to go to bed. Into bed. Under the covers.’

      Jack stood up. ‘Can I be of any assistance? The door is over there.’

      ‘I know that,’ she said with dignity, gathering her skirts around her and paying particular regard to her deportment. ‘Good night, Mr Ryder.’

      The effect of this exit was somewhat marred by a very audible hiccup.

       Chapter Eight

      Eva woke, far too hot and with a thunderous headache. She hadn’t recalled the bedclothes being quite this thick—but then her memories of the previous evening were somewhat uncertain. She had drunk far too much, that was indisputable. She had discussed lust and beds and nightshirts with Jack in a most outrageous manner. Eva screwed her eyes tighter shut and prayed that she hadn’t actually said anything about hairy legs. Had she? Or worse, chests. Please, God.

      She shifted restlessly under the weight of the blankets and found that it was not layers of woollens weighing her down, but one long masculine arm thrown over her ribcage that was pinning her to the bed. At the risk of a cricked neck, she turned her head and found herself almost nose to nose with Jack.

      ‘Good morning. Do you have a headache?’

      ‘What are you doing!’ It was a shriek that almost split her head as she uttered it. Eva closed her eyes again with a groan. Warm breath feathered her face.

      ‘I must have turned over in the night. No inadvertent touching, though,’ he pointed out with intolerable self-righteousness.

      ‘Will you please remove your arm?’

      The weight shifted. Eva opened her eyes cautiously and found that his arm might have moved, but Jack had not. They were still close enough for her to have counted his eyelashes, should she have had the inclination to do so. They were unfairly long, very dark and framed his eyes dramatically. She was also in an excellent position to note that his eyes might be grey, but there were black flecks in them. The pupils were somewhat dilated and his regard intense. She found herself unable to stop staring back, directly into them.

      ‘One of us has got to blink,’ Jack observed, ‘or we may mesmerise each other and never get up.’

      It seemed to Eva that someone had certainly been exerting powers of animal magnetism upon her, although she thought she had read somewhere that the effect required immersion of the subject in magnetised water. Or was it just her headache making her feel like this?

      ‘Yes, and it will have to be you because I am completely pinned down with you lying on these covers,’ she pointed out crisply. Thank goodness she still seemed able to speak with clarity and authority; she had been half-afraid she would open her mouth and mumble inanities.

      ‘Very well.’ Jack rolled away and stood up, stretching as he walked to throw open the shutters. He was dressed in a crumpled shirt and breeches, his feet bare on the boards.

      ‘You said you were going to wear a nightshirt.’ Eva sat up in bed, pushing her hair back off her face with both hands. She hadn’t even plaited it last night.

      ‘And you expressed horror at the suggestion. I believe an aversion to hairy legs came into it.’ Jack turned back from the window and stood regarding her, hands