Chapter 21

Stacia wasn't hungry in the least. But eating was better than thinking about what had just happened. Not that she wasn't thinking about being kissed by him.

About kissing him.

But at least shoving food into her mouth gave her an excuse not to speak. Much.

"Are you sure you don't want more of this cheese?" he asked, gesturing to the quarter wheel that took up a sizeable portion of one of the baskets.

Stacia shook her head, her cheeks doubtless bulging like a squirrel's as she masticated.

He wrapped up the cheese and put it back into the hamper, digging around for a moment before coming out with another wax-cloth wrapped bundle. "Let's see what we have here," he murmured, unwrapping the package.

Stacia swallowed, contemplated stuffing the last of her bread into her mouth, but then froze when he lifted up the bundle so she could see it.

"Oh, dear," he said, pulling a face.

Stacia brightened. "Fruitcake!"

"You say that as if it is a good thing."

"I adore fruitcake."

He muttered something beneath his breath as he set down the cake.

"What was that, my lord?"

"Oh, nothing, Miss Martin," he said, holding a knife over the cake. "Here?"

"A little more, please."

He made a gagging noise but did as she bade him.

Stacia watched greedily and said, "More for me."

He grunted and handed her the plate.

"Thank you." She admired the luscious cake for a few seconds before using her fork to cleave off a piece. It was dense and studded with more nuts and candied fruit than she had ever seen, the cake glistening moistly. Stacia briefly closed her eyes as she allowed the morsel to rest on her tongue before chewing. The tang of citrus and spices she associated with Christmastime exploded in her mouth.

" Mmm ," she hummed, opening her eyes.

Lord Shelton was staring at her, his lips slightly parted, his eyes a darker shade of blue than they'd been a moment earlier. In fact, they looked similar to the shade they'd been when he'd had her laid out on the settee, pressing that against her belly.

Suddenly, it was almost impossible to swallow. She lifted the glass of lemonade, choked down a mouthful, and then looked up and held the plate toward him. "Are you sure?"

"I would much rather watch you eat it, Miss Martin."

Stacia could just imagine how red-faced she was. The last thing she wanted to do was compound her hideousness with bulging cheeks. "I cannot eat with you staring at me."

"Why not?"

"Just…because."

"Oh, because . One of your favorite reasons I have noticed." He leaned back in the big wingchair, steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and his eyes narrowed. "How about we play another game while you eat?"

"But it's still my—"

"I know, I know," he rudely interrupted. "It is still your turn to choose as you've thrashed me mercilessly all afternoon long. But right now, you are busy indulging. So, let me have a chance, hmm ?"

"How can I play and eat?"

"Easily. This game is called, Tell me Two things you Like and one thing you Dislike."

"You just made that up."

He shrugged his broad shoulders, his gaze suddenly intense.

"I shan't be able to eat as I'll be talking." Stacia's breathing quickened under his stare.

He raised his eyebrows.

Stacia wanted to know about him—anything, no matter how minor and insignificant. But what would he ask about her? Not that she had that many interesting things to hide.

Don't be such a coward.

"Fine," she said.

"Good. You go first," he said.

"It is your game. You go first."

He smiled. "Very well. I like cheese and horses and I loathe the name Sebastian."

Stacia had just taken a bite and choked, her eyes watering as she tried to swallow and laugh at the same time.

He pushed her glass of lemonade toward her.

"That was not fair," she said hoarsely after she'd taken a sip.

He grinned. "But it is true."

"Why do you dislike the name Sebastian. It is a very nice name."

"I said loathe and it is a horrid name. It is your turn."

Stacia could see he was adamant, so she took another bite of cake, chewed leisurely, and considered what she would say.

***

Andrew decided it was time to open a bottle of wine.

"Take your time," he told her a bit sarcastically as she was certainly showing no signs of haste. He looked at the various bottles, trying to decide which of the excellent vintages would not be utterly destroyed by pairing it with fruitcake. The fourth bottle he lifted from the case was a sherry he knew to be dry. Not exactly his drink of preference, but it would go well with the sickly candied cake she was eating.

He fetched another glass, this one smaller—Kathryn had included a truly impressive selection of glassware—and poured it half-full.

"Here, this should go well with your cake." He pulled a face as he handed her the glass. "Rather, it will be the least wrecked by being paired with fruitcake ."

She gave the contents of the glass a delicate sniff before taking a tiny sip. "Thank you."

Andrew opened a bottle of madeira for himself and then sat back in his chair. "Well?"

"I like dogs and fruit cake and I dislike animal traps."

He snorted. "Tell me something I don't know."

"What? Like you did?"

"Fair enough." He cast his gaze ceilingward, deciding what he should share and just how much he could push her. He lowered his eyes to hers a moment later. "I like the feel of cool linen against my bare skin on a hot summer day—"

She choked and set her plate and fork down with a clatter.

Andrew refilled her lemonade and waited until she'd drained fully half the glass and stopped coughing before asking, "Are you all right, Miss Martin?"

She nodded, her eyes watering as she gave a last cough.

"Shall I go on?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then nodded.

"I like the game of billiards—because it is one of the few I can actually win," he added. He paused, considering his next words carefully. "And I hate that I don't recall meeting you before."

She had a forkful of cake halfway to her mouth but lowered it untouched to her plate. Her gaze held his for a long moment before she nodded, more to herself than to him.

She took a sip of her sherry and then said, "Cerulean blue is my favorite color, and I like reading more than playing cards." Her jaw flexed. "And I hate that I never got to say goodbye to my father."

***

Lord Shelton's gaze was filled with so much sympathy that Stacia's eyes burned, and she looked away. "Your turn."

"I like your needlework from the other night—embroidery?"

She looked up at the question in his voice and nodded.

"And I like seeing my cousin so happy in his new marriage."

Stacia smiled. She, too, was charmed by how obviously the Duke and Duchess of Chatham loved each other.

"And I hate that I wasted so many years trying to hurt him." He held her gaze for a long moment before breaking away and reaching for the bottle of sherry. When he gestured toward her glass, Stacia saw that it was almost empty. When had that happened?

"Oh, come, Miss Martin," he said when she hesitated. "We are trapped here for God knows how long. Live a little."

Stacia wasn't sure that becoming tipsy on sherry—something she'd done once before in school, to ill effect—was living , but she nodded.

The answers seemed to come easier as she worked her way through the second glass.

They both liked plays more than operas. Unlike Stacia, his lordship liked the country better than town, but they both preferred London to Bath.

Her favorite season was summer, his winter. He liked the color green and waltzes.

"How can you possibly like a quadrille more than a waltz?" he demanded when she confessed her own preference.

"I just do." Stacia reached for her glass, hesitating when she saw it was, yet again almost empty. She snatched it up, swallowed the remainder, and set it down a bit too firmly.

When she looked up, he was watching and waiting, a faint line between his eyes. "Why do you not like waltzing? "

Stacia scowled. "Because everyone I've ever waltzed with—apart from our dancing master at school—was awful." She did not have the courage—liquid induced or otherwise—to confess she'd had fewer than a half-dozen partners.

Rather than give her a pitying look, which she would have hated , he said, "I have noticed that a great many men haul their partners around about as skillfully as they do their horses."

"How like a man to compare women and horses."

" Tut, tut Miss Martin—you did not listen. I just compared ham fisted dancers with ham fisted equestrians." He stood up and held out a hand.

Stacia just stared. "What?"

He wiggled his fingers. "Come. I will show you how to waltz properly."

"But…"

"But?"

"There's no music."

He reached down and took her hand, gently lifting her to her feet. "I will provide the music." He led her across to the center of the room, his large hand warm, the skin slightly rough.

Stacia felt like a doll as he positioned her, taking her hand and setting it on his shoulder before taking her by the waist. She swallowed as she stared at the top button of his coat, feeling even smaller than she normally did.

"Look at me, Miss Martin."

She craned her neck until it felt like it would snap. But looking at him so closely was worth the pain.

He stared down at her, his gaze intense and utterly focused on her—just plain Stacia Martin—and then he began to hum. After a few bars, he led her into the familiar steps of the dance.

Except…it was an entirely different animal. Even Monseigneur Renault had not been so smooth, so graceful, so exquisite.

As Stacia glided around the floor with him she experienced an almost crippling feeling of loss.

Because never, ever again would she be able to waltz—or even dance—without thinking about this moment . About him .

"Why do you look so grim?" he asked, and then suddenly spun her in a circle, her feet leaving the ground for a moment before he set her down as gently as a priceless vase.

His impulsive yet graceful action surprised a high-pitched laugh from her. "That was like flying," she said, feeling foolish once the words left her mouth.

He grinned down at her, still humming as he twirled her again and again, until she was dizzy, both from the spinning and the sheer joy of dancing.

"Stop," she said, breathless. The room continued turning even after he'd obeyed her. "I can't keep up," she explained.

"Put your feet on mine. Go on."

"But I'll crush your toes."

" Pfft ! A feather like you? You won't. Trust me."

"Your boots—I'll ruin—"

"Hush and do as I say."

Still hesitant, she set first one foot and then the other, on the toes of his boots.

"Good girl," he murmured, and then resumed his humming and dancing, his steps just as smooth as they'd been before, even with her weight.

"I feel like a doll," she said, yet again laughing.

Stacia's breasts brushed against his chest when he turned, his body by necessity far closer than before. She hissed in a breath, her face heating when she met his unsmiling gaze.

"You are very good at this," she accused, breathy and giddy.

He nodded slowly, unsmilingly, his eyes turning a navy blue.

Stacia realized a moment later that he was no longer humming. She wanted to look away but was captivated.

"Well?" he asked after they'd made another turn in silence.

"Well?" she said, her voice a rusty echo.

"Do you still dislike the waltz?"

She shook her head. "No."

Stacia did not know they'd quit moving until his hand lifted from her waist and he cupped her cheek.

She raised up on her toes, her eyes fluttering shut, her lips parted.

But instead of an intoxicating kiss like earlier, his lips pressed chastely against hers and disappeared.

Stacia opened her eyes to find him regarding her with a look she could not decipher. "You should get some rest, Miss Martin. The hour is late."

It took her a moment to remember that she was still standing on his toes, and she clambered off him. Her eyes slid toward the bed.

"You take the bed. There are plenty of blankets and the settee will be fine for me."

She opened her mouth to point out that he was much taller and would never fit on the sofa.

"Take the bed," he repeated firmly, turning on his heel and ending the conversation.