“Still I owe you better than rolling home drunk as a wheelbarrow, then stumbling around in a stupor and waking you up.”
To his regret, she withdrew her hand and poured him some more coffee. He noted that she made it as he liked, with a dash of milk and no sugar. This honeymoon that was no honeymoon at all drove him mad with frustration, but it had its benefits. They grew easier in one another’s company, and more accustomed to one another’s habits.
“You were rather charming.”
Not so he recalled. “Was I?”
“Yes. Until last night, I didn’t know you had a whimsical bone in your body.”
Whimsical? Was that a good thing? He didn’t think so. “You’re truly not angry?”
She sipped her tea. “No.”
Her forbearance had him rushing into explanations. “I didn’t set out to get foxed. Bu
t after that drive back from Stonehenge, I had to clear my head.”
She arched her eyebrows. “So you drank?”
“It sounds asinine, I know.” He shifted awkwardly. “I assure you that I’m a man of regular habits. I don’t make a practice of staggering about in my cups.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, still with a trace of irony.
He frowned. “Jane, are you teasing me?”
That luscious mouth pursed in thought, but when she met his eyes, he caught a flash of laughter. “Only a little.”
He was unable to resist, although usually he strategized when to take his kiss. He surged across the table and snatched her up. Her breath escaped in a startled oof, and her lips moved against his with an innocent enthusiasm that reminded him of their first kiss.
But not for long. Despite the awkward position, caught between her chair and the table, she twisted her body into his. Her arms slid around his neck, as she stretched up to kiss him back.
When her soft mouth opened, his tongue dipped inside. He made a deep sound of satisfaction and kicked the chair out of the way. Vaguely through the blood hammering in his head, he heard the thud as it tipped over.
Linking his hands loosely around her waist, he drew back to look down into her face. He loved to see her all flushed and ruffled, and at a loss for the self-possession she’d cultivated as mistress of Cavell Court. “You’re so lovely, Jane.”
“Thank you.” For once, she didn’t argue. “Kissing must be good for the complexion.”
He gave a grunt of laughter. “There should be more of it, then. Purely for therapeutic reasons, of course.”
“Of course,” she said drily, arms still around his neck.
Garson wanted more, but there was something to be said for loitering in a patch of sunlight and flirting with a comely wench. And he had plans for the day ahead. “You have a treat in store, wife.”
He liked calling Jane his wife. The evocative word planted all sorts of pleasantly masculine feelings in his chest. Pride. Possession. A surprisingly powerful affection. With every day, he liked her more. Good God, she didn’t even nag a fellow when he toddled home, soused as a sailor. She was a good sport, his bride, and nowhere near as prim and prune-faced as he’d feared she might have become over the hard, lonely years. She’d be a wonderful mother. Heat percolated in his veins as he imagined making those children.
Her eyes turned the color of the sea on a day of sunlight and rain. Her soft expression hinted that she grew fond of him, too. “A treat?”
“Yes, I’m going to show you around Pembroke’s place at Wilton. It’s only a few miles out of town, and I think you’ll like it.”
“I daresay I will. Are the family in residence?”
“No, they’re in London, but his lordship’s given us the run of the house. Even asked if we want to move in for the rest of our honeymoon.”
“That was generous.”
“I thought so. I got his letter yesterday in reply to my request to see over the house.”
“I’m sure the accommodations will be an improvement on the dressing room. I didn’t know that your room was so Spartan. Do you want to shift to Wilton?”