He’d gone rigid as marble above her.
She couldn’t stop touching him, brushing her lips across his stubbled jaw. “You’re better than all of them, all of them I say.”
When he attempted to pull away again, she shrilled, “Applicant number six smoked here. In my sitting room! After I expressly asked him not to.”
“Stave off tempting me, woman!” He hurled the words at her, glaring fiercely.
Juliet glared right back. “Then don’t entertain the notion of abandoning me!”
“Ah, God,” he said hoarsely. “Do you not see? Another man would have more experience with crops and sheep, with—”
The only thing she saw was how empty and barren the future stretched out before her if he wasn’t in it. Zeus James Tanner. No one else could be as perfect for her as he. And Juliet was determined to prove it. “Brute twelve spilled copious amounts of tea down his cravat and didn’t even notice!”
“Juliet…” Zeus dropped his head to her shoulder, and she sensed him weakening.
“He did! Drank like a gluttonous goat!”
“No surprise there,” he muttered against her neck, “if you fed him those briny scones of torture!”
That was the second or third time he’d mentioned such a thing.
From beneath his solid presence, Juliet extended one arm and snatched a bite from a scone populating the bottom of the tray. A couple of the ones above it sported “icing” from Zeus’ fascinating, earthy display earlier.
Nibbling, she forced herself to shrug beneath the strangely tantalizing weight of his limbs tangled with hers. “Hmmm. It is rather salty.”
“Salty?” A swift jerk of his head and he saw what she was doing. “Confound it! You can’t eat that!”
She rubbed the bottom of her foot over his leg in a calming gesture. “Whyever not?”
“I…” Staring at the tray, he blanched. When he again tried to scoot off, she coiled her leg between his and dug her toenails into whatever flesh they found. Zeus gave a grunt and met her gaze. “I peaked earlier.” He sliced his eyes toward the table. “Over there.”
“I know you did.” She beamed at him. “And I peeked at you too. More than peeked, I’d say—”
“Peaked,” he stressed, paling further. “Spewed, spent. Fired in the air.”
Though she had a substantial inkling of what he referred to, hearing him “spew” such eloquent, earthy vocabulary (and thereby expanding her own), was too enlightening an opportunity to pass up. “Fired what in the air?” she asked with suitable bafflement. “I’ve neither seen nor heard a firearm to—”
“Not bullets, devil take me!” He was having a devil of a time of it, that was clear.
“Then what?” she asked helpfully. Or wickedly, depending upon how one wanted to view it.
“Discharged my chitty,” he strangled out, the tendons in his neck standing out starkly. “Fetched my own mettle. Spewed my spunk. Jetted my juice!” At that, she had a most difficult task maintaining her bewildered façade. “Do you not behold what’s before you?” With a harsh gesture, he pointed to the tray. “The trajectory of the evidence?”
“Evidence? Oh!” she exclaimed with great feeling. “You mean when you…”
“By God, yes, that is what I mean.” He stole the remaining crumb from her unresisting fingers and tossed it overhead.
“By damn, you cannot eat that! I forbid it.” The poor dear looked so aghast at the very notion, was so caught up in protecting her supposedly delicate sensibilities, he failed to notice when Henry came round the settee, batting the morsel between his front legs. “And pardon my damn language!”
“Mrrrowww.” They both looked over to see her precious, if somewhat scraggly, tom bathing one paw as if he’d just downed dinner.
Or one very savory scone.
She chose not to point out the significance to her intended. Her intended. How wondrous that sounded, how magical it felt. For by now, Juliet was fair convinced not only were they betrothed, they were bound for life.
To distract him, she pointed to a remnant still on the tray. “Your—ah, the evidence, you soaked in here, I believe. Not the piece I tried. See? This, um, darker, moister-looking section over—”
“God grant me patience!” He had the temerity to interrupt her consoling efforts.
“That won’t work, you know.”
“What won’t?”
“Praying for patience. God is busy tending to sinners, I’m sure. And you, dear sir, are a saint. A saint among men.” Twenty-four men at the very least. “Or did you forget?”
“We agreed I wasn’t a saint. Didn’t we? Of course we did!” he finished on a roar.
“Well, pish-posh. Appears I forgot. You do that to me, you know. Scramble my wits. Make me forget everything but you.”
“As flattering as that sounds, I’m not convinced that isn’t to your detriment. I mean look—” Again he slashed one arm toward the table. “You…just…ate…”
“And watch,” Juliet said tartly as she deliberately reached for the darker, moistened section, determined to snaffle his wits until he agreed to stay. “I’ll do it again!”
Before he could stop her, she popped another brittle piece on her tongue. She chewed and swallowed in a rush. “Oh dear. Appears we ran out of sugar and butter again.”
Zeus lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Is this penance, God? Are you punishing me—”
“Nay, not penance. ’Tis passion,” Juliet told him, blatantly licking his bulging arm muscles to rid her mouth of the sorry scone. “Now you, blessed man, taste intriguing.” She licked him again, swirling her tongue over the surprisingly silky skin, dazed at not only her desire to do so, but at how she felt no qualms instigating the action. “Inviting even.”
He slowly brought his head down to glower at her. “I can’t decide whether you’ll be the death of me. Or the life.” He jerked a nod toward the scattered contents on the tray, that rakish sweep of hair falling forward. “Out of sugar and butter again? That’s all you have to say?”
She gave a silent nod, choosing to stop—for now—baiting him.
