Page 31 of Outrageous

She finished the last drops in her glass and took one of the overripe strawberries from the small bowl and popped it into her mouth, sucking her thumb and index finger to clean off the juices.

He’d had some of the most skilled courtesans in the major cities of Europe perform for his pleasure, but none of them could hold a candle to this mere scrap of a schoolgirl. And what was worse? She wasn’t doing this to tempt him—she appeared to have no interest in flirtation at all. And certainly not with him, a man she openly loathed. She plucked up another berry and he could only stare, his cock pulsing with frustration beneath the table.

She saw his look and, thankfully, misinterpreted it. “Sorry,” she said, her cheeks coloring in a way that would make portrait painters fight to the death to capture her likeness. “Gabe says my table manners are savage.”

He flinched at the sound of the other man’s name and her strawberry-reddened mouth turned down at the corners.

“You aren’t going to get that look on your face every time I mention his name, are you?”

“I don’t know—what look is that?”

The muscles in her face seemed to shift and rearrange themselves. Her eyelids became heavy, her lips thinner, and he would have bet a pony her nose got longer, her delicate jaw suddenly squared.

Godric couldn’t help it, he laughed. “You’re remarkably good at that.”

Her face resumed its natural appearance in less than the blink of an eye and she put another berry in her mouth, chewing stolidly while fixing him with an unblinking glare.

Godric sighed. “No, I won’t give you that look whenever you mention your brother.” He hesitated and then said, “Whenever you mention Gabriel.” The name was like ashes in his mouth but he pushed past the juvenile urge to show it. “Nor will I demonstrate anything but respect for his wife, Drusilla, soon to be my sister-in-law.” He moved aside his unfinished plate and brushed his hands to clear any crumbs.

She held her empty glass toward him.

Godric frowned. “That does not seem like a wise idea.”

Her face took on the mulish expression he already knew presaged her digging in her heels.

“Very well,” he said, picking up the bottle and pouring. “Don’t get that look on your face,” he said, his words a mocking echo of hers.

To his surprise, she laughed. “What look?”

“No,” he said, setting down the bottle. “I’m not the aspiring thespian you are. I could not mimic your expression and do it justice. The only reason I said anything about the wine is because I can see you are not accustomed to drinking it.”

She took a deep gulp before setting down her glass. “I don’t usually drink wine,” she admitted, turning the glass round and round on the wooden table. “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t had spirits plenty of times.”

Godric bit back a smile at her boastful tone. “Such as?”

She held up a hand and ticked off her fingers. “Brandy, Irish whiskey—”

“Who the devil would give a young girl hard spirits?”

“Nobody gave them to me. I took them.” She cut him a disarming grin. “I can tell you this because now my father won’t be able to punish me. But the inns in our part of Devon are no mystery to me.” She took a noisy slurp.

“You go drinking at your local inns.”

It was not a question, but she nodded.

“Why?”

“That’s where mills usually are—although sometimes they’re in barns and such.”

“Mills?”

She preened under his surprised glare and took another—too large—swig from her glass. One more mouthful would empty it. At this rate she would be under the table within the hour. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and smirked at him, reveling in her unladylike behavior. Godric suspected she believed such actions made her appear daring, sophisticated, and devil-may-care. In truth, they made her appear even younger than her nineteen years.

And also adorable.

He flinched away from that unwanted thought and said, “Let me guess, my brother-in-law-to-be takes you to such places?”

“Yes, Gabe’s not stodgy like my father, grandfather, or my uncle Cian or . . . or”—her eyes raked him as if he were an untidy lawn—“like every other man—like you for example.”