Thunder and Roses by Mary Jo Putney

went downstairs to dinner. The day would soon be over, and she couldn’t help wondering when the earl would collect his kiss. Even more important, how would she react when he did?
     
    Nicholas was already in the family drawing room, pouring a drink from a decanter.   Dressed in beautifully tailored black coat and pantaloons, he looked ready to dine with the Prince Regent. She paused in the doorway, momentarily struck by the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. What on earth was she, plain Clare Morgan, doing at Aberdare?
     
    Hearing her steps, he looked up and halted in mid-gesture, his expression arrested. “You look lovely tonight, Clare.”
     
    There was such warmth in his voice that she shivered. Not only was he rich and handsome, but he had the ability to make a female feel beautiful and cherished. Perhaps that was an essential talent for a rake, for a woman would give a great deal to keep that expression in a man’s eyes.
     
    “T hank you,” she said, trying to sound as if compliments were common in her life. “Would it be improper for me to observe that you are a sight to break any impressionable girl’s heart?”
     
    He looked hopeful. “Are you impressionable?”
     
    “Not in the least.” She tried to sound stern, but couldn’t help smiling.
     
    “A pity.” He reached for a different decanter. “Would you care for a glass of sherry?”
     
    She actually considered accepting for a moment, but shook her head. “No, t hank you.”
     
    “That’s right—Methodists avoid anything that might be considered strong drink.” He set the decanter down and thought. “You drink ale, don’t you?”
     
    “Of course—everyone does.”
     
    He lifted a bottle. “Then try some of this German wine. It’s milder than most ales.” When she still hesitated, he said, “I swear this won’t make you so drunk that you’ll dance on the table.” He gave an elaborate sigh of regret. “Unfortunately.”
     
    She chuckled. “Very well, I’ll have some. But you needn’t fear for your table—I don’t dance, either.”
     
    “Good God, I’d forgotten that.” He opened the bottle and poured her a glass of wine. “What do Methodists do to amuse themselves?”
     
    “Pray and sing,” she said promptly.
     
    “I shall have to broaden your repertoire.” He handed her one of the glasses. “Shall we drink to a mutually satisfactory conclusion to our association?”
     
    “Very well.” She lifted her glass.   “Three months from now, may the mine be safer and the village of Penreith healthier, wealthier, and happier. In addition, I hope that you will have seen the spiritual light and become a sober and godly man, and that I will be home again, reputation and career intact.”
     
    He clinked the rim of his glass against hers, his black eyes gleaming. “My definition of `mutually satisfactory` differs in several details.”
     
    “Which are?”
     
    He grinned. “I’d better not say. You’d empty the rest of your wine over my head.”
     
    With mild wonder, Clare realized that she was bantering with a man. And not only was she carrying on a teasing conversation with suggestive undertones—she was enjoying it.
     
    Her sense of being sophisticated and in control vanished when she made the mistake of glancing into Nicholas’s face. He was studying her with a mesmerizing intensity that was as palpable as a touch. As she looked into his dark eyes, she felt trapped, unable to look away. Her blood swirled with unaccustomed heat, rushing to each spot touched by his slowly moving gaze. First her lips tingled, then her throat pulsed, almost as if he were caressing them with his fingertips.
     
    When his gaze drifted to her breasts, her nipples tightened with yearning sensitivity. Merciful heaven, if he could affect her like this when he was a yard away, what would happen when he finally touched her?
     
    Before she could become completely unnerved, she was saved by the soft gong of a dinner bell.