That was, so long as she and Stone evaded Culpepper successfully.
“American whiskey is sweeter.” Stone’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Culpepper couldn’t force me to marry him if I was already married?”
“No.”
“If he does happen to find us, we can tell him that we’re already married—to one another. We shouldn’t have to hide out like a couple of thieves.” Another swallow of liquid goodness had her licking her lips. “We can go out. We’ll act like newlyweds—let everyone believe I am your wife. Yes. Yes. That’s all we need to do.”
Stone stroked the thick stubble on his chin. “It’s not a terrible idea.” And then he pinned his gaze on her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He’d done that before, and it always made her uncomfortable.
“Trying to figure you out.”
“By looking at me? Do you think you can read my mind?” She stared back at him just as intently. She wished she could read his mind, but like his name, he might as well have been made of granite.
“You’d be surprised.” But then he glanced at the door. “You’ll be quick about making your selections? What about the cat?”
Archie was curled into a ball and looking quite content in the center of the soft mattress. “No reason to bother him.” Tabetha scrambled to stand before Stone could change his mind, but it wasn’t as simple a task as she’d imagined.
Thinking Stone’s knees would make for sturdy leverage, she placed her hands on them and made a clumsy attempt to push herself up. Long strands of her damp hair fell forward. “I’ll need pins for my hair as well. Did I mention that already? Why is everything spinning?” Halfway to standing, she paused, her head dropped forward, and she stared at his lap.
“Not so fast, duchess.” He halted her. “Take a moment.”
His voice rumbled, vibrating near her ear. The warmth of his breath drew her gaze to his mouth, and once she was staring at those lips, she couldn’t seem to drag it away from them. Just above that perfect cupid’s bow, prickly hairs made up the beginning of a mustache, working their way around his mouth, thickening as they spread to his cheek and jaw. Whisky shined on his lips, making them look curiously sweet. She had the oddest urge to lean forward and lick them.
“I’m not a duchess,” she said.
“Princess then. Or honeybunch.” He laughed but then reached up to take hold of one of the damp strands of hair dangling in front of him. “It’s like gold.” His words wrapped around her like a cocoon, “Silken gold,” he added.
She met his eyes, wondering if she’d see something different than his normal sullen stubbornness.
Because even when he was almost being nice, she sensed a simmering hostility, a reluctance in him to show any softening toward her.
Were all fighters like this? All men who hadn’t been raised to become a lord?
“You like my hair?” she asked in little more than a whisper.
She shouldn’t care about what he thought of her hair, but she did. Alone together, hundreds of miles from her family, he was her entire world, and after her experience with Culpepper, she wanted his approval more than anything—she needed it. Of her person, not of her dowry. She wanted to believe he didn’t think of her as some sort of a joke, like he had before.
He blinked slowly and some of his bluster fell away. Was that because of the whisky or because she was practically sitting in his lap?
“Of course, I like your hair.” And then he lifted the strand to his nostril, closed his eyes, and inhaled.
Tabetha froze, afraid to break the spell between them. If she leaned in just an inch, would he kiss her?
Did she want him to kiss her?
Her heart thudded against her ribs, her breasts ached, and that hot liquid feeling had moved up from her legs to the apex of her thighs.
She did! She wanted him to kiss her. If she had the courage, she would close the distance between them herself.
A tremor ran through her, and she swayed forward.
“Be careful, duchess.” He gripped her arms, halting her just before she could do something stupid. She opened her eyes in time to see a smirk dancing on his lips, his bluster firmly in place again.
“I told you, I’m not a duchess,” she complained again. Why did he have to bring her failure up now? “Can we go shopping then?”
His gaze flicked over her expression. What did he see when he did that? She’d wanted him to kiss her and instead, he’d gone and mocked her.
“I suppose, but keep your head down. Try not to draw any attention to yourself. If you think you can do that.”
“What do you mean?”
He only shook his head and then assisted her to her feet.
When he held out the almost empty bottle, she didn’t refuse. He’d promised that he would forget all of this happened once they were back in London. Whatever happened here, stayed here.
“Remember, if anyone asks, we are Mr. and Mrs. Chester.” He wagged a finger at her.
“Ah, yes. Rock Chester.” She snorted. Horrified that she’d made such an obnoxious sound, she immediately covered her mouth.
But… Missus Rock Chester? There was no stopping the fit of giggles that overtook her, and when she snorted a second time, his laughter joined hers.
And it didn’t seem to matter whether he was laughing at her or at… whatever it was she’d been laughing about.
Heaven help her, the last thing she’d ever wanted to be before this entire Culpepper disaster was a Mrs. anything, and now she was pretending to be Mrs. Rock Chester?
And for some reason, the irony was beyond hilarious.
“Don’t you think it’s funny?” she managed to contain her laughter enough to ask. “That you and I could hardly stand one another a week ago, and now we’re…” She hiccupped, and then snorted again. Even snorting wasn’t embarrassing now, and it was a delicate snort, she assured herself.
“And now we’re…? What?” The smile he sent her implied that they were going on an adventure together.
“You’re crying,” she teased, reaching up to dab her thumb at the corner of his good eye, which was shining from having laughed so hard.
“Not as much as you.” He did the same. “Now where were we going?”
Going? Oh, yes! “The mercantile.” She glanced down and wiggled her bare toes, sending them both off laughing again for no reason in particular.
“Where did I put my slippers?” She searched around the floor and then wrinkled her nose when she located them. She might as well step into a steaming mudpie as put her newly washed feet into those. Her stockings weren’t in any better condition.
“Not to worry, Mrs. Chester.” Stone winked. “As your husband.” He toggled his eyebrows. “I am more than happy to purchase you the finest apparel money can buy—in the south of Scotland, that is.”
Stone had dropped to one knee. “Sit down.”
All that was required was a gentle nudge, and she’d dropped into the chair he’d just vacated.
“I’ve scratches on my bum,” she announced when sitting elicited a stinging.
Stone seemed almost sober when he jerked his head up. “What the devil?”
But Tabetha was giggling again and pointing. “From Archie… when I mounted your horse.”
“Is that what you call that glorious leap you made?”
“I refuse to accept any of your insults today.” She knew he was teasing though. But it did feel nice to not have him staring at her with his normal disapproval.
And having his warm hands on her ankle felt nice as well.
“You don’t have to—” Tabetha placed a hand on his shoulder, her head spinning and her bones melting like chocolate again.
“Whoa, there, honeybunch.” He winked and, having finished lacing up one shoe, he went to work on the other. “I’d rather not know what you stepped in.”
“Neither would I,” she agreed, wondering if it was the whisky that had her breaths feeling so shall
ow. She’d experienced similar sensations riding on the horse in front of him earlier that day.
Had it only been a few hours ago?
Stone rose, and after staring at her a moment, bent his arm and held it out for her to take. “Shall we visit the shops?” He attempted a bow but ruined the effect when he stumbled, which, of course, was beyond hilarious.
Once both of them were standing, he stumbled a little and it was she who prevented him from falling this time.
She glanced at the empty whisky bottle, vaguely remembering it had been full when the maid first delivered it. “Do you think we could get another one?” she asked vaguely as he slid open the locks on the door.
“I see no reason why not,” he answered.
Chapter 8
Good Morning!
Intolerable throbbing tugged Tabetha from sleep—a sleep so heavy, she wondered how she could still be alive. And then the throbbing turned to pounding pain.
She rolled over and pressed her forehead into the cool side of her pillow. A second later, her stomach lurched.
Perhaps it was best if she simply didn’t move.
At all.
She’d never known such discomfort. The desire to vomit was connected to the pain behind her temples, which was connected to her mouth, which although it was dry as the Sahara, was watering. Her stomach lurched, and she bolted upright, opening her eyes.
Big mistake.
More pounding, more lurching, and her surroundings, although vaguely familiar, failed to make any sense.
But her stomach wasn’t allowing her to question her surroundings right now.
She jumped off the bed and dashed across the room, barely reaching an empty vase in time to heave half the contents of her stomach into it.
Horrible. Horrid. The whisky didn’t smell nearly as pleasant the second time around.
Her stomach convulsed, and she closed her eyes, allowing the heaving to take over her until she was utterly spent.
If not for the warm arms around her waist, she’d have collapsed onto the floor.
Warm arms? Her brain panicked even though her body was too exhausted to do much of anything.
“Drink.”
Ah, yes. Her eyes remained pinched together, but she remembered that voice. He’d forced her to drink spirits. Well, not forced her exactly. Just the first one.
“Trust me. Water helps.”
She opened her eyes enough to see the glass of clear liquid hovering inches from her face.
“I can’t,” she mumbled.
The glass pressed against her lips, and in a very Stone-like manner, was tipped until she had no choice but to allow the liquid to dribble down her chin or drink it.
She managed to swallow a small sip but then summoned enough energy to raise her hand and push back on the glass. It was either that or begin vomiting again.
“My head,” she moaned, vaguely aware that he’d walked her back to the bed and was assisting her under the covers.
Had she thought his chuckle was pleasant at some time? Because at that moment, nothing could have annoyed her more.
She dissolved into the mattress. Unfortunately, she was in no position to reprimand him for his insensitivity. Even the sound of her own voice increased the volume of the pounding in her head.
The mattress creaked from the other side of the bed. She should tell him to go away. Sleeping in the same bed as a man who was not her husband wasn’t at all proper.
She’d demand he sleep elsewhere after the pounding in her head went away. But for now…
She drifted off again, waking a few times in between, but didn’t rationally contemplate her situation until several hours later. Curled in a ball, memories of the previous evening were vague, and she couldn’t quite piece them together.
Whisky, she decided, was poison. Her eyes fluttered open, and testing the condition of her head, she gingerly rolled over and stared up at the ceiling.
The late afternoon sunlight slanting in the room reminded her she’d spent the entire day abed. But that was not the worst of it.
She was not alone. She gaped at the man lying beside her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, not caring if she woke him. Outrage had her twisting to the edge of the bed. She couldn’t sleep with Stone Spencer!
Was it seeing Stone’s head on the pillow beside her or the whisky that had her stomach lurching this time?
Or was it… everything else?
She’d run away with Culpepper, and then away from Culpepper, and then she’d kidnapped his cat.
She was a… catnapper! Hysterical laughter caught in her throat.
But wait, there was more!
A hot blush swept from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair as she recalled allowing Stone Spencer to assist her with her bath. She never would have done that if she hadn’t just ruined herself. Her brother was going to kill her. Her mother might never speak to her again. Likely, she was going to be the laughingstock of the ton.
But for this, her gaze shifted to the poor, unsuspecting vase she’d used earlier, she would blame the man snoring gently beside her.
“Stone!” She poked at him when he failed to respond to her indignation. “You can’t sleep here.”
“Too late. Go back to sleep,” he muttered, turning onto his side, presenting her with the smooth skin of his back.
His naked back!
A wave of foreboding effectively cut off her protests. She remembered leaving the chamber the day before. She also had vague recollections of exploring the few shops nearby, and she was grudgingly forced to concede that she’d had a rather delightful time of it.
In fact, she’d laughed until her side hurt. And they’d gone about pretending to be Mr. and Mrs.… something she couldn’t quite remember.
But she couldn’t go on acting like such a hoyden. Not if she wanted to recover her reputation. She needed to gather her wits together.
A flying flesh-colored rodent leapt onto the bed.
Only… not a rodent, but Archie. His feline eyes stared at her in concern. Pulling the cat into her arms, she rubbed one hand down his back and massaged the skin around his neck with her other.
She should have turned Archimedes over to the duke when he’d demanded it—forcibly removed his claws from her person and given him back to his rightful owner.
The silky little feline squirmed. Archie had not wanted to go to him! Shouldn’t he have some say as to who he spent his life with?
Still cuddling the poor thing, she dropped back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling. It seemed she really was a catnapper.
“You should eat something. There’s a tray of food on the table,” Stone murmured, obviously not experiencing any of the regrets and recriminations that she was. Why should he?
Her conscience taunted her. He wasn’t the person who’d made the ghastly mistake of trusting Culpepper.
She turned and stared at the man who’d slept the night away beside her, barely subduing her indignation with the reminder that he’d promised to keep all of this between the two of them.
“You’re certain Westerley is coming?” Her brother had nearly killed Bethany’s husband when he returned to discover her nearly ruined by him. What would he do to Culpepper?
“Fairly certain.” He sighed.
“What if her brother saw fit to challenge the duke to a duel? No doubt, Westerley would come out the victor, but an earl couldn’t kill a duke and still claim any sort of immunity, could he? What if her brother decided to challenge Stone?
“We need to decide what we’re going to tell him.” She swallowed hard. “He certainly can’t know about this.”
“About what?”
She exhaled in exasperation. “You. Here. Us sharing a bed.”
“If anyone asks, I slept on the floor.” It was where he ought to be.
Even so, how would her brother react when he learned they’d shared a chamber? She moaned.
“I told you—”
&nb
sp; “I know.” She groaned. What a mess she’d made!
She’d not only failed herself, she’d failed her mother, her brother, her father. For months, for years, she’d boasted that she’d marry a duke. Was it possible that now she’d not even acquire the lowest title? “What are people going to say about me? Rachel Sommerset is going to be in raptures over this. Do you think anyone knows yet?”
“Only perhaps that you left with Culpepper.”
“But they’ll know everything when I return and I’m not a duchess!”
“You’ll rise above it.” If only she shared some of his confidence.
“They’re going to say vile things about me!”
When her sister had been fodder for gossip, Bethany had been more concerned about Tabetha and their mother than she had been concerned for herself. Whereas Bethany was strong and kind and unselfish, not to mention smart as a whip and practical in almost everything, Tabetha had realized long ago that she failed miserably in comparison.
She shuddered. For as long as she could remember, she’d needed to know everyone admired her. Lady Agatha had told her that if she wanted to be a duchess, she needed to act as though she already was one. She needed to believe it inside.
So she’d instead worked hard to be the popular one, the pretty one. She’d determined to be the one who would marry well. My father’s future duchess.
She’d ruined everything though, and in that moment, the possibility of her contemporaries laughing at her, ladies such as Rachel Somerset or the Mossant sisters gloating, sent panic sweeping through her soul.
“No duke will marry me now—or a marquess, earl, or viscount for that matter.” The truth crashed over her.
“For God’s sake, Tabetha, you consented to an elopement. What did you expect?” He allowed her no sympathy whatsoever. “You’ll be grateful to marry at all, now. And to be perfectly honest, you’ll likely be happier for it.”
Cocky Mister: A Regency Cocky Gents Book Page 8