Maddy closed the nursery door quietly behind her, turned, and almost dropped the candle holder as a shadowy figure loomed out of the gloom. “Oh, it’s you,” she gasped. “You gave me such a fright.”
“Sorry, I just came to check that all was well with the children,” Nash said quietly. “Strange house and all that.”
“They’re all asleep.” She was touched at his concern.
“Good, and how about you?” The light from the single candle caught the facets of two crystal wineglasses dangling from his fingers. In his other hand he held a crystal decanter containing some dark liquid. “I thought you might like a small composer before bed. A glass of Harry’s best Madeira, to help you sleep.”
Maddy was so tired she didn’t need anything to help her sleep, but she wasn’t going to turn down a moment alone with Nash. Besides, she was so full of questions. “Madeira? All right.” She looked around. “Where shall we go to drink it?”
“Here, on the stairs? Or I suppose we could return to the drawing room downstairs.”
“I’ve always thought stairs were a cozy place to sit and talk,” she said and caught a flash of gleaming white as he smiled.
They sat, side by side, though he sat one step lower to bring their faces level. The stairs were narrower than she thought, and their bodies touched. Echoes of the previous night shimmered through her.
Nash put the glasses and decanter between them, took the candleholder from her, and set it on the steps behind them, so it cast their faces half in shadow, half in a soft golden glow.
“Your hair was made for candlelight.”
“Because it dulls the red?” Grand-mère thought her hair too bright and frequently regretted the passing of the fashion for hair powder, which would have disguised it.
“Perish the thought. One of the things I love about your hair is the way it’s different in different light, and beautiful in all of them, but in candlelight, it gleams like fire. Try this, I think you’ll like it.”
She took the glass he handed her with a murmur of thanks, a warm glow inside her from the unexpected compliment.
She’d never tasted Madeira before. She swished the heavy, silky-looking liquid around in the glass and inhaled the aroma. Slightly smoky with a tang of sweet almonds. She held it to the light. It glowed a beautiful dark gold.
“The exact color of your eyes.”
She looked at him, startled. His eyes were in shadow but she could feel the intensity of his gaze and the warmth of his body beside her. Was he going to make love to her here on his sister-in-law’s steps? She took a large gulp of Madeira, and immediately choked.
“Madeira is not meant to be gulped,” he said, taking the glass from her hand and patting her back soothingly. “You should sip it.”
“It went down the wrong way,” she muttered.
His hand didn’t stop moving, up and down her back, soothingly. She didn’t feel the least bit soothed. Every stroke sent warm, delicious shivers through her.
“It’s meant to be sipped slowly, and savored. Like this.” He put her glass to her lips, and feeling a little foolish, she sipped. The sweet, spicy wine slid down her throat like warm, honeyed silk. His hand moved up and down her spine, slowly, sensuously.
“It’s delicious,” she whispered, not entirely sure whether she was talking about the wine or his touch.
“So are you.” His breath was warm on her cheek. His hand slid around her waist and drew her closer.
“The girls are so excited about going to Russia.” She snatched the topic from the air.
“Were they?” He drew back with a frown. “It might be better not to discuss it with them just yet,” he said after a moment.
“But why? If they’re going to—”
“I haven’t sorted everything out yet,” he said.
“Sorted what? I don’t—”
“Let’s not discuss this now.” His lips brushed her cheek, a featherlight brush of skin against skin, barely discernible, but she lost all track of what she was saying.
“But I want to kn—”
“You want what?” he murmured against her skin. The deep timbre of his voice vibrated through flesh made suddenly more sensitive. “This?” His lips touched hers lightly, once, twice.
