He shrugged. “I don't know. I just want you to. Now get into bed.”

“I certainly will not!”

“D'you think I don't remember what we were doing out in the meadow?”

Her cheeks turned pink, but Ellie honestly wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or fury.

Charles sat up and leered at her. “I'm eager to finish what we started, wife.”

“Not when you're three sheets to the wind!” she retorted, stepping back so that she wouldn't be within arm's reach. “You're liable to forget what you're about.”

He gasped, clearly gravely insulted. “I would neber—that is to say, never forget what I am about. I am an excellent lover, my lady. Superb.”

“Is that what all your mistresses have told you?” she could not resist asking.

“Yes. No!” He muttered, “This isn't the sort of thing one wants to talk about with one's wife.”

“Exactly. Which is why I'm going to take my leave.”

“Oh, no you're not!” With speed that no one who'd imbibed a bottle of brandy should have possessed, he hopped off the bed, dashed across the room, and grabbed her around the waist. By the time Ellie caught her breath she was lying on the bed, and Charles was lying on top of her.

“Hello, wife,” he said, looking very much like a wolf.

“A tipsy wolf,” she muttered, trying not to cough on the fumes.

He cocked an eyebrow. “You did say I could kiss you.”

“When?” she asked suspiciously.

“On the stairs. I pestered and pestered and pestered and you finally said, ‘Yes! Fine!’”

Ellie let out an irritated breath. It figured that his memory would still be in perfect working order.

He grinned triumphantly. “The nice thing about you, Ellie, is that you are fundamentally incapable of going back on your word.”

She wasn't about to tell him to go ahead and kiss her, nor could she refute his statement—which was, after all, something of a compliment—so she didn't say anything.

That plan backfired, however, for his next words were, “Terribly sporting of you not to start blabbering on, dear wife. Makes it hard to find your mouth.”

Then he was kissing her, and Ellie discovered that brandy tasted an awful lot better than it smelled. So much better, in fact, that when he moved to kiss her neck, she surprised herself and grabbed his head to drag his mouth back to hers.

This gave him cause to chuckle, and he kissed her again, this time more deeply. After what seemed like an eternity of this sensual torture, he lifted his head a couple of inches, rested his nose against hers, and said her name.

It was a moment before she was able to say, “Yes?”

“I'm not nearly as foxed as you think I am.”

“You're not?”

Slowly, he shook his head.

“But—but you were stumbling. Hiccupping. Burping!”

He smiled at her in amazement. “But I'm not any longer.”

“Oh.” Ellie's lips parted as she tried to digest this news and decide what it meant. She thought it might mean that they were going to consummate their marriage that evening—that hour, in all probability. But she was feeling strangely befuddled, and to be honest rather hot, and her brain simply wasn't running at optimum speed.