“Oh, I’d have been pleased to let you in, even without a telegram.” The redhead turned his body sideways, drawing his bare knee along Joachim’s thigh.

Damnably close.

Yet Joachim was unable to squirm away, even if he’d actually wished to. There was no room. “Er, well... Dr. Graham—”

“Ainsley, please. Doctor sounds as though I should be decked in tweed and wear a monocle.” He flicked over Joachim’s tweed blazer and he shrugged, not in the least embarrassed. Or not showing it at any rate.

“All right, Ainsley.” Joachim did his best to smile and behave as though his host’s body wasn’t pressed against his hip. And moving closer with each breath.

Ainsley ran his fingertip across the bridge of the sofa near enough to touch Joachim’s shoulder. “What did you say your first name was again? I’m afraid I was too caught up in your pronunciation of your surname to give it proper due.”

Blast the man. They did tend to say Coe-burn in Scotland, didn’t they? Joachim hadn’t been razzed so much in the army. Well, at least not since his time in the army. His nostrils flared and he swiveled his head to glare at his host, whose lips were pursed into a seductive pout.

Frankly at a loss, Joachim reached for the whiskey, risking a second swallow. And then a third.

“Joachim.” He said it without clenching his teeth, thanks to the silky warmth trailing down his throat.

Graham’s hand inched nearer to the nape of Joachim’s neck, causing his skin to quiver. “What an appalling burden. Were your parents Puritans? Please tell me your friends call you something else.” For the first time there was a hint of Scots under the well-modulated boys’ school drawl.

The whiskey’s headiness played off Joachim’s empty stomach and he almost laughed at the sincere rudeness of the question. “My father was a minister, my mother was Belgian. I’m named for my maternal grandfather. How about you call me Cockburn?”

“Perhaps, if you play your cards right.” Ainsley Graham was most definitely staring at Joachim’s mouth. He unconsciously rubbed his lips together and flushed at the dazzling light that brightened Ainsley’s face when he laughed. “Our rascal Barley set me up, hasn’t he?”

“Pardon?” Joachim tilted his head to the side, confused. Perhaps Stuart’s family called him Barley? It made no sense, but nicknames rarely did. His stomach growled and he coughed to cover it up.