A slight shiver ran through her at the thought of him sinking into a tub of water, his muscled arms resting upon the edge. She had seen for herself the hard ridges of his stomach, the reddened scar across his pectorals.

A wicked image arose, of soap sliding over those muscles, of what it had been like to touch him, only months ago. What it would be like, if he lowered his body upon hers, until she yielded to him.

Like before…

An unbearable loneliness caught her. He had kissed her on the night he’d left, as though he would never let her go. Now it was as if that man had never existed.

An invisible fist struck her in the stomach, the hurt rising. When he’d arrived back at Falkirk, her first instinct had been to rush toward him, to hold him tight and thank God that he was alive.

But Stephen didn’t know her anymore. He’d broken promises and everything their marriage had been was simply gone. She blinked back the emotions threatening to spill over.

“Are you planning to set that down or continue staring at me?”

Her face flamed, but she managed to lower the tray. “Your breakfast, sire.” She bobbed a false curtsy.

A sudden glint of challenge flared in his eyes. “My lord will do. I’m not a king.”

Was he…teasing her? She didn’t quite know how to respond. But something within her bristled at the idea of submission. “Will there be anything else, my lord?“ With an air of false brightness, she added, “Shall I bow down before you and lick your boots?”

“Perhaps later.” The interest in his voice made it sound as if he didn’t mind that idea at all. And it reminded her of the nights she’d spent in his bed when there had indeed been mouths and tongues involved. Her body grew sensitive at the memory, but she tamped it down and marched toward the door.

“We need to talk,” he said. But his attention remained on The Times while a pair of spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose. She had never seen them before, never knew he wore them for reading. It reminded her that this was not a man who could be easily fooled.

Proper, stiff and steadfast in his beliefs, he had become every bit the shadow of his father, the marquess. Her nerves coiled in her stomach at the thought.

As a distraction, she asked, “Would you care for tea?”

He lowered the paper and regarded her. “I don’t know. Is it poisoned?”

His overbearing accusation made her consider dumping the pot over his head. “You won’t know that until you are dead, now, will you?” She smiled sweetly and poured the tea into a porcelain cup. “Milk and sugar?”

“I drink mine black. There’s less chance of you adding something to it.”