In front of the hearth, a well-shaped leg balanced on a log. It belonged to a kilt-clad man, poking at the fire, which to Joachim’s mind, didn’t need tending. A black-spotted setter thumped its feathered tail once as greeting.

“Excuse me, Sir, your guest has arrived.” The butler cast another impertinent stare Joachim’s way before disappearing back down the hall.

Sir continued to thrust his poker at the fire, causing a flurry of sparks to chase up the flue like fireworks. Was that a giggle? Joachim watched with increasing annoyance for an entire minute. His ankle wobbled with the need to sit.

The setter dragged its body off the Persian rug and pressed its head against Joachim’s thigh. He patted the dog once but grunted dissent when it nosed his groin. His host twitched like a ghost walked over his grave.

“Good heavens, how long have you been there?” The iron poker rattled to the floor. “Heel, Violet. That’s not the polite way to meet our guests, is it?” The dog sat down and looked for all the world as though she disagreed.

But Joachim could merely gawp, his wits chased away by the sheer physical beauty of his host facing him now. Within a half second, his hand was firmly pumped and grasped in long fingers that would be elegant if not for the bitten-down nails.

“I’m Ainsley Graham, but I reckon you know that, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?” The supernaturally good-looking man beamed as he continued to not only hold on to Joachim’s right hand, but to cover the knot of their palms with his other.

In the dim light, Joachim was unable to make out the color of the gentleman’s eyes, which traced down his body even more intimately than the butler’s had. Silky, overlong hair drooped artfully over his smooth brow and shone like sunlight through a goblet of claret. His wide smile curved higher on the right.

This expensively dressed ginger was simply the most magnificent creature Joachim had ever encountered in his life. Astonishing, since his brother Stuart often looked as though he’d rolled out of bed five minutes before hurrying to the university, with half his hair sticking up.

“I’m Joachim Cockburn, how do you do?” His mouth was as dry as the Mojave.

The infamous Dr. Graham’s gaze drifted down toward Joachim’s hips. “Cockburn?” His grin hinted at a leer. “One can only hope from the right reasons.”

Before Joachim could scowl, Ainsley Graham sauntered to an already open crystal decanter and poured two drams of whiskey. Or dram and a half, really. He pushed one into Joachim’s hand and set his own down untouched, gesturing for his guest to sit.