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"Your injury. I shall assess it and decide whether you may stay out of bed for a little while."

He chuckled, imagining her cool hands on his skin, tracing the muscles of his abdomen. "Nothing good can come of that. Besides, the doctor admonished me not to exert myself, and I am perfectly rested, standing still in my kitchen."

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"Why are you?" He raised a brow.

"I could not sleep," she said and waved toward the pot. "I thought I would make some chocolate."

His nose wrinkled before he could stop it.

She let out a melodic laugh. "Yes, I remember your distaste for chocolate. 'Mud with sugar,' you called it, as I recall."

Sutton cocked his head, surprised she had remembered that after all this time.

"It is currently my chief nemesis," he said softly. "It seems I am cursed to be surrounded by people who enjoy the dastardly drink."

She laughed again and her eyes glinted with merriment.

He found with surprise that he had been wrong about her eyes. He had thought them dark and bitter, like chocolate.

And though they were dark, they were more reminiscent of coffee—strong, sweet, with two spoons of sugar, just the way he liked it. The flecks of candlelight reflecting in her eyes were the lustrous color of amber, like brandy. And he definitely liked brandy.

"Well, you may be happy to discover that this chocolate, the way I make it, is not the consistency of mud at all. I learned in Turin. They make it thick enough to stand a spoon upright. See?"

She poured a slow ribbon from the pot into a cup, set the spoon in it, and let go. It stood upright.

"Interesting," he said, and stepped closer.

She popped the spoon into her mouth and nodded.

"You made it yourself?" he asked, looking around the kitchen.

"Mm-hm." She licked the spoon and collected more chocolate.

He had to admit the scent wafting from the cup was pleasant. What he liked far better was watching his wife enjoy the ghastly drink.

"Without the maids?"

"It is three in the morning." She leaned against the worktable and whispered conspiratorially, "And I know how much you dislike waking the servants. Besides, I learned to serve myself while I traveled with my aunt. She is the very definition of eccentricity. She does not trust other people to cook, or to saddle a horse, or to do anything she can do herself, however badly. She always says that to do something well, you must first do it badly a thousand times."

He let out a hoarse laugh. "That is very wise. And how many times have you made this chocolate, may I ask?"

She grinned. "About nine hundred."

He stepped right up to the table and glanced at the drink in her cup. "Then perhaps I shall try it after you make it a hundred more times."

Her tongue darted out to collect the chocolate on her lips, and he could not help but stare, mesmerized.

She nodded slowly. "It is a deal."

It did not escape him that to honor it, he would have to be by her side when she made the drink a hundred times more. Even if she made it daily, that would be three months.

Would she be with child by then?

Where would they be? Still here, in this kitchen, joking about the awful drink, or would he be here alone while she carried his child at Sutton Hall?

He found he did not want to think of that possibility.