“ ‘Rubber band’ sounds better,” she said.
He raised his glass, quite certain that his factory would survive after this. “Twenty-six men were in danger of losing employment, but your rubber bands will prevent that.”
The champagne India had bought tasted like apples and had a powerful kick. He still preferred brandy, but this wasn’t terrible.
“Enough about rubber,” he said. He realized his eyes kept drifting over her lush breasts, and his sense of self-preservation abruptly kicked in. “What are you looking for in a husband, Lady Xenobia India St. Clair?”
“He must be kind and very calm,” she said readily to this complete non sequitur. “And I’d prefer that he do something with his life and leave me to run the household.”
“My dear,” Thorn said with a grin, “he’ll do something. I can promise you that.”
His comment didn’t seem to scandalize her in the least, perhaps because she was tipsy again. Lady Xenobia had many virtues, but an ability to handle her liquor wasn’t one of them. He poured the last of the champagne into her glass and reached over to ring the bell.
“Did you know that many men are incapable in private?” She eyed him. “Are you?”
“No.” That word came out more forcefully than necessary. Even though her talk of wilted vegetables and shortfalls—and now incapabilities—sounded like a challenge, India was almost certainly a maiden. True, Lady Adelaide was not proving to be the most assiduous of chaperones, but an innocence about India suggested she had never succumbed to the many men who sprawled at her feet.
“Marriage is not about that,” India said. “Marriage is an understanding, a contract governing behavior and, hopefully, advantageous to both sides, but the advantages to each partner must be weighed. That’s why I—” She stopped.
“Why you what?” Thorn asked.
“I was fifteen when Adelaide asked me to organize the household of a friend of hers,” she explained. “I accepted payment because my father had left me nothing but a title. Without a dowry, I was unlikely to make a good match, let alone an excellent one.”
“Therefore you earned your own dowry.”
“Yes.”
She beamed at him, and Thorn felt a chill down his back. When India forgot to smile like a lady . . . He shook it off. “I would say that you now have enough negotiating power to marry whomever you wish.”
She was toying with her glass, her slender fingers playing with the stem as if it were an instrument. The sight made his groin tighten, and he wrenched his attention back to the subject of her ideal spouse. “The most important consideration has nothing to do with title,” he said. “Personal traits make it possible for a marriage to succeed.”
She cocked her head. “That is very wise of you.”
“I have my moments.” He grinned at her. “I’m well aware that Laetitia wouldn’t suit everyone, but she’s right for me. Have you met your perfect man yet?”
“To be honest, I’m generally too busy to give men much thought.”
To Thorn’s mind, that was one reason she had been successful. Wives instinctively realized that India posed no threat to their marriages, even as their husbands acquiesced to her every request.
She had a Cleopatra face, the kind that made men fall on their knees. He’d bet that after she gave a man the glimmering little smile she had on her lips at this very moment, he would simply give her carte blanche to do as she would with his house—precisely as he himself had.
“My husband will have to be good at kissing,” she said, her eyes pure, slumberous devilment. “I’ve been told that I’m not very good at kissing, and I will need to marry an expert.”
“India,” Thorn warned. This game they were playing was dangerous.
She wrinkled her nose at him and looked so adorable that he tossed back the rest of his champagne, letting the cold wine burn a little sanity into him.