by Platt, Meara
She couldn’t recall what had happened after falling to her knees.
She never remembered anything when in the throes of one of those episodes.
But she had come around to find herself under Finn Brayden’s body, his mouth on hers as he attempted to blow air into her lungs. His hands also happened to be on her chest—innocently—to pump her heart when he feared it had stopped.
A small shudder ran through her. It did not bear reliving. “And may I ask, how you have been, Mr. Brayden?”
His appealing smile returned. “Well enough. No one’s hit me over the head since you.”
Oh, did he have to bring that up, too? She’d only hit him over the head with a decorative sofa cushion to prevent him from doing the idiotically honorable thing and proposing to her. He meant to save her from ruin.
It wasn’t necessary, as it turned out. No scandal had ever developed, as she was certain it would not, once he’d explained the circumstances to one and all.
One might say that by hitting him, she’d saved him from a forced and unwanted marriage.
One might also say she had done him a good turn, and he was now obligated to do one for her.
“What brings you here now?” The glint in his eye revealed he had not forgotten a moment of that spectacularly unfortunate day.
He seemed to be regarding her with amusement. She hoped it meant his irritation had waned. She needed him and did not want him to be avoiding her at every turn. “I’ve come to ask a favor. I am in dire need of your help.”
There, I’ve asked him.
The worst he can say is no.
“My help?” He folded his arms over his chest, awaiting her explanation.
Why hadn’t she noticed how daunting he was before? The man seemed more suited to carrying a sword and shield or wearing armor instead of the fashionable Savile Row clothes he had on. In truth, he looked splendid. The cut of his jacket, the fold of his cravat, everything was perfection. The colors were dark, muted. The superfine of his jacket molded to his shoulders and enhanced their broadness.
“Yes.” She spoke the word with confidence, hoping not to start eeping like a demented bird, for she was not at all confident. “Honey and I are worried. We don’t know where else to turn.”
He offered her a chair in his very large, very elegant office overlooking the Thames near the Houses of Parliament. “Miss Farthingale, how may I be of assistance to you and your sister?”
He spoke with surprising courtesy, his voice deep and resonant, showing no trace of impatience or simmering irritation. One might believe he was genuinely concerned about her situation.
Instead of returning to sit behind his desk, he took the chair beside hers, and at the same time, with the mere nod of his head, dismissed the clerk who had escorted her in. For the sake of propriety, his door remained open, so Belle’s maid could see them from her chair in the waiting room.
“I won’t take up much of your time.” She was a little overwhelmed by the man now that they were seated side by side. Finn Brayden was more handsome than she’d realized. His eyes were an alluring mix of smoky gray and forest green. His dark hair framed a ruggedly attractive face. “I’ll get right to the point.” She licked her lips, finding his nearness quite unsettling. “I think someone is stealing from my father’s business.”
He arched a dark eyebrow but said nothing.
Feeling even more unsettled by his silence, she cleared her throat and continued. “My sister and I attempted to review the ledgers last week, for we are active in the family perfume shops. But our father caught us and snatched them away. We knew at once something was wrong. He’s never hidden the accounts from us before. However, these past few months, he has become quite secretive.”
Finn stretched his long legs before him and steepled his fingers under his chin. “And you wish me to have a look at these accounts? Will he allow me to do it?”
Belle shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then how can I help you? I cannot order him to turn the ledgers over to me.”
“I know. But Honey and I have come up with a scheme to get them into your hands.”
“A scheme?”
Did he just groan?
“Well, a small deception, really. A necessary one if we are to save the family business. We hear you are brilliant with finances and can spot a fraud immediately. This is why I have come to you. Father keeps the ledgers locked away in his desk at our home in Oxford. We have a lovely house just outside of town. Mother is quite proud of her garden, and we have a splendid, shaded walk down to the stream that runs behind it.” She toyed with the strings of her reticule, suddenly wondering if this idea she and her sister had hatched was utterly hare-brained.
“You want me to go to Oxford?” He glanced around at his surroundings, the gesture pointing out the obvious. They were in London. In his impressive office. One had a clear view of the boats sailing along the Thames. Indeed, the scent emanating off the river carried on the wind through his open window.
While the breeze was refreshing, the odor of murky water was not. However, she had a particularly sensitive nose, a necessity for a successful perfume business. The odors probably affected her more than it did others.
“Are you asking me to break into your home and steal the ledgers?”
“Goodness, no. If I’d wanted that, I would have hired a professional cutpurse or another local blackguard. The company books must not leave our father’s study. Which is why we hoped you might join us there for the week.”
“You are inviting me as a guest?”
She nodded.
“And you think your father won’t immediately suspect the reason for my presence?”
“Honey and I gave it considerable thought. We first came up with a business excuse, that a client of yours was interested in purchasing our perfume shops and sent you to negotiate with him. But we dismissed the possibility. He won’t ever sell. He’d simply send you away.”
“So, you’ve come up with another excuse?” He shifted his large frame and leaned toward her. “I gather this one is more personal. You are blushing.”
“It is quite personal.” She nodded again, blaming the tingles suddenly running up and down her spine on the uncomfortable request rather than his extremely good looks. “He would not suspect anything if he believed you were courting me.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Miss Farthingale, we’ve only met twice now. The first time, I was ready to propose to you. This second time, you are proposing to me. Are the Fates trying to tell us something?”
“No. Please don’t jest about it. I only want your help.”
His humor—which was gallows humor, at best—faded. “What you want me to do is lie to your father.”
If he weren’t the size of an ox, she’d wrap her hands around his neck and throttle him. “It would only be a small, harmless twisting of the truth. After all, courtship is the reason I’ve been sent down to London. My parents hope I’ll find myself a husband. And this August heat is the perfect excuse to return to the country for a house party.”
“Gad, why do I not like the sound of that?”
She pursed her lips to stem her irritation. “We’ll invite a few friends, of course. And some family members. Would you like us to invite your brothers, Joshua and Ronan?”
“And have them spy on me as I pretend to court you?” His eyebrows shot up, and his lips twitched in the hint of a smile. “Hell, no. They’ll tattle on me to our mother. She is desperate to see me married, especially now that Romulus has done so well for himself. She tried to foist a cross-eyed duchess off on me just last week and the pigeon-toed daughter of an earl the week before that. I think she just wants me out of the house, even though it is my house, and she and my brothers live there as my guests.”
She sighed. “I’m trying to be serious.”
“So am I.”
This was more humiliating than she’d expected. Truly, what had she and Honey been thinking? The man was s
mart, wealthy, and handsome as sin. And though he was determined to make a jest of his situation, it was obvious he could aim as high as he wished for a bride. Indeed, over the course of this season, she’d seen him dance with a host of beautiful young ladies, including a duke’s daughter and several daughters of earls, none of whom had any flaws that she could see.
Countless women swooned over him.
Elegant, sophisticated, and well-connected women.
Who would ever believe he was interested in her?
Not even she believed it. She had argued with Honey over who should be the one to approach him and only agreed to do it because there was a hint of gossip about them still floating in the air.
No scandal, just the pairing of her name with his, although most people would have forgotten the reason by now.
She scrambled to her feet. “Mr. Brayden, I’m so sorry. I see now my request is quite ridiculous, and I do apologize for intruding on your busy schedule.”
He rose along with her and took her gloved hand. “Miss Farthingale…Belle, wait.”
She blinked. “Why?”
He cast her a heart-melting smile. “If I am to court you, we have some preparatory work to do. How are we to convince your father we are falling in love if we know nothing about each other?”
She felt like a mole just come out of its burrow and staring into the brilliant sun. She blinked once more. He was a dark-haired Apollo, the embodiment of a Greek god.
Warmth spread through her body. “Then, you’ll do it?”
He cupped her chin in his hand and drew her gaze to his. “I will admit, I’m intrigued. But I’d also like to set down some terms.”
“Anything you wish, Mr. Brayden. Happily, if it is within my power to grant it.”
“Anything?”
“Yes, of course. You have no idea how grateful I am to you.”
He laughed softly and shook his head. “I gather you are not the negotiator in the family.”
She winced. “Is it that obvious? No, I’m the fragrance specialist.”
“What is that?”
She felt a momentary disappointment as he released her. But his gaze remained on her, the hot gleam in his eyes making her bones melt. Or was she imaging it? This was simply his look. This is why women swooned over him. He was not paying her any particular notice. “I create the perfumes, soaps, and bath oils we sell in our shops.”
“You create them?”
She nodded. “Honey’s strength is in making the sales and setting up our distribution. I stay mostly in the back room, experimenting with various fragrances. Fruit, spices, flower blossoms. Oils and essences. I have what my family calls a delicate nose, although they mean it as a compliment. I know what will appeal to the ladies who purchase our scents.”
He glanced over her head to gaze at her maid, who had her eyes closed and seemed to have fallen asleep in her chair. “Sit down, Miss Farthingale. Tell me more about this talent of yours.”
She took her chair once again and tried to remain calm as he settled back down beside her, the glorious heat of his body wreaking havoc on her senses as he sat so close. Butterflies began to flutter in her belly. “What do you wish to know?”
“What is the scent of my cologne? Can you tell?”
“Yes, this sort of test is quite simple for me.” She did not know what it had to do with their temporary courtship, but she obliged him. In truth, she had been drawn to his divine scent the moment she’d first walked in.
Clean. Intoxicating. Refreshing.
She put her nose to his neck. Oh, this man! Her lips accidentally grazed the rough skin at his throat where his beard was starting to grow back in after this morning’s shave.
Perhaps it was not an accident her lips had strayed.
Her body seemed to respond to him in ways her brain could not control.
This could be a problem.
It would take all of her concentration to keep their courtship strictly business. How long would she have to endure? One week, just until their country house party ended and everyone returned to London? Their pretend romance would be over as soon as he discovered who was stealing from their shops.
Perhaps he would figure it out in a day.
That would be a relief, for he was much too handsome for her liking, and she was in danger of doing something very foolish. She needed to save the family business, not ruin her good name.
She’d escaped scandal at their first meeting.
She had no wish to tempt fate now.
Fortunately, she knew she would be safe with him. Why would he bother to seduce a perfume maker with bad lungs?
His lack of interest in her is what would save her.
“Your cologne,” she said, casting him a smile of triumph, “is called Claudius, and it is sold exclusively at Harrington’s. I know because it is one of our products. Bergamot and sandalwood. I matched the fragrances myself. We also use bergamot in our soothing oils. It has some excellent healing properties.”
He smiled. “I think I’m going to enjoy spending the week with you, Miss Farthingale. You are not the typical London debutante. Perhaps I ought to be worried.”
“Worried? Ah, yes. Beware, or I shall steal your heart away.” She’d need to be far more beautiful and sophisticated for that to ever happen. “No, Mr. Brayden. I promise you, I will stick to our bargain.”
He eased back in his chair and emitted a low, deep chuckle. “I wasn’t worried about you, Miss Farthingale.”
“You weren’t?” Did he mean he was at risk of falling in love with her?
She wished he would take this matter more seriously.
Despite his politeness, she knew he just wanted her to go away. That he’d agreed to help had nothing to do with her. He was intrigued by the financial mystery, just as Honey had suspected he would be.
“Save the supper dance for me at Lord Pottinger’s ball tonight. And the first waltz. We may as well start immediately. Let others take notice of my interest in you. It will be much more believable if your father hears of our budding romance from sources other than you. Then he won’t be suspicious when I show up as a guest at your country party or be overly concerned if I extend my stay for a day or two. Do you think you can feign falling in love with me?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been in love before. But I have a book.”
“A book?”
Her heart gave a lurch when he smiled at her again in a seductively tender and affectionate way.
“Yes, it is called The Book of Love. An apt title, don’t you think? It’s the one Violet gave me shortly after she married your cousin, Romulus. It’s an old book with a faded, red leather binding. Violet thinks it will teach me about love. I haven’t read it yet.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “Fear, I think.”
“Of love?”
She fidgeted with the strings of her reticule to calm herself. “I wish to fall in love, just not with the wrong man. It’s silly, I know. But I’m worried if I read this book, I’ll fall in love with the next man to come along. What if he isn’t the one meant for me?”
“Don’t you think your heart will know?” His voice was deep and divine and filled with genuine concern.
“How could it? I’ve never been romantically involved with anyone. How can I know if it is right?”
He cast her a thoughtful glance. “Love is a leap of faith, Miss Farthingale. What if I were to read the book with you? Would that make you feel better? In any event, it is an efficient way for both of us to learn more about each other. Besides, we have to understand about love if our ruse is to work. Doe-eyed panic is not going to convince anyone.”
“You’re right, of course.” She gave a wincing laugh. “Do I look that frightened?”
“No, you look lovely.”
Her heart fluttered.
Hot, buttered crumpets!
She’d never received a compliment from a man before, not an eligible bachelor who was staring at her in that seductive, I-w
ant-to-devour-you way. She understood he meant nothing by it. And he’d tossed the compliment so casually, he had to be quite expert at flirting with guileless debutantes in their first bloom.
“Yes, Mr. Brayden. I would appreciate your helping me get through The Book of Love. When shall we start?”
“Lord Pottinger’s ball will run late. How about we start tomorrow afternoon at this same time? But not at your house, or everyone will quickly realize we are faking the courtship. Not here, either. It would not be proper to have you come by my office every day. My clerks will have their ears to the door, their imaginations running wild and not a scintilla of work getting done.”
“There is a lecture series on Greek antiquities at the Royal Academy in Somerset House, not far from here. Honey and I were planning to attend. The talks are from two o’clock to four o’clock each afternoon starting tomorrow. We could meet there, perhaps find a quiet corner in the quadrangle. Honey will cover for us, of course. She’ll fill me in on what I ought to have learned at the lecture. But are you able to get away from your office for two hours each day?
“For you?” He nodded. “Yes. I’ll mark you down in my calendar as Appointment with Lady X.”
She laughed softly. “It sounds tawdry.”
He grinned. “I know. My clerks will be too embarrassed to question me about it. And who else will bother to look at my calendar?”
She rose to leave. “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Brayden. Shall we shake hands? Isn’t this what is usually done when a bargain is struck? Although what you are doing for me is more of a favor. How does one properly acknowledge that?”
He rose along with her. “Close your eyes, Miss Farthingale.”
She did and felt the feather-soft touch of his lips to hers. A brief, delicate touch. “I’ll see you at Lord Pottinger’s ball.”
She opened her eyes and put a hand to her lips, for they were suddenly tingling. “You kissed me. Is this how favors are commonly acknowledged?”
“I don’t know. A mere handshake did not feel right. However, I want you to know that you may back out of this ruse at any time. Don’t ever think you are trapped and must go along with the pretense if it feels uncomfortable. We’ll come up with another solution if we must.”
