by Erica Ridley
“Very well,” Miss Mitchell said and disappeared.
At least, Nicholas presumed she’d said very well aloud. He could hear nothing over the ungodly racket. The last thing he wanted to do was inch closer to it.
He stepped over the threshold anyway. If he came back some other time, the chemist might not allow him inside. This was his chance. The perfect, golden opportunity to… to… Good God, how could anyone think with that brain-splitting clamor rattling the walls?
“Miss Mitchell?” he shouted. Or hoped he shouted. He could not hear himself over the infernal noise. “Do you need help with—”
All sound abruptly stopped. A heavy silence filled the air so thick and so absolute it was almost more deafening than the cacophony had been.
His ears felt as though they were underwater. He couldn’t hear anything. Not the wind, not the ticking of a clock, not the noise from the street outside. Only the sound of his own startled intake of breath assured him he hadn’t been struck deaf.
Miss Mitchell appeared from around the corner, wiping a fresh dusting of white powder from her smock as if nothing of interest had occurred. “You were saying?”
Nicholas cleared his throat. “Might I ask the origin of that fascinating sound?”
“My kitchen alarm,” she said with all the same import one might give a comment upon the weather. “When I reinforced the walls to inhibit distribution of sound, I had to counteract my own efforts by inventing an alarm with even greater capabilities in order to discern its call when the sound barriers are engaged.”
The explanation engendered a dozen new questions. Why had she felt the need to cut off all sound? How had she achieved it? Why create the world’s most deafening alarm instead of leaving her door ajar? And most importantly—
“What are you cooking?” he asked.
“Baking,” she said. “My maid does the cooking. Baking is chemistry. I never pass up an opportunity for chemistry.”
Nicholas hesitated. From any other woman, a rake could correctly assume any oblique comment referencing “chemistry” to be an invitation to create some… all night long.
He was used to women coming to him entranced by tales of his prowess in a bedchamber. Sexual desire was something he understood, something he appreciated, something he enjoyed exploiting with someone who felt the same.
Miss Mitchell clearly was not that woman.
She was singularly unimpressed with his rakish reputation, and thus far remained unswayed by his looks or charm. And yet she had let him in. He straightened. Perhaps she was more open than she seemed.
He gave her a winning smile. “I would like to talk to you about Duke.”
“You have eight minutes until my biscuits are done.”
His stomach immediately growled. “What kind of biscuits?”
She glanced around the corner. “Seven and a half minutes.”
“Can we move within sight of the clock?” He flinched. “It won’t ring the same alarm again, will it?”
“Yes.” Miss Mitchell motioned for him to follow. “This way.”
She led him through a thick metal door into the cleanest kitchen he had ever seen.
Although he himself did not bake, as a lad he had learned that befriending the staff of any kitchen was the easiest way to be slipped extra treats. Over the years, he had enjoyed countless jam tartlets, fig pudding, crème brûlée…
But his favorite dessert of all remained fresh-baked biscuits. Crisp on the outside, gooey on the inside. Crumbly and sweet and delicious. Perhaps a sip of cold milk to wash it down.
“Seven minutes,” Miss Mitchell said as she hoisted herself on a tall stool near the fire.
He did the same. “I’ll cut to the chase. Duke is cheating. It must be stopped.”
She inclined her head. “Cheating how?”
He considered where to begin. “You accused me of being a rake.”
“It was no accusation. You do more than simply dabble in occasional carnal activities. You are an accomplished rake with a well-deserved reputation.”
“Exactly.” He leaned back. Although the picture she painted wasn’t ideal, she had just proven his point. “I deserve my reputation. I earned it through my actions. I did not dump it on from a bottle.”
“Yes, the dumping is problematic,” she mused. “I am investigating airborne diffusion methods. My theory is that a fine overall mist will prove far superior than concentrated doses applied to limited pulse points.”
“You have to stop,” he broke in.
She glanced up. “Because you don’t think it works?”
“Because it does work. A man shouldn’t win a woman because he purchased cologne water.”
“Do tell.” The corner of Miss Mitchell’s mouth twitched. “How should a man win a woman?”
Nicholas immediately recognized his mistake.
“No one should win anyone else,” he said quickly. “Love isn’t a game. It’s something that happens naturally.”
By some miracle, lightning did not strike him where he stood.
“Duke doesn’t promise love,” she pointed out with a laugh. “It promises easier access to women.”
Nicholas gazed at her in disbelief. Clearly, he had misjudged the situation.
“It delivers on that promise,” he agreed carefully. “Therein lies the problem. We should be upholding the standards for love, not lowering female inhibitions.”
She arched her brows. “Should we?”
What kind of question was that?
He started over. “You believe in love, don’t you?”
“No.” She chuckled. “Do you?”
“I… haven’t experienced it directly,” he hedged. She didn’t believe in love?
“But you’re searching for it?” she pressed.
“This isn’t about me,” he said. “I’m not your customer.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Then why should I care about your opinion?”
“It’s not even my opinion,” he blurted. “Don’t you know other people who believe in love?”
She cocked her head in thought. “Gloria does.”
He had no idea who Gloria was, but he was glad the lady believed in fantasies.
“There you have it,” he said with relief. “Gloria believes in love. Don’t you think she should find it? What if you discovered her in the arms of the wrong man, all because he hoodwinked her delicate senses with some five-quid manipulative odor?”
Miss Mitchell stared at him. “That is literally the entire reason men are dumping it on by the bucket. They want to be the wrong arms that hapless women tumble into.”
“And you wish to be a party to that?” he burst out in disbelief.
“It cannot happen,” she said simply. “Women aren’t ‘hapless.’ That is a fiction men choose to believe. Be logical. A manufactured scent may capture a lady’s attention, but no perfume melts away clothing. Women make choices.” She glanced over his shoulder. “Five minutes.”
Nicholas ground his jaw. Miss Mitchell was impossible. How could he make her understand? She had thus far been unmoved by appeals to love or emotion. He needed another tack. Which left the most universal motivator of all: money.
He sighed. “I’ll buy it from you.”
“Five pounds,” she said immediately. “You can find a bottle at any chemist’s shop.”
“No.” He leaned forward. “I mean the whole thing. Duke. I want full and exclusive rights over production and distribution.”
“You want to produce Duke yourself?” she asked doubtfully.
Not exactly. He planned to cease production altogether. Once distribution was up to his discretion, he would simply stop providing it. Situation solved.
He gave her his most charming smile. “Name your price.”
Chapter 4
Penelope gazed beneath her lashes at the dashing London rake seated on one of her worn kitchen stools. As before, she very much saw what all the fuss was about.
The lushly chiseled mouth, the perf
ectly symmetrical features, the golden stature of tall enough to stand out but not so tall as to make kissing ungainly. With a form like his, anything would look sinful.
Then there was his proposition. Any price she might wish, if she would just sign away all control of the one invention that had ever gained her any recognition whatsoever.
Why had he made the offer? Did he think her driven more by wealth than science? Or perhaps he had been jesting, and had not expected her to consider his proposal for even this long.
She turned to gaze at him directly, giving up any pretense that both he and his proposition were not under intense scrutiny.
No doubt the man was as arrogant as his offer. But there was something more. Something he wasn’t telling her. A puzzle.
Although she had known him for less than five minutes, his impassioned criticism of her perfume as an unfair advantage to those who had not earned the privilege had rung true.
Given that perspective, she doubted he had any intention of continuing production of her perfume, were he to gain control of the process. She tilted her head. He had very carefully refrained from false promises. Perhaps due to honor. Or perhaps an old habit from his profession as a rake.
“Is ‘rake’ a profession?” she asked curiously.
“Are you even thinking about my offer?” he exploded in frustration.
No was on the tip of her tongue, so swift and so sour she could taste it. But she swallowed the urge rather than indulge it. She, too, could be careful with her words. Just because she intended to send him to the devil didn’t mean she ought to be hasty in doing so.
“Your objection to Duke,” she said instead, “is that men who would not otherwise attract certain women are now afforded the same opportunities as accomplished rakes like yourself.”
“You see the problem.” He gave her an encouraging smile.
She nodded. “I have always seen the problem. I created Duke specifically to upset the order you’re trying to protect. To give all gentlemen the same chance. The shy ones, the bookish ones, the portly ones, the ugly ones, the awkward ones, or anyone else Society deems less worthy. Far from being unjust, Duke may be the closest to ‘fair’ that such gentlemen ever experience.”
In fact, it was the reason she began Duchess. Women needed every advantage they could get. Particularly overlooked women who deserved to be seen. People like Gloria, who believed in love but lacked dancing partners.
If the right combination of scents afforded an opportunity a woman would not otherwise have had to connect with the perfect gentleman, didn’t Penelope owe it to all women to do everything in her power to give them that chance?
“Balderdash,” Saint Nick said flatly. “The whole point of earning something is to earn it. Not circumvent it with snake oil perfume or made-up science.”
Her mouth fell open. “You don’t believe in science?”
“How can anyone take it seriously?” he asked. “For centuries, alchemists have claimed they could turn lead into gold, purify the soul with mercury, cure consumption with an elixir. None of it has worked. These fools bumbling about as faux rakes are full of nothing more than false pretenses, just like the bottle those dreams were sold in.”
The alarm went off, sending a rapid clockwork belt of three hundred nails pounding against a series of interlinked brass sheets connected to the closed door of her laboratory.
Penelope was glad for the distraction. She slid from her stool as if the unholy din wasn’t vibrating through her bones, lifted the switch to stop the alarm, and strode to her oven.
Saint Nick might have meant his words to shock her. Or perhaps he thought he was the logical one, and she the poor befuddled female incapable of viewing the larger picture. Either way, she did not want him to see the excitement brimming in her blood. He had made a far more convincing argument than he even suspected.
Just not for the case he had in mind.
She slipped her wool-lined leather mitts over her hands and opened the oven door. Out of habit, she placed the tray of biscuits atop a cotton square designed for that purpose, and closed the oven door. But her mind was back in her laboratory.
Duchess had to be perfect. That was the only choice. It couldn’t be as good as Duke. It had to surpass it.
But first, she had to prove the science. To show incontrovertible evidence that this new chemical combination worked exactly as advertised. All night, she had despaired of finding an unambiguous method of determining the latest compound’s potency.
That was, until a non-believer walked through her door.
“Have a biscuit,” she ordered.
He lifted his hand eagerly but then narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “I thought you said I had to leave when the alarm sounded.”
“I only promised to listen to you until then.” She tossed her leather mitts atop the counter and began to tidy the kitchen. “Are you peckish or not?”
The allure of fresh biscuits seemed to win out over his much-deserved suspicion. “May I have a plate?”
“Find one.”
While her uninvited guest was thus occupied, Penelope slipped across the hallway into her laboratory to dab a drop of the working version of Duchess behind her ears and on her wrists.
Saint Nick was the perfect test subject. He didn’t believe in perfume or science, but rather his own mind. Indeed, the deck was stacked delightfully against her.
He knew she was a perfumer. Believed she was the sort of alchemist who thought the right science could turn anything into something else. He would not trust her or her motives for a single second.
She was likewise a perfect control subject. Not only a spinster, not only a virgin, but one who had never been so much as flirted with before. If Duchess worked on Penelope, if it could win even the smallest token of affection from a rake who was already set against her, it would be an unarguable success.
’Twas the perfect experiment.
In order to prove her theory, Saint Nick needed to become overset with enough emotion to try to kiss her. Not that she would allow such a liberty.
For the kiss to be valid, it would need to be attempted for no reason other than him being unable to hold his passions at bay.
A peck of the cheek would not count. A brush of the lips against the back of her hand in greeting would not count. A manipulative wooing in an attempt to talk her into selling Duke would not count.
Only the sort of kiss that came from within would qualify. An unplanned kiss. The sort one fought against and only gave into when no choice remained but to indulge an overwhelming desire.
Not that Penelope had ever experienced any such event. She’d remained so far up on the shelf for so long that even wallflowers pitied her. She was old. Finished. She smirked. If the thought of kissing her were to cross any man’s mind, it would be a miracle at thirty-four years.
Penelope didn’t believe in miracles. She believed in science. Chemistry. Opportunity. It was time to start. She took a deep breath.
Well-meaning friends were always trying to get her to look different in order to be attractive, to be different in order to deserve love. Sweeter, flirtier, prettier. Become something men desired.
For this experiment to work, she was going to have to do the opposite. She narrowed her eyes. Duchess needed to let a woman bewitch a man without even trying.
First step: limit external influences.
There was no looking-glass in her laboratory, so she would have to do this part by feel. She tugged her already careless chignon a little more lopsided and tightened her battered smock about her neck. Next time, she would take care to make herself appear even more unappealing than usual. For now, she had to hurry. Saint Nick was bound to wonder where she was off to.
When she dashed back into the kitchen, she pulled up short. He was systematically demolishing biscuit after biscuit, consuming each with such care and sensual delight she quite doubted he had noticed her absence at all.
Her lips quirked at the sight. Although she hadn’t baked t
he biscuits with Saint Nick in mind, she rather wished she had. Who knew watching a man consume something she created would be so satisfying?
“How are the biscuits?” she asked.
He jumped guiltily as if he’d forgotten Penelope altogether. She was not surprised. She hadn’t been wearing Duchess. Now that she was, he would not forget her a second time.
“Does your offer still stand?” she asked.
He snuck the last crumb before setting his plate aside. “You’ll sell me the rights to Duke?”
Under no circumstances. But Duchess needed time to work. Penelope was still refining the final characteristics. She didn’t expect men to swoon at first sniff. Repeated exposure was the key. This could take days. She had to ensure he spent a measurable amount of time in scent range.
She leaned against the door jamb. “I promise to think it over. Come back tomorrow.”
He abandoned the remaining biscuits with obvious remorse and reluctantly turned toward the doorway.
She was still standing there.
He could have squeezed past her.
She could have moved aside to give way.
Instead, they found themselves toe-to-toe, door jambs at their backs, with only a whisper of space between. Just enough room for Duchess to work.
“Thank you for the biscuits.” He gave her a boyish smile.
She tried not to smile back. “Thank you for the flower.”
“My pleasure.” His eyes twinkled. “That is, until you left it lying on the ground like rubbish.”
“It was rubbish,” Penelope assured him. “Try harder next time.”
His brow furrowed. “Try harder to what?”
“Whatever you’re trying to do. Surprise me.” There. Duchess should have reached his nostrils by now. Penelope moved out of arm’s reach and motioned toward the door. “I’m sure the rose is still out there. There’s time to give it to someone who would appreciate it.”
“No,” he said quietly, his blue eyes intense on hers. “You’re right. The rose was meaningless. I’ll do better.”
But he made no move to exit.
