by Erica Ridley
“Satan,” Nicholas corrected with a straight face. “If you wish to quote me correctly, I said she was Satan incarnate for having brought the latest plague upon England.”
“Satan,” Christopher mused. “No, it was a different synonym. ‘Devilish tempting,’ was it?”
“I will not help you find a wife if you keep meddling in my affairs,” Nicholas scolded his brother. He turned to Penelope. “I did not call you tempting—”
“Or Satan,” Christopher put in with a smile.
“—but I may have referred to your perfume as a plague on more than one occasion.”
“On all possible occasions,” Christopher added with a long-suffering grimace.
Virginia enveloped Penelope in a hug. “Your perfume is an even bigger success than I dreamed. Congratulations on your first plague.”
“Her… first plague?” Christopher prompted in concern.
“Aren’t there some stars we’re supposed to be seeing?” Penelope asked. “A bit difficult to do whilst still inside the castle.”
“Quite right, quite right.” Christopher proffered his elbow to Virginia. “If the mortal enemies will follow behind?”
Nicholas offered Penelope his arm and a grin. “My apologies. Chris loves stars the way wiser men love biscuits.”
“Your brother is delightful,” she replied as she took his arm. There. That would prove she wasn’t giving any special attention to Nicholas.
“He is wearing a new waistcoat,” he whispered. “Compliment him on it.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes in his brother’s direction. “It looks like the one you wore two days ago.”
“New to him,” Nicholas corrected. “Compliment him anyway.”
She made a mental note to do so. “Is he really looking for a wife?”
“He really is.” Nicholas groaned, as if the pursuit was on par with running off to become a sword-swallower in a circus.
A sudden thought soured her stomach. “You’re not trying to matchmake me off to him, are you?”
Nicholas stopped so suddenly, Penelope nearly crashed into him. His eyes were unreadable. “No. I am definitely not trying to do that.”
Because he couldn’t stand the thought of her with his brother? Or because he didn’t think her worthy of marriage? She was gently born, and had inherited a comfortable annuity. Her life might not be as ostentatious as his usual crowd, but she was still respectable.
Penelope clenched her teeth. She shouldn’t care. She didn’t want to marry Christopher, Nicholas, or anyone. Their thoughts on her eligibility were completely irrelevant. All that mattered was the experiment.
Yet the uncertainty lingered.
When they stepped outside, the wind whipped away any other words she might say before she could have a chance to regret them. ’Twas better that way. The night was cold. The air was brisk, but not freezing. She stayed flush with Nicholas’s warm side as she angled her head back to gaze up at the stars.
“Incredible,” she breathed. Without a cloud in the sky, their view from the mountaintop was a perfect blanket of stars all around them. “Do you find it beautiful?”
Nicholas didn’t say a word.
She tilted her head toward his and blinked to discover his hooded gaze on her, rather than the heavens. Her heart pounded.
They were standing too close. Their mouths were now inches apart. If he lowered his head or she rose on her toes, their lips could touch.
Her entire body tingled with proximity and awareness. She forgot about the stars, the castle, the cold. Her body had never felt warmer. Every molecule felt feverishly alive.
She needed to regain perspective posthaste.
Her rapid heartbeat was the cause of her elevated core temperature, she reminded herself. Her body’s reaction to the signs of Duchess’s success. Not to Nicholas.
But it was no use. Of course it was him. Frozen, just like her. Not from cold, but from heat. The look in his eyes said he’d very much like to kiss her. That he was considering it even still. That he was as surprised as she was, but the shock had not extinguished the desire. She held her breath and waited.
Had his head lowered a tiny fraction? Were their mouths a little closer than they were before?
There was nothing Penelope wanted more than to rise up on her toes in order to give him easier access. To give him a sign. Give him—
“Do you see Cassiopeia?” Christopher called out from somewhere up ahead. “She is still a goddess of beauty.”
The moment shattered. Penelope and Nicholas jerked their faces away from each other and up toward the sky as if nothing had happened.
Something had definitely happened.
Penelope’s heart would not stop racing. It was her first almost-kiss. Duchess was working! Her breath caught. If his brother hadn’t been a few yards ahead, if they hadn’t been standing within sight of the castle, Nicholas might have lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.
That was the next step, then. An almost-kiss wasn’t the same as a kiss. She would adjust the formula and try again. If Nicholas kissed her—for no reason at all, other than wanting to kiss her—Duchess would be a success. She was almost there.
Her entire body thrilled at being so close to winning. Or maybe it thrilled at still being flush against the warm side of the handsome rake who had almost kissed her.
Her fingers still trembled where they curved about his arm. Her chest tightened. Devil take it, she was having a physical reaction! Duchess was designed to work on men, not women, which meant her body was responding this way because of… Nicholas.
Drat. She gritted her teeth. His biology must be a match for hers. Or perhaps his unique chemistry made him a universal attractor to women. She sighed. No wonder he was such a successful rake.
No matter. She could not allow emotion to get in the way of science. She would have to stay strong. Stoic. Tonight’s marginal success would be an incremental tally in her notebook, and nothing more.
Chapter 7
Nicholas’s fingers were still on the knocker when the door swung open.
Miss Mitchell smiled at him approvingly. “You’re early.”
He raised his brows. “Did we agree on a time?”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” Her eyes twinkled at him before she disappeared from view.
He stepped inside the house and shut the door behind him. For the first time since arriving in Christmas, he had no need to stomp the snow from his feet before entering. Today was almost warm, and much of the snow had melted from the streets and walkways.
He hung his hat and coat on the rack near the door and crossed over to the mantel. No biscuits awaited, but from the rich, cinnamon-sugar smell of the cottage, they would be arriving at any moment.
Nicholas grinned. Miss Mitchell was right. He was early.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a delicate glass disc in the shape of a flower petal. He had made it just that morning. He turned it over in his hand.
On its own, it didn’t look like much. Certainly nothing like the flower he’d modeled it after. The smooth slip of glass could be a curl of anything. A scrap of nothing. Or a single glass petal. He placed it on the mantel where a saucer of biscuits had stood once before.
The glass disc was scarcely visible from a distance. A nearly invisible echo of the rose he’d brought and tossed aside because its intended recipient held no interest in meaningless gifts. Nicholas agreed. She deserved something genuine.
Glass was better than a rose. It didn’t need water, wouldn’t wilt, wasn’t slowly dying after being cut off from its roots so that its beauty might be appreciated from the comfort of one’s home.
This single petal would stay perfect forever. It would remain beautiful and whole long after Nicholas returned home and left Christmas behind.
He turned his back to the mantel and made his way into the kitchen.
The moment he took a seat on one of the wooden stools, Miss Mitchell pulled a tray of biscuits from the oven and placed it
on a square towel atop the table.
“Let them set for twelve minutes,” she said. “Then you can eat them.”
“All of them?” He leaned toward them with interest.
Her lips twitched. “If you do, you’ll be too full to try the new recipe.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘too full’ to eat biscuits,” he protested.
“We’ll see.” She gave him a knowing look. “I’m making two dozen.”
He placed his palm over his heart. “I solemnly pledge to do my very best to consume—”
“The other batch isn’t for you,” she said with a shake of her finger. “They’re for your brother.”
His mouth fell open. “Christopher gets the biscuits?”
“Christopher’s potential love interests get the biscuits,” she corrected. “He’s to hand them out at will. It should work. The only thing miserable, corseted young ladies love more than biscuits is a man who lets her eat them.”
He raised a brow. “Do you consider yourself a miserable, corseted young lady?”
“No on all four counts,” she answered cheerfully. “I prefer biscuits to corsets, and I’m quite pleased to have made that decision. At four-and-thirty, I’m too old to be young. No need for pity. I consider myself a woman of science, not a spinster.”
“You’re four-and-thirty?” he repeated in surprise.
She curtsied. “Are you appalled?”
“I should hope not,” he said. “Not when I’m six-and-thirty. We’ve got decades of ‘young’ ahead of us.”
She leaned one hip against the table. “It’s easier for men. You’re not born with a ‘wed-by’ date. All your bits work indefinitely.”
“Is ‘bits’ a scientific term?”
“It’s the ‘proper young lady’ term. I am happy to use more precise vocabulary. Shouldn’t we call things as they are properly named?”
“I’m not certain it is proper to refer to a man’s—” he cleared his throat “—bits, regardless of terminology.”
Her eyes shone with laughter. “Never say you are shocked and offended.”
“Not in the least,” he assured her. “I am always pleased when my bits are of interest. We can discuss their attributes in as much depth as you like.”
“I’m fairly certain most of England has heard all they need to know about your bits,” she said wryly and held out her palm. “Flour, please.”
He started and reflexively touched the empty pocket where he’d kept the glass petal. “I didn’t bring—”
“Right behind you. Two cups, if you please.”
He glanced over his shoulder and then back to her. “You want me to measure the baking flour?”
“I intend for you to measure all the ingredients.” She affected an imperious stance. “‘He who ate them, baked them.’”
He stared at her. “I am… fairly certain that’s not a phrase.”
“I just coined it.” She wiggled her fingers toward the counter. “Are you done measuring?”
He leapt up from his stool and rushed to the bag of flour. “What do I measure with?”
“Bring it here. I’ll show you.”
For the next half hour, they worked side-by-side.
Nicholas had no doubt the mixing of the batter took twice as long with him helping, but he had never had more fun. The flour dusting both their clothes, the smudge of butter on her cheek, every brush of her fingers against his as she showed him how to mix the dough. He grinned to himself.
Baking biscuits was his new favorite pastime.
When the first tray was finally ready for the oven, he was surprised to realize that he’d forgotten all about the original dozen cooling on the table. Those twelve minutes had long since elapsed. His eyes widened. He’d been too busy enjoying his time with Miss Mitchell to bother eating shortbread biscuits. What on earth was happening?
Miss Mitchell perched on a stool and popped one of the biscuits into her mouth. “First time in the kitchen?”
“I’ve been in scads of kitchens,” he protested.
“First time making something edible?”
“The biscuits are still in the oven,” he reminded her. “We’ll have to see.”
“It’s a good skill for you to develop,” she said. “If you offer nice enough biscuits, perhaps people will still visit you after your good looks are gone.”
He choked on his biscuit. “After my what?”
“It’s nature,” she said. “Human nature. Your features will never lose their appealing symmetry. But at some point, the rest of you will fail to meet the prevailing beauty standards. Perhaps you will be too fat or too skinny. Too bald or too hairy.” She cocked her head. “Men do tend to sprout hairs from all sorts of interesting places as they get older.”
“Is this another reference to my bits?” he asked. “I promise they haven’t been sprouting anything.”
Besides, there was no need to learn how to bake. His staff most certainly included a cook. If he wished to entertain at home, there would be no shortage of biscuits.
“You need a hobby,” she continued. “Once the whole rake boom dries up, you’ll need something to do.”
He had something to do. A secret life, forging molten glass into works of art that would never fade or age. That side of him would have to stay private. The ton would never comprehend how menial tasks could bring so much joy. They would laugh him right out of London.
Miss Mitchell understood. She had a maid on staff fully capable of baking, but preferred to get her hands dirty herself. She thought he could be more than just a rake.
Then again, she was also an eccentric lady chemist living in a remote village in the northernmost corner of all of England. In such unusual circumstances, an independently wealthy spinster could be as peculiar as she pleased.
Nicholas did not share that freedom. His hobby would have to remain a secret. If anything, he did his best to ensure that life as he knew it would never change at all.
“Your vision of me in the future is some fat, balding, white-bearded old man who sits around eating biscuits?” he enquired politely.
She lifted her brows. “What’s your vision of yourself in the future?”
He stared back at her without responding. Truth be told, he’d been concentrating too hard on each day as it passed to bother worrying about what the future held.
Her prediction terrified him. His looks were all he had. What would he be when they were gone? It would happen. Someday he would be too old or too tired or too roly-poly from excess biscuit consumption to carry on as he was now. He’d end up spending every day in his workshop. Alone.
Was loneliness his inevitable fate? Being a rake didn’t fulfill any deep passion. It passed the days. Or more precisely, the nights. It gave him a part to play in the society he lived in. When that role was gone, perhaps his part in society would disappear with it. Perhaps he would cease to matter, too.
He forced the thought away and returned his focus to Miss Mitchell. “Where do you see yourself in the future?”
Her eyes lit up at once. “In my laboratory, inventing something new. On stage, accepting an award for breakthroughs in science. In London, finally presenting my work to the Natural Philosophers Society.”
“You don’t do that now?” he asked in surprise. “I could picture you lecturing them every day of the week.”
Her smile turned brittle. “Membership is closed to lady chemists.”
“Imbeciles,” he said immediately. “Your left toe is more brilliant than any of those shortsighted fools.”
“You haven’t met my left toe,” she reminded him, lips quirking.
He wiggled his brows. “Would you like to show it to me?”
“I’d be happy to kick you with it,” she replied sweetly.
“I’d let you,” he said with a grin. “I like a woman who knows what she wants.”
“As long as the thing she wants is you?” she asked dryly.
“Or biscuits,” he said, but his throat was now tigh
t.
For the second time in the same conversation, her unveiled allusion to his rakish reputation caused a twinge of guilt. He knew she was teasing. If ever there was a woman who would find no fault in obeying the body’s urges, that woman was Miss Penelope Mitchell. And yet Nicholas could not help but wish she was wrong about him. That he could do better. That he could be better.
It was unfamiliar ground. None of his previous interactions with women had involved much talking, much less quiet introspection and meaningful revelations. He’d had encounters, not relationships.
She was forcing him to change all that.
Somehow, they had become friends. Or something far more complicated.
When Chris had asked if Nicholas had ever had a day so perfect he’d wished all others were like it, the answer had been no.
Yet he’d returned to this cottage several days in a row, with the express purpose of repeating the previous day’s delightful banter and delicious biscuits. His brother was wrong. With her, each day wasn’t the same. It was better than the last. He hadn’t expected to pour out cups of sugar and flour, squish it all together with eggs and butter, his forehead bumping hers between giggles as they bent over the same bowl of batter.
In that moment, he’d wanted nothing more than to kiss her. He could think of nothing else. Yet he also didn’t want to ruin what they had. He wanted to be able to come back. He wanted whatever tomorrow might bring.
A horrific, mind-deadening racket filled the air. Miss Mitchell calmly rose to her feet. Nicholas narrowly avoided apoplexy. He would never get used to that alarm.
She switched off the noise and pulled the biscuits out of the oven.
“Let them cool,” she warned him firmly. “Twelve minutes.”
He widened his eyes innocently. “How ever could two young, stunningly attractive people with the perfect amount of hair, possibly pass twelve long minutes?”
“I’ve an idea.” She walked out of the kitchen and crossed into an adjoining room. “Coming?”
Her idea was unlikely to be the same as his, but he was up for adventure.
He followed her into what was apparently her laboratory. It was filled with perfectly organized tools and flasks of every shape and size.
