by Erica Ridley
“You smell like biscuits,” he blurted.
“They’re cold.” She narrowed her eyes at him reprovingly. “You’re late.”
He pulled up short. “Did we agree upon a time?”
She craned her neck to peer behind him. “No flowers today?”
“You don’t like flowers,” he reminded her.
“Everyone likes flowers,” she said with a laugh.
He shook his head. “You didn’t like the one I brought.”
“You didn’t mean it. I believe you promised you’d do better.” She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “Did you?”
Nicholas shifted his weight. He had said that, and then promptly forgot. Blast. Nothing he’d ever said had mattered the second day before. “Er…”
“As I thought.” She moved out of the way. “Come on in, Mr. Disappointment.”
“Wait. I brought you this.” The stone was in his hand before he could stop himself.
She stared at it without changing expression. “It’s a rock.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
Her forehead creased. “You brought me a rock instead of flowers.”
“Yes,” he said again, wishing very much that he had not. “I’ll get rid of it.”
He began to curl his fingers about the stone in order to toss it over his shoulder in embarrassment.
She clasped her gloved hands about his fist before he could do so. “Don’t. I like it.”
He didn’t move.
She didn’t lift her hands from his.
His heart gave a strange lurch.
“You like rocks better than flowers?” he asked uncertainly.
“I like this rock.” She pried it from his hand and dropped it into the bib pocket of her smock. “You meant it. Well done.” She motioned toward the drawing room fireplace. “Your biscuits are on the mantel.”
“Er… Thank you.” He stepped inside and took off his hat. “Have you had enough time to consider my proposal?”
Too late.
She was gone.
Perhaps he had interrupted her in the midst of some experiment. No doubt she had disappeared to her dressing room in order to put herself to rights.
’Twas of no import. He had a moment to spare. After all, there were biscuits. He hurried over to the mantel where a stack of half a dozen rose from a single saucer.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he murmured, and lifted the first biscuit to his mouth. Mmm. Raisin and oat. He let his eyes close in happiness.
“Do they meet your approval?”
He spun around, neck growing hot. “That was fast. I expected you to—”
Change seemed an inopportune word if he still hoped to sweet-talk her out of Duke’s custody. It seemed Miss Mitchell had not gone to freshen up. She had gone to fetch more biscuits.
Nicholas much preferred this turn of events.
“These have cranberries,” she said. “You may only have one. I’m working on a new recipe for the reception hall.”
He lifted it from the tray with reverence. Some opined that the greatest magic of the local area was year-round Christmastide nestled high in a winter wonderland.
For Nicholas, the magic had begun when he and his brother walked into the castle’s receiving area and were immediately greeted by an enormous buffet featuring spiced wine and tall platters of fresh biscuits.
With a crooked grin, he lifted his now-empty saucer. “These are delectable. I am happy to test as many recipes as you please.”
She plucked the dish from his hand. “I’m done baking. I am far too busy to waste time on more than one new recipe a week.”
A new recipe every week? Nicholas’s breath caught. He was beginning to regret limiting his holiday to a single fortnight.
“Much too busy doing what?” he asked. With her, it could be anything.
“Experiments.” She made a gesture toward the corridor. “In my laboratory.”
At least he had guessed something right. He had begun to think he would never know what to expect with her.
Debutantes fit a certain pattern, courtesans another, the widows and fallen women who sought to spend their nights in the arms of a lover were yet another.
Miss Mitchell was different. If spinsters and bluestockings were supposed to be dull, she had broken that mold. She knew her own mind. She didn’t need Nicholas or anyone. He doubted she even allowed Mother Nature to get in her way.
“Have you considered my proposal?” he asked anyway.
“Yes.” She gave a brisk nod. “The answer is no.”
“Any price,” he reminded her with his most gallant smile. “Just name it.”
She gave him a consoling look. “I don’t need your money. I have my own.”
“I could give you more.” He no longer knew why he was so desperate for her to say yes. Was it to finally put paid to the ridiculous rakelings crawling out of the woodwork? Or was it so he would have an excuse to come back and see her? “What would it take for you to stop producing Duke?”
Her brow furrowed in thought as she considered the question carefully. “The apocalypse?”
A soft snort of laughter escaped before he could stifle it. He supposed he’d expected as much, but it had been worth the shot. “So definitely no?”
“Definitely no,” she said firmly and motioned her free hand toward the door.
The startled laugh that escaped his throat this time held no humor at all.
He had never been dismissed from a woman’s home before. The sensation was unnerving. He might not be a member of Parliament or a great inventor, but all the other ladies of his acquaintance had managed to put him to good use.
Nicholas frowned to realize that was not precisely what he wanted from Miss Mitchell. What on earth was happening? His throat tightened as he turned toward the door.
Perhaps her disinterest in making a good impression was what made Nicholas want to make a good impression on her. Or perhaps it was her surprising acceptance of a simple stone as a gift that made him wish he had more to offer.
What would it be like to have someone want to spend time with him, not just his body? To be able to be the person he truly was, not the person everyone expected to see?
A nightmare, he reminded himself firmly. He had built his walls for a reason. They kept him safe. Miss Mitchell was dangerous.
She followed him to the door and leaned one slim shoulder against the frame as he made his way out into the fading light. “If I ever catch you hanging about my doorstep again…”
He paused and glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.
She grinned at him. “There may be biscuits.”
The door shut tight before he could respond. Not that he was capable. He was smiling too widely to think of anything brilliant to say. To his surprise, the villagers had been right.
Coming here really did feel like Christmas.
Chapter 6
Penelope leaned against the wainscoting beside her friend Miss Virginia Underwood. From an unobtrusive corner, they watched guests wander in and out of the castle. Penelope was keeping tally-marks of which sorts of guests chose which biscuits.
Virginia was trying to impart an important lesson upon her. Or perhaps recounting a half-remembered fever dream. With Virginia, sometimes it was hard to tell.
“And although the noble turtledove can survive on its own,” she was saying, “it is with both its mate and the rest of its flock that it thrives.”
Penelope glanced at her sharply. “Are we talking about birds or about me? I have my flock. I don’t need a mate.”
Virginia sent her a sorrowful look. “You’re keeping tally-marks of biscuit selection.”
“That doesn’t negate the point,” Penelope muttered. “Observation is a key component of my methodology. The castle staff can report how many biscuits were consumed overall, but they won’t know which people ate which ones, or how many, or under what circumstances no biscuits were chosen at all.”
“Why do you need
to know?” Virginia asked. “You provide the recipe and the kitchen bakes the biscuits. Whichever type is more popular, they will bake more of. Why must it be more complicated than that?”
“Aren’t you curious?” Penelope asked. “If I told you men old enough to grow beards were less likely to choose lemon, and that blond children in pairs tended to choose cinnamon over nutmeg, wouldn’t you want to know why?”
Virginia’s eyes widened. “Is that true?”
“I don’t know.” Penelope lifted up her notebook. “I must observe and tally in order to find out.”
Virginia harrumphed. “Is this your attempt to replace one obsession with another?”
“What?” Penelope stammered.
Virginia raised her brows. “Do you care a single fig about biscuit consumption, or are you hoping to spy a specific biscuit consumer?”
“What?” Penelope said again.
Virginia had an atrocious habit of being perceptive.
Penelope busied herself with her notebook.
“Spread your wings,” Virginia suggested. “Show your true colors. The turtledove—”
“He is not some bird-mate,” Penelope snapped. “He’s a very bad idea.”
“Ohh,” Virginia said knowingly, as if this slip had given away everything. It probably had. “I understand. You’re afraid he’ll return to his own nest.”
“I know he’ll fly south. He’s a migratory bird.” Penelope slammed down her pencil and glared at her friend. “See what you did? Now I’m talking like you.”
Virginia crossed her arms. “What do the others say?”
“I have not asked anyone’s opinion,” Penelope enunciated clearly.
Virginia continued undaunted. “What do others say to women who do seek advice?”
“You’ve heard it all before. To attract a man, one must style one’s hair like this, commission a gown like that, flutter one’s eyes, swing one’s hips, speak in a breathy little baby voice, but only when spoken to.” Penelope snorted. “It’s hogwash.”
“Utter hogwash,” Virginia agreed. “You made the right choice by looking as drab as possible.”
Penelope blinked. “I look what?”
“After all,” Virginia continued, “It is the male who must attract his mate. The robin’s red breast, the peacock’s plumage, the lion’s mane. Beauty is their role. Your job is not to be desirable, but to be desired.”
“Well, it’s not working,” Penelope muttered.
She’d spent all day in her laboratory with the door cracked open in order to be able to hear any fortuitous raps upon the knocker outside.
None had come.
Perhaps she hadn’t worn quite enough Duchess yesterday afternoon. Perhaps Saint Nick was immune to her scent, faux or otherwise. Perhaps there were too many factors outside her control. Perhaps the experiment was over before it truly began.
“What’s wrong?” Virginia asked, her brow furrowed in concern.
“I’m working on a new perfume,” Penelope admitted. “It’s not going well.”
Virginia’s eyes sparkled in understanding. “You don’t want a mate. You’d like to mate.”
“Shh.” Penelope darted her gaze about the entrance hall to ensure no one had overheard. “Fine. I wouldn’t sob if he kissed me. But it’s not going to happen. Worse, he wants me to stop what I’m doing.”
Virginia nodded in commiseration. “He wants you to stop looking drab?”
“He wants me to stop using science.” Penelope’s teeth clenched. “He wants me to throw away my greatest success. He thinks it’s a failure. A monster that should never have existed.”
“He is probably smitten,” Virginia said. “Men say the stupidest things when they’re in love.”
“He’s not in love,” Penelope burst out. “I doubt he believes in it any more than I do.”
Virginia lifted her brows. “When has belief in love ever stopped it from happening?”
Penelope shook her head. “He lives for pleasure. I live for science. We’re incompatible.”
“Change your experiment,” Virginia said. “Tally your observations of people in love until you prove to yourself it exists.”
“I can’t prove it’s forever,” Penelope said after a moment. “One can observe instances where love does not last, but not predict with any certainty when it will.”
Virginia tilted her head. “Then what can you prove?”
“Desire,” Penelope said simply. “All animals share an impulse to mate with one another. Yet they do not mate with all individuals of their kind. They choose. It is the selection process that interests me. If it can be influenced by chemistry, I will find a way to do so.”
“Oh.” Virginia cocked a brow. “You want to be the chosen biscuit. That’s why you’re tallying.”
Penelope let out a frustrated sigh. “I do not want to be a…”
Did she? As soon as she’d heard the knock upon her door yesterday afternoon, she had dabbed on extra drops of Duchess for the experiment. Not for emotional reasons.
“I see.” Virginia gave a smile of commiseration. “You don’t want to just be part of the selection. You want to be the burnt biscuit that gets chosen first anyway.”
Penelope glared at her friend.
Virginia had the strangest way of phrasing almost everything, but she was very rarely wrong.
Penelope was burnt. Drab. Left out cold. Crumbling at the edges. But she needed to be, for the perfume trial. Her clients would want to be chosen first. They would expect Duchess to help them achieve it. If such a feat could happen for Penelope, it could be recreated for anyone. Chemistry in a bottle.
Virginia lifted Penelope’s wrist and sniffed. “Is that why you are drabber than usual?”
Penelope yanked her wrist out of Virginia’s grasp. “Is ‘drabber’ a word?”
“There isn’t a word for…” Virginia waved a hand in the direction of Penelope’s carefully chosen attire. “This.”
“Yes, if you must know. To prove the effect is due to the perfume, I must be unattractive in every other way. I can wear the oldest, most comfortable clothes in my wardrobe—”
“This particular frock should be incinerated.”
“—I can amuse myself spending an hour to make my hair as frizzy and lopsided as possible—”
“It doesn’t look like you remembered it was on your head at all.”
“—and I needn’t bother attempting to be graceful or coquettish or sultry. It’s quite freeing. Why are you being so negative about it?”
“You’re assuming the only way to attract a man is something you do with your body.” Virginia cocked her head. “What if he likes your brain?”
“No man has ever liked a woman’s brain. They’re not even convinced we possess them,” Penelope said dryly.
Virginia appeared to think this over. “He said Duke doesn’t work?”
“He said it does work,” Penelope clarified. “That’s what he hates about it.”
“Then he knows you have a brain.” Virginia leaned back against the wainscoting and closed her eyes. “You should get a pet.”
Penelope gazed up at the heavens for strength. “What would be the point of a pet?”
Virginia sighed happily. “Something to love.”
“I told you,” Penelope said. “I don’t believe in love.”
“Something to love you.” Virginia opened her eyes and clapped her hands with excitement. “I have an extra bird.”
“I do not want a bird,” Penelope said quickly. “Do not give me a bird.”
Virginia narrowed her eyes. “Are you afraid the bird won’t like you?”
“I don’t care if birds like me.”
“Are you afraid the bird won’t choose you?” Virginia insisted.
“I do not want any bird to choose me.”
“Everyone cares when they’re not chosen.”
“I don’t,” Penelope said firmly. “If interest in another person is driven by chemistry rather than personal connecti
on, the lack of it in one’s life cannot reflect negatively on oneself.”
“Ohh.” Virginia nodded sagely. “You don’t want to prove there’s a lack in yourself.”
“Are you trying to make me feel worse or better?” Penelope burst out. “You’re doing a terrible job. If I tallied every single time you—”
“Put your plumage away,” Virginia hissed. “Here comes your peacock.”
Penelope jerked her spine up straight before she remembered she was trying to be slumpy and frumpy on purpose.
Too late. Saint Nick had seen her.
He and his brother were heading directly their way.
“Miss Mitchell.” He sketched an elegant bow. “Allow me to present my brother, Mr. Christopher Pringle.”
His brother bowed. “Do call me Christopher. Two Mr. Pringles are too many.”
Saint Nick’s smile widened. “I, of course, am Nicholas. Who is this lovely lady at your side?”
Penelope swallowed. Was she supposed to curtsy? She definitely wasn’t going to curtsy. She was being dowdy and unattractive. “Virginia, meet… Nick and Christopher. Gentlemen, this is Miss Virginia Underwood.”
Virginia clasped her hands to her chest. “I am glad the winds blew you this way.”
Christopher frowned, then laughed in appreciation. “You mean to the refreshment table? All winds blow Nicholas toward biscuits. But when he saw you and Miss Mitchell, we had to ensure you ladies were enjoying your evening.”
Virginia elbowed Penelope in the ribs. “Happy? He chose the burnt biscuit.”
Penelope nudged her boot and hissed back, “Not now, Virginia.”
Saint Nick smiled. “Chris informs me that only a fool would miss seeing the stars tonight, because there’s a…” He pretended to think, and then shrugged. “I can never recall words longer than two syllables. My brother swears the sky will be lovely. Care to step outside with us and put his theory to the test?”
“Penelope loves theories,” Virginia said. “Right now, she’s working on—”
“By all means,” Penelope said quickly. “I adore nature and multi-syllable words. Your brother sounds fascinating.”
“You’re right.” Christopher grinned at Nicholas. “She is a spitfire.”
