by Erica Ridley
“What am I doing?” he gasped, and reared back in obvious horror. “Miss Mitchell, please accept my deepest apologies. I—”
“Penelope,” she whispered.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Penelope, I’m so sorry. This was… I have to go.”
Before she could answer—if indeed she was capable of forming coherent thoughts—he swept his hat back onto his head and rushed out the door.
Penelope sagged against the closest wall and tried to catch her breath. Or her thoughts. At this point, regaining any sort of equilibrium would be a miracle. This afternoon had been a revelation.
He liked her freckles. He liked her mouth. He liked kissing her.
She closed her eyes and groaned. Devil take it, she liked him. It wasn’t just an experiment. It had turned into something more. For her, anyway. For him… She brought her fingertips to her lips as if she could keep his kiss pressed there forever.
Foolish girl. She’d gotten what she wanted, hadn’t she? The trial was over. Duchess worked. They were done.
No. She dropped her hand from her mouth and pressed her fists to the wall. It was a good start. Duchess might be working, but more evidence was needed.
Anyone could steal a kiss. No one purchased expensive perfumes for that. They wanted something more. They wanted everything. She could do no less.
The sexual act was an unequivocal criterion. A biological imperative. It was chemistry. Something she understood. Something Duchess ought to be able to help facilitate, if she was ever going to bring it to market. She could not give up field research now.
All in the name of science, she reminded herself firmly. Her sudden interest in participating in a mating ritual firsthand wasn’t about her wants and desires. She wasn’t falling for Nicholas. She was simply performing thorough research. As a student of nature.
She lifted her wrist to her nose. The scent was light, but still there. Not that there had been any doubt. He had kissed her. She could still taste him on her lips.
Penelope gazed bleakly in the direction of her laboratory, unable to smile at her success. The better her perfume worked, the less she wished it would.
She wanted Nicholas’s kisses to be real.
Chapter 9
“Thank you for meeting me,” Nicholas said as he strode into the castle library.
“The wind does not meet the river, but flow together until they part,” Miss Virginia Underwood replied thoughtfully.
Nicholas blinked. “Am I the wind or the river?”
“Dasher is no longer in my possession,” she announced. “He is being cared for in the aviary, along with Dancer.”
He tried to follow along. “Who is Dancer?”
“The partridge.” She clasped her hands in joy. “The aviary population has doubled in size.”
“The aviary’s inventory has soared all the way up to two birds?” he asked. “That’s… Congratulations.”
She gave him a beatific smile. “How can I help you?”
Nicholas was beyond help, really. He could not stop thinking about the kiss he’d shared with Penelope. It was only a kiss. How did he end up like this?
All of his previous liaisons had been with women with whom the scheduled activities were a foregone conclusion. There wasn’t much else. Certainly no romantic kissing. And definitely no long conversations, or baking teams, or funny moments only the two of them understood.
He had no idea what to think about Penelope. Or what to think to do about any of it. So he had resolved to take his mind off her the only way he knew how. Return to his workshop.
What he needed was a new obsession. He’d rented the smithy for the rest of the week, and intended to lose himself in crafting a new mold. The more complicated, the better.
Although he doubted anything could be more complicated than the strange new emotions warring in his chest.
“They tell me you are an animal expert,” he said.
Miss Underwood pursed her lips. “We all have passions.”
“Do you know about turtles?” he asked quickly.
He didn’t want to think about his passions. Turtles were a far safer topic. Their lives were simple, their shells complex. It would take intense concentration to design a mold with full accuracy. It was exactly the project he needed.
Miss Underwood’s eyes grew wary. “Can anyone know turtles?”
“I don’t mean their personalities.” He pulled a small sketchbook from his pocket and opened to the most recent drawings. “I tried to capture as much detail as I could, but I’m relying mostly on memory. Is this turtle similar to the specimens local to Christmas?”
“Nothing is similar to that drawing.” Miss Underwood wrinkled her nose. “It’s an abomination.”
“It is not an abomination.” Nicholas straightened the sketchbook. “It’s a turtle.”
“Not any turtle known to man,” she countered. “You’ve combined the retractable head of the Cryptodira with the larger carapace of the Pleurodira. And you’ve drawn the shell with fourteen scutes, which is either one or two scutes too many, depending on—”
His heart sang in relief as she listed her complaints. Turtles were complicated. He would have no time at all to think about Penelope. Researching the different shell contours and toe webbings would keep his mind more than occupied.
“What you meant to draw,” Miss Underwood informed him, “are turtledoves.”
“I absolutely meant to draw a turtle,” he assured her.
“Because they come out of their shells?” she asked. “Noble and honorable creatures. But you meant to capture a turtledove. They mate for life.”
“I’m not interested in mates,” Nicholas said hastily. “Just a single, solitary turtle. One.”
“Turtledoves,” Miss Underwood repeated. “Turr, turr.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“Turr, turr,” she trilled, accompanying the coo with a gentle flap of her arms. “You may recognize the sound as the call of a turtledove seeking its mate.”
“I’m not trying to learn its language,” Nicholas said. “I’m trying to draw it.”
“You should stop thinking of women like biscuits,” she scolded him.
“What?” he choked out.
She crossed her arms. “You can’t just eat one and then immediately go on to the next one.”
“That is exactly how people eat biscuits,” he said. “It is the only way. What does it have to do with anything?”
“Wait here.” Miss Underwood made an about-face and disappeared amongst the stacks of books.
Before Nicholas could decide whether or not he was meant to follow, she reappeared with a slim volume in her hand. “Sketches from the Royal Ornithology Society. Turtledoves, pages eighty-eight to ninety-three.”
He accepted the book. There was no other option. “Do I need to sign my name somewhere, or…?”
“Is your sketch for Penelope?” she asked.
“It is not for Penelope,” he said quickly. “I doubt she’s an aficionado of the genre. There are no objets d’art in her cottage.”
Miss Underwood eyed him knowingly. “So when you enter her home, you know you are looking for something. You thought it was art. It is not.”
“What is it I am searching for, O Wise One?” he said in exasperation.
She flapped her arms. “Turr, turr.”
“You’re wrong,” he said firmly. “You have no idea what I’m doing. This project is for me. I’m not looking for anything else.”
“But is Penelope?” Miss Underwood asked archly, then turned and walked out of the library.
Nicholas glared after her in consternation.
The only thing Penelope sought was a chemical combination for her new perfume. She was far too busy for anything else. Her life was full of interests and hobbies and activities. The baking and laboratory experiments alone gave her little time to be sitting around thinking about life, or turtledoves, or Nicholas. She wasn’t the least bit clingy. A trait he respected i
n a woman.
Penelope had never once paid him an unexpected call, or begged him not to leave when his visits came to a close, or—
Good God. Nicholas snapped up straight in horror. He was the clingy one.
He hurried from the library. He had to get to the smithy, quick. Prove to himself he had plenty of better things to do than sit around reminiscing about a steamy kiss he’d shared with a lady chemist. He paused with his hand on the banister.
What if Penelope would consider mating for life? She might not believe in love, but she believed in nature. As a woman of science, she might very well select a biologically ideal candidate amongst the local gentlemen and wed him out of a sense of duty to the continued propagation of humankind.
Worse, she might find someone she liked. Someone truly perfect for her.
Nicholas’s stomach turned. He didn’t want her to fall for someone else. Nor could he see how such an eventuality could be prevented. Better gentlemen routinely offered things Nicholas had never considered. They were willing to promise an entire life, when Nicholas had only ever been willing to give a single night.
He forced his feet to continue their descent down the spiral stairs. It didn’t matter. He was only here for a few more days. No need to complicate matters further.
Once he was gone, Penelope would forget him. And he… He would go back to the way things were. The way they’d always been.
Rather than lift his spirits, the realization made his chest feel empty.
He slid his hand into his pocket to ensure the sketchbook was still there, nestled against the slim volume of ornithology.
Feathers were a thousand times more intricate than turtle shells. He’d design a partridge. It would take hours of concentration to blow glass delicately enough to do it any justice. He might not leave the smithy for the rest of the week.
When he reached the foot of the stair, he strode toward the castle exit.
He didn’t make it.
Penelope was standing near the refreshment buffet.
His feet were already turned in her direction.
Her eyes brightened when she saw him. She gestured to the young lady at her side. “Nicholas, this is my friend Miss Godwin. Gloria, this is Mr. Nicholas Pringle.”
Gloria, who believed in love.
The first conversation he’d had with Penelope came rushing back. Duchess was for women like this one. Penelope was a good friend.
He made an elegant leg. “The pleasure is mine.”
Miss Godwin neither simpered nor curtsied. She glanced between him and Penelope, widened her eyes, and took an unsettled step back. “Lovely to meet you. I have to go. The waxing gibbous moon is… waxing.”
She all but ran off, as if the cosmos required her immediate attention.
“I don’t think your friend approves of me,” he said dryly.
Penelope’s expression grew wicked. “She may have mentioned that she finds your brother superior.”
Nicholas brightened. “Did she?”
“Don’t be offended,” Penelope assured him. “Attraction is the result of a complex mixture of factors, including olfactory scents and receptors.”
“I wasn’t offended,” Nicholas answered. “I am thrilled to hear Christopher’s olfactory whatsits are superior to mine.”
“Or it could be Gloria’s receptors,” Penelope said slowly. “I’d have to test to be sure. Did you become a rake due to environmental influences or your innate chemistry?”
“What?” he stammered. “Is that something you can test for?”
“I don’t know.” She tilted her head to scrutinize him. “It would be a fascinating study. How would you describe the formative impact of the male figures in your life during your childhood?”
“Look at the time,” Nicholas said quickly. “I turn into a pumpkin every day at…”
Penelope glanced at the clock in the receiving hall. “Half four in the afternoon?”
“Precisely at half four,” he agreed. “It’s a common condition. Details are well-known. No need to do any studies.”
“Drat,” she said with a little sigh. “I do love studies.”
That was part of what made her so dangerous.
He didn’t want to expose his childhood or his emotions. If he were a turtle, he would have no intention of giving up his thick shell. He didn’t even like to talk about last week, much less his past. Life was simpler that way.
But a woman like Penelope would never take Sorry, I’m a turtle as an excuse. An experimental chemist like her would want to investigate all his hidden facets. Poke him, prod him, until every secret he had ever held was hers to judge, and react as she would.
Nicholas could not think of a worse end to a relationship.
“Did I catch you entering the castle or leaving?” he asked to change the subject.
“Leaving.” She held up a small notebook. “I was just making some quick tallies of this afternoon’s biscuit distribution.”
Nicholas had no idea what that meant, but he did like biscuits.
And Penelope.
A frisson slid over his skin as he realized just how much he really liked her. It gave her power over him. It made him vulnerable. He did not want to consider how he would feel to discover the feeling was not reciprocated. That he was nothing more than a test subject to be studied.
He swallowed the agonizing thought, and proffered his elbow. “May I see you home?”
“Thank you, kind sir.” Penelope curled her fingers about his arm with a smile.
A sudden flap of wind fluttered his coattails as someone ran past, right behind them.
“Turr, turr,” came the gurgling coo.
Penelope startled. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” He all but dragged her toward the door before she could glance behind him.
“Was that Virginia?” she asked.
“I think it was a bird.” He changed his mind. “Or a madwoman.”
“They should put her in charge of the aviary,” Penelope said. “Perhaps she would meet a nice gentleman who shared her interests.”
“I don’t think a two-bird aviary requires more than one person in charge,” he said dryly.
“I meant a gentleman customer.” Her eyes widened. “Are there two birds now?”
“Miss Underwood donated Dasher.” He led her around a small puddle. “Are there many clients, male or otherwise, who visit a one-bird aviary?”
“If there are,” she admitted with a smile, “I am certain they would have plenty in common with Virginia.”
Nicholas tried to imagine Miss Underwood presiding over a two-bird aviary, giving her unique style of lecture to a gentleman who had traveled there for expressly that purpose. He could not decide if a comedy or a tragedy would ensue.
“She is such a kind soul,” Penelope said softly. “She’d be the perfect candidate for Duchess.”
“All men don’t throw themselves at Miss Underwood’s feet?” he teased.
Penelope frowned. “They should.”
Nicholas tried to imagine a world in which England’s most eligible bachelors were drawn to a remote village to swoon before Miss Underwood.
“God help us all,” he muttered.
Penelope glanced up at the clouds. “I wonder if she’ll ever marry.”
He shrugged. “Does she want to?”
“Aren’t all women supposed to want to?” she countered.
He paused. “Do you want to?”
“I’ve never wanted to.” She glared at the horizon. “I don’t see the point. Passion is chemistry. No other species complicates a perfectly natural act with dowries and courtships and boring sermons no one is listening to because their stomachs are growling.”
“Is that all marriage is?” For some reason, the thought disappointed him. “Unnecessary pomp and circumstance tacked on to a purely biological coupling?”
He regretted the question as soon as it was out of his mouth. Why was he arguing against her? He wasn’t trying to talk her
into marriage. It would be beyond hypocritical to claim finding a bride as some sort of goal he had been working toward at any point in his life.
So why did it feel as though a knife twisted in his chest every time Penelope mentioned she had no need for love or passion or marriage? He should be glad. He’d be leaving soon. What she did or didn’t do with her life after he was gone was none of his business.
But it felt like his business. It was all he could think about. Her lack of interest in a romance with him. The possibility of her changing her mind with someone else. Someone better. Someone… marriageable.
He tightened his jaw and forced himself to rein in his fears. They didn’t matter. He had to stay emotionless. These moments with Penelope were nothing more than an unusually prolonged encounter. He should treat it as no different than any other meaningless rendezvous.
Perhaps they would come together in… Natural human nocturnal behavior. Perhaps they wouldn’t. Either way, it would soon be over. If she wished for physical intimacy, he would be delighted to oblige but he knew better than to involve his heart.
“What is it like to have a brother?” she asked.
He glanced over at her. “You have no siblings?”
“Does it show?” Her expression turned curious. “Is Christopher also a rake?”
“Christopher is not a rake.” He forced himself to ask. “Does it bother you that I was one?”
Am. Surely he’d meant am.
“Not at all,” she said in surprise. “One cannot fight one’s nature. You’re you. You should stay you.”
His gut twisted. She had meant no insult, yet her easy acceptance felt more like a rebuke than a compliment.
Was being a rake truly his destiny? It might have become second nature over time, but that had been due to habit. If it was important for a man to be true to his essence, did he even know who that was?
Or was this another of her tests?
“You don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a rake?” he asked suspiciously.
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think there’s something wrong with being a spinster?”
