by Suzi Love
Beside him, Laura gasped, loud and long, and when he turned towards her, those incredible eyes widened with awe and pleasure, and her mouth open with speechless wonder. In fact, her eyes had held the same unfocused glazed look as when she’d climaxed in his arms. An image that tightened his muscles and sped his pulse. He wanted to taste that pleasure on her skin and place his mouth over her wide-opened one.
She placed her hand on his coat sleeve, pressing down in her excitement. “It’s… it’s…”
“I hope you are about to say it’s incredible and a credit to its architect,” a deep honeyed voice said from directly in front of them. “Not that it’s a frivolous waste of money.”
The owner of the voice that brought women everywhere to their knees, stepped up to meet Laura’s eyes and held out his hand to her. By habit, she extended her own and he lifted it to his lips to place a lingering kiss upon her gloved hand.
“Ahem.” He deliberately dispelled the tension filled moment. “Gerard, must I remind you that a true gentlemen never actually lays his lips upon a lady’s glove. The idea is to hover above it.”
His friend grinned, but didn’t move his direct gaze from Laura’s eyes and kept his hold on her fingers. “Like a circling hawk, readying itself to pounce on its prey.”
He reached across and removed Gerard’s fingers from Laura’s. “Did I not request that you behave yourself if I brought her to meet you? I also asked you to be suitably attired.”
All three of them looked down at Gerard’s chest, a deep slash of it exposed in the opening of his lawn shirt.
“I donned this shirt in courtesy to a young lady’s sensibilities.” He dipped his head to Laura, who still hadn’t spoken.
Winchester rolled his eyes. “Suitably attired includes a vest, coat and cravat.” He glanced down. “And stockings and shoes.”
“I prefer these Dutch clogs. Much more comfortable for pottering around my laboratory.”
Laura’s eyes flared with interest. “Laboratory?”
Gerard smiled at her. “Richard told me that would capture your interest. You are a distiller and a perfumer, he tells me. Fascinating.”
Richard took Laura’s arm and drew her away from Gerard. He indicated the conservatory, where towering palms grew towards the glass panels in the rooftop and row upon row of exotic plants vied for space in the humidified atmosphere.
“Shall we explore?”
Gerard laughed, but turned to show them the way down an aisle filled with flowering orchids. “Lady Laura, what our friend here tell me about you.”
“Only that you shun society. And yes, Richard, I can now understand why.”
“Ludicrous isn’t it? Though apparently your younger sister suffers the same inconvenience.”
“She does, although we have learned to utilize her stunning attractions for the good of our cause. We dangle her as bait to attract the fishermen with the most catch to display.”
“Ah, a euphemism for coercing men of the ton into spilling their secrets.”
“I’m certain, with your strikingly handsome looks, you’ve found a way to use your to gain you something.”
“Gerard dangles himself as bait, and the women jump like eager fish into his catch basket and beg to be eaten.”
Laura chuckled. “What a skill to possess. I imagine Richard is green with envy.”
“Ah, but now he has you, Lovely Laura, it is I who is envious.”
“I don’t have anyone,” Richard muttered.
Gerard flashed him a grin, before draping a lazy arm around her shoulders and walking beside her towards the back of the conservatory, heads together, new friends already. He tried not to allow it to niggle him, although it did, as he’d instigated this rendezvous for a purpose. They reached Gerard’s workroom and, with a flourish, he threw open the door and allowed Laura to proceed him.
Again she gasped. “This is even more incredible than your greenhouse. Did you design this as well?”
“I did.”
“Quite staggering how much you remind me of my younger sister. She also tunnels her intelligence into creative projects as a way of compensating for all the hours she must spend on display, pretending to be nothing more than a beautiful woman. You’ve also found outlets for your talents to counterbalance your…ah…”
As he caught up to them, Richard said, “Please, don’t let my presence stop you describing my friend’s attributes. He adores it so much. Women call him an Adonis. An angel. Compare his perfect features to a cherub’s.”
“Very droll, Richard. I loathe it. Nature endowed me blond hair and blue eyes and a dark complexion so, for some inscrutable reason, a rumor began in society that I am some sort of God. A lucky charm. And that by being bedded by me they absorb some of my cherubic qualities. Stuff and nonsense, I know. As any intelligent person does. But nobody ever claimed that those who inherit titles also inherit intelligence.”
Gerard guided Laura to a lengthy workbench, stretching along one entire wall. Set up at regular intervals were a myriad of thin glass flasks set in wire stands over small burners. Hundreds of small vials and bottles lined up like soldiers on narrow, especially-built shelves.
“This is where I conduct my experiments. I’ve been collecting pollens and seeds from plants and flowers and using a number of different methods, trying to create new variations on several old receipts for medications. My parents were noted scientists. They inspired my interest in curatives, preventatives and the mixing of them.”
Laura became excited. “Many of your experiments must overlap mine. I distil plants, leaves and barks and mix the oils I extract into treatments for many common ailments to treat my family and friends.”
“I know you also have an acute sense of smell,” Gerard said. “I, too, have done research into something of that sort. In some cultures where men are allowed more than one woman, a husband chooses his woman for the night by how they smell. It is said that he can pick the woman who is most ready to conceive his child by her general scent.”
“That is the theory I have been testing but it hasn’t worked. I thought by sniffing men and detecting their pheromones, I could find a husband.” She flicked a quick glance Richard’s way, but her excited words were directed at Gerard. “Can you tell me why my theory isn’t working?”
“Have you considered that it is working but in reverse?”
Richard watched Laura frown, rub her forehead, try to puzzle that out in her quick brain. “I am afraid I do not understand.”
Gerard gestured at Richard. “The man can also chose by scent. You should allow Richard the chance. The results may surprise you. I now believe that when two people belong together, either one of them may detect the other first. Or notice first.” He beckoned. “Richard, explain to Laura what you told me. About her scent.”
When Laura looked at him with raised brows, he stepped closer to her and took her hands. “I started thinking about your ideas. The frustration you’re feeling that you’re wasting your evenings searching ballrooms looking for an invisible man. I wanted to help you. In any way I could. So, I asked Gerard how it linked to his own research and how it would affect yours and he explained that although your theories were sound and had been proven by scientists who had researched primitive tribes in several countries and–”
“Richard, slow down,” Laura said, as Gerard chuckled quietly beside them. “You sound nervous. Like Aunt Aggie, when she is excited about something and can’t stop talking.”
“Allow me, my long-winded friend. If we wait for you to complete your explanation, our luncheon will be cold. Not only can the women in other cultures scent their mates. Men are also capable of doing that.”
“Perhaps, Richard, you could demonstrate to Laura what you mean.”
“I know your scent and can recognize you in a crowd of people. Your aroma calls to me.”
“Ha! That theory is contradicted before you begin, because I do not wear any scent.” She stabbed a finger in the direction of his chest. “It inte
rferes with my ability to detect the natural odors in others.”
Turning to Gerard, he threw his arms wide. “Do you now see what I suffer here? She argues over every minor detail. This stubborn termagant is so opinionated over this particular matter that she refuses to listen to anyone else’s ideas. She makes everything in our lives far more complicated than they need to be.”
She stomped one booted foot on his own. Hard. He jerked his leg back away from her reach, so she could not repeat the insult as he pointed a finger towards her nose. However, his mouth twitched. He could never remain angry at her for long.
“Will you please stop doing that,” he pleaded, circling his finger near her nose. “My valet is becoming upset that the shine he takes hours to perfect is being scrubbed away from every pair of boots I possess. Do you truly imagine that I spend countless evenings in your company, yet I cannot recognize that the only aroma that clings to your skin is your natural scent? The ones you absorb as you go about your day.”
She frowned and him, planting her hands on her hips in her normal belligerent stance.
“You are full of fustian.”
“When I prove my idea correct, you’ll be required to pay me a forfeit.”
He held up a hand before she spoke. “One I will devise at a later time. We wouldn’t wish to embarrass our host.”
Gerard grinned. “Please, don’t mind me. I’m enjoying myself. Perhaps I should take a notebook, and write my findings and conclusion from this interesting experiment.”
Richard glared at his friend but he paid no attention, staring at Laura in an irritatingly intense manner.
“Very well,” Richard said. “On Mondays, you carry the odor of lemons about your person, after you’ve helped with the linen and bedding at the fallen women’s shelter. I assume you are involved in preparing beds for women and children who are escaping untenable situations, and need a place to rest and regain themselves.”
Ignoring Laura’s stunned look he continued, “Two Wednesdays each month, you return to your house smelling of the forest. Like the pine trees and cones you’ve spent the day helping the children from orphanage collect and load on wagons. You enjoy ensuring those visits to the country give them enough wood to burn in their fires.”
“I–I had no idea. Your nose must be very sensitive.”
He shook his head. “The only person about which I’ve acquired this intense sense, what soap they’ve used, what petals they’ve used in their hair rinse, or what lotion they use to soften their hands….is you. Only you, my love.”
Gerard broke the growing tension between them. “You shouldn’t be discouraged, Laura, as I’m certain your skills would allow you to discern the same sort of everyday scents about our friend.”
“But all I ever detect on him is the cologne I mix for him. Bergamot and lemon. The soap I blend especially for his use.”
Gerard said, “Don’t you detect other things about him? Things giving you a sense of the activities Richard’s followed during that particular day?”
“Well, yes, of course. Because he doesn’t always apply cologne.”
She turned to him, standing so close he could smell today’s visiting scent.
“Roses today, in the lotion on your hands. You intend paying visits to some older ladies, ones who appreciate very subtle floral fragrances drifting around them as they drink tea and reminisce.”
He grinned at her. And she smiled back, a genuine smile of understanding.
Perhaps it would be all right after all.
Perhaps she would give them a chance. It was all he asked.
“On Mondays, you smell…male.”
“Male doesn’t sound terribly pleasing. Amongst well-bred gents who frequent the toffiest clubs to pose, one daren’t mention people perspire.”
“A little perspiration is good,” Gerard added.
“It could be classed as one of those essentially strong male caveman smells which attract the, supposedly, weaker gender. The need of a woman for a protector.”
“You attend boxing bouts and, knowing you as I do, you put every ounce of effort into winning each round. Therefore, your clothes will absorb the perspiration from those efforts. Not a repulsive smell. Simply a strong one that indicates the activity it took to achieve it. On Thursdays, after you’ve been to Tattersall’s, you’ll naturally carry the smell of horses, leather and men smoking. It clings to your coat and to you skin. I’ve been ridiculously narrow- minded over this issue, haven’t I?”
“No, no,” Gerard assured her, grasping her hand and earning himself a sharp grunt in disapproval.
“Yes, yes. I realize now that Richard’s smell is one of everyday comfort and familiarity, and I completely ignored it as I refused to name the subtle layers of his scent. I believed the ones I mixed for him so suited his characteristics that I arrogantly looked no deeper. Good gracious! What sort of a scientist am I? I skewed the results in whichever favor suited my purpose.”
She turned to him. “Please, please accept my sincerest apology, Richard. I truly believed the only scents you liked were mine, the ones I created.”
“Tell her the entire story, Richard.”
“Well, in truth, I don’t particularly like the strength of the bergamot you mix for me. It makes me sneeze.”
Her hand went to her mouth as she tried, unsuccessfully, to smother her loud gasp. She shook her head back and forth. Backed away from them.
“All those times you sneeze. I caused them. You have an allergy to the orange base in the oil.”
She groaned and dropped her head. “Oh, no. I’ve remembered now. In your youth, eating too many oranges gave you a rash. Why, oh why, did you not tell me? Why did you wear it?”
He looked at her and shrugged. “You created it. Of course I’d wear it.”
“I’m mortified over my own stupidity. You suffered such discomfort simply to not upset me.”
“We’re friends. I didn’t want to upset you. Besides which, my reaction to oranges is a minor discomfort. Not worth mentioning.”
“Of course it’s worth mentioning, you conciliatory idiot.”
She hit his arm again.
“We may disagree, argue, and irritate each other.”
She tried to stomp on his foot, but he jerked it back in the nick of time.
“But I would never, ever, wish you harm.”
Chapter Nineteen
Around midnight, Laura pulled her over-large man’s coat tighter around her shoulders to stave off the chill from the damp corridor, as she tramped along behind the laughing men. Their plan—hers, to be truthful—to walk in the front door as patrons of a brothel, had gone awry. Desperately, stupidly, awry.
Behind her, the stomp of Richard’s footsteps should have offered some comfort, but she knew his prolonged silence indicated the level of his anger. When they’d concluded, over luncheon at Grosvenor Square, that a visit to this particular establishment had become a priority, he’d insisted that he, Brian and Tony would take care of the matter. Then his cousins had rushed off to assist in the arrest of six identified members of the Syndicate involved in the abduction of their friend, Longman.
Richard insisted on waiting. She persisted with the argument that, by the next night, the evidence they’d been told existed in this brothel would’ve been moved, as the ownership had changed hands. This little adventure had been to collect enough written evidence to prove that Lady Hetherington owned this pleasure house as one of several she’d acquired by illegal means. It was one of the girls working there who had sent an urgent message to Jamison House.
The brothels might have been acquired by coercion and blackmail, but the cunning lady intended selling them now, one by one, and using her ill-gotten gains to purchase every share she could in the new railway extensions. Thus turning dirty money into clean money. The woman might be mad, but underneath that craziness was a shrewdness that had led them a merry chase for weeks. Now, tonight, they were moving in on her. Or so they had thought.
Laura
had made one teeny weeny little mistake in her calculations. A mistake he obviously intended holding against her forever. Judging by the unnecessarily heavy stamp of booted feet behind her, and the angry mutterings interspersed with swear words she’d never heard before, Richard’s head of steam was building to an explosion. An explosion aimed at her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered over her shoulder. “Are you ever going to speak to me again?”
“No.”
“How could I have predicted those men would want me that…that disgusting way?”
“What did you expect?” His words were as cold as the walls they passed. “You came to a brothel, and you dressed like a prostitute. Men come here with the express intention of doing …that! They come to do many sordid and disgusting things with the women who work here.”
“I– I–” She sniffed.
“You’re not crying, are you?”
“Of course not,” she lied. “The cold is making my nose run. But truly, Richard, call me naïve if you wish, but nothing Madame Faberge explained to us involved six men purchasing one woman. Plus, I always assumed that even a brothel worker would be given a moment to formulate their reply when the offer involved an uneven number of participants. To decide if they were rested enough to participate in a–a–”
“An orgy?” The word was offered with acute sarcasm. “And whatever possessed you to call yourself Madame Fabergé? Every one of those gentlemen will visit her establishment on a regular basis. They’ll know she has red hair, not black. They’d know that the idea of six men and one woman wouldn’t send Madame Fabergé into a blue fit. Nor would a true bordello Madame slap the faces of the wealthy men suggesting it.”
“I didn’t think–”
“That’s the problem with you, Laura. You don’t think. You rush in. You place yourself in danger. It’s far, far too frightening for me to keep enduring. When we’re married, when you’re my wife, I’ll not allow you to take such risks.”
“Married? Wife? Allow?”
