by Tessa Dare
Charlotte had no idea.
But whatever it was, he was doing it back.
In the draper's shop, Mama went straight to a display of dreadful lace caps. "Come here, Charlotte. Tell me, which do you think is best?"
Charlotte grimaced. The fashion of married ladies wearing ugly lace caps composed at least one-third of her determination not to wed young. "None of them."
"Let's ask His Lordship."
"Mama, no." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Remember? Silence."
"Pish. We're only discussing caps." Her mother raised her arm and waved, calling across the shop. "Lord Granville! Oh, Lord Granville! Do come to our aid. Over here, by the lace."
Piers lifted his head--slowly, as if hearing his name called from some far-off land of fantasy. Because surely, no one in this mortal realm would have the unspeakably bad manners to shout at a marquess as though she were hailing a hackney cab.
No one, that was, save Mama.
Charlotte wanted to hide behind the ostrich plumes, but it was useless. Oh, well. If Piers was truly considering marrying her, he ought to know what he was in for.
The dire truth seemed to be dawning on him as he approached.
"Now, Lord Granville," Mama said. "A certain newly betrothed young lady of my acquaintance is debating which style of caps to wear once she is married. Which would you choose?"
Piers regarded the array of lace caps before him. "I don't think any of them would suit me."
Mama laughed, a bit too enthusiastically to be credible. "Not for yourself, my lord. What would you choose for your bride?"
"I would still have no opinion."
Mama's impatience began to show. "Surely you would wish for the future Lady Granville to be admired."
"I fully expect she will be. However, I will have already entrusted her with the management of my households, the comfort of my guests, and the upbringing of my children. I would not presume to choose her caps."
Her mother persisted. "Some might say it is the husband's role to advise his wife on all matters."
"Some might say that," he replied evenly. "I would ignore them." With a slight bow, he turned away.
Mama was left alone with her fan and her flustered sensibilities.
Charlotte, on the other hand, wanted to cheer.
Well, Mama. Do you still want me to marry a marquess?
Piers Brandon was not a gentleman who could be nudged, persuaded, implored, or gainsaid. A man of his stature would be entirely out of her mother's depth to manage.
Out of Charlotte's depth, as well.
No doubt he had begun to realize the magnitude of the gulf between them. Even if he could stomach the notion of acquiring such a mother-in-law . . . Imagine, trusting Charlotte to manage five households--after he'd seen the state of her bedchamber. Madness.
Delia clasped Charlotte's hand. "Do let's go into the side room. They have spools and spools of ribbons."
"You go ahead," Charlotte said. "I'll be right there."
She wandered to the window and peered out into the street, looking down the row of shops. She didn't need lace, or ribbons, or gloves today.
She needed to find answers. Clues. Anything that could lead her to the mystery lovers.
Her gaze snagged on a small, dark shopfront with an engraved placard. The sign proclaimed, in print she had to squint to make out: "Finest French Perfumes."
Perfumes!
Yes.
Her pulse raced with excitement. She waited for a moment when no one was paying attention, and then she slipped out of the draper's shop and scurried down the street.
The perfume shop was empty, save for a shopkeeper with wispy hair and a brown cutaway coat that belonged in the previous century.
He looked at her over his spectacles. "Might I help you, miss?"
"Yes, if you please. I'm shopping for a new scent."
"Excellent." The shopkeeper rubbed his hands, then produced a tray from beneath the counter. The tray was lined with tiny vials, each fashioned from glass in a different color or shape.
"The ones in front are florals, mostly." The shopkeeper drew a touch down the vials in the first row. "Then the musks. As you move back, you will find the scents to be more earthy. Woodsy."
Charlotte hadn't the faintest clue what perfume she was looking for. Whether the scent could be described as floral or woodsy or musky or something different altogether. She could only hope she would know it when she smelled it.
"I want something unique," she said. "Luxurious. Not the usual orange-flower water or lavender sprigs."
"You've come to just the shop," the wizened man said proudly. "My cousin brings the latest wares from Paris. I've scents here you can't even find in London."
That sounded promising. "What can you recommend?"
"If you're after something truly special, I'd suggest you start here." The shopkeeper unstoppered a vial from the center of the tray and handed it to her.
Charlotte held it by the glass neck and gently waved it under her nose. Rich scent teased her senses, mysterious and exotic.
"Dab it on your wrist, m'dear. You can't tell the true scent of it from the vial." He took the vial and nodded at her gloved hand. "May I?"
She unbuttoned the cuff of her glove and extended her arm. The shopkeeper drew the glass stopper over her pulse, leaving the thinnest film of perfume cooling on her skin.
"Now," he said. "Try that."
Charlotte sniffed at her wrist. Once, and then again. He was right, the perfume opened in the heat of her skin, revealing layers and shades. It was the difference between sniffing a flower bud and a full-blown hothouse bloom.
"What's in it?" she asked.
"That's a rare blend, miss. Lilies and ambergris, with hints of cedar."
"Ambergris? What's ambergris?"
He looked shocked by her ignorance. "Only one of the most rare and valuable substances in the world of perfume. It's secreted in the bellies of whales."
"Whales?" Charlotte looked at her wrist and wrinkled her nose. "They cut open the bellies of whales to make this?"
"No, no. The whales vomit it out in a lump, you see. Then it bobs about the ocean for several years, curing." He made a wavy gesture with his hand, pantomiming the voyage. "Eventually it washes ashore as a chalky, grayish stone. Ambergris. A treasure worth its weight in gold."
"Fascinating," she said.
Nauseating, she thought.
She was wearing dried-up, sea-logged whale vomit on her wrist. And if she wanted to dab it on her wrists at home, she would pay--she discreetly checked the tag--one pound, eight shillings for the privilege.
Amazing.
"Perhaps you could show me something else? Something a touch less . . . marine."
"I have just the thing. This one's ideal for a younger lady of good taste." He plucked an elegant vial of blue glass from the tray and prompted Charlotte to extend her other wrist for dabbing. "There. See what you make of that one."
She lifted her wrist to her nose, more cautiously this time. As she inhaled, bright, sunny scents set her imagination at ease. "Oh, I do like this one."
"I thought you might. All the young ladies do. It's fresh and grassy, isn't it? Lemon verbena and gardenia blossoms. But the secret is in the fixative. A touch of castoreum is what makes the summery scents take hold, rather than fade."
"Castoreum. That's not from whales, is it?"
"Not at all." He chuckled.
Charlotte laughed, too. "Oh, good. What a relief."
"It's from beavers."
She stopped laughing. "Surely you didn't say--"
"Canadian beavers." His eyes grew wide with excitement again. "They produce the stuff in a special gland tucked just under their tails." He held up his hands, as if preparing for another vivid demonstration. "When the trappers gut the--"
The bell above the door rang, signaling the arrival of a new customer.
Charlotte had never been so thankful for an interruption.
With a smiled
apology and Charlotte's enthusiastic blessing, the shopkeeper turned to help a pair of aging ladies replenish their supply of toilet water.
While he did so, she took the opportunity to sniff her way through the entire tray of samples. Heaven only knew what bestial secretions and nether-glands might be represented therein, but she didn't have the stomach to ask.
Within a few minutes, she'd worked her way through the entire tray. No luck. None of them was the distinctive perfume she'd smelled in the library at Parkhurst Manor.
"Here you are. I've been searching for you."
The words, spoken in a smooth, deep--and familiar--voice, startled her. She wheeled about, nearly upsetting the entire tray of samples.
"Lord Granville. I didn't hear you come in."
"I didn't see you walk away."
"Everyone seemed occupied. I decided to duck in here for a bit of shopping."
"Looks more like a bit of snooping to me."
Charlotte decided to change the subject. "You wouldn't believe what goes in these things." She offered her perfumed wrists. "Here, tell me which scent you prefer. Lilies and whale vomit, or lemon balm and beaver's arse."
The corner of his mouth quirked. He took her right hand in his, lifted her wrist, bent his head, and inhaled deep.
Then he repeated the same with her left wrist.
All the while, his penetrating gaze never left hers. The exchange was intimate, sensual. Despite the nearby conversation of the elderly ladies and shopkeeper, it felt almost indecent.
"Well?" she prompted, her mouth suddenly dry.
He lowered her hands but did not release them. His gloved thumbs worked under the undone cuffs at her wrists, sliding back and forth across the exposed skin--leather sliding over her tender flesh. Her pulse quickened beneath his touch, pounded in her ears.
She went hot all over.
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them, and inclined his head until he hovered just inches from her neck. Then he inhaled.
Charlotte's breath sucked in, as well.
"I think," he murmured, "I prefer this one."
She swallowed hard. "I'm not wearing any scent there."
"Are you certain?" He lifted one hand to her hair, pushing the carefully arranged ringlets behind her ear and tilting her head to expose the slope of her neck. Then he breathed deeply again.
This time, a small sound rose in his throat.
A masculine sound.
A sensual sound.
A satisfied sound.
She nearly whimpered in response.
"Sun-dried linen," he murmured, "ironed smooth. A lavender and rose-petal pomander in the cabinet. Sips of chocolate at breakfast. Beneath it all, warm skin--washed with jasmine soap." He straightened. "Yes. That's the scent I favor."
The muscles of her inner thighs quivered.
How did he do this to her? His skin had barely brushed hers. Not six paces away, a pair of elderly women stood discussing the inflated prices of toilet water. And despite it all, Charlotte was . . .
Aflame. She worried her clothing would incinerate. Vanish into smoke, leaving her bare and trembling. Exposed to the world. No flirtation had ever affected her with one hundredth of this power.
She was being made love to, in plain view. That was how it felt. Illicit, exciting, dangerous.
Anything but proper.
"Did you decide, miss?"
Her eyes snapped open. She didn't even recall closing them.
How long had she been standing there, entranced? Piers had moved away. His back was to her as he inspected a row of colognes.
Devious man. She knew he didn't approve of her investigation. He must have been deliberately trying to rattle her.
For a minute, he'd succeeded.
She cleared her throat and willed her vision to focus on the sample vials. "I'm afraid none of these are quite what I'm searching for. I was hoping to find a signature scent, if you will. One that few other women could have purchased. Are you sure you've nothing else?"
"I do have something new from Paris. I only received two bottles in, and I've already sold the other." He wandered briefly into a storeroom, returning with a bottle fashioned from dark, smoky glass with a gilded stopper.
Before she sniffed, Charlotte eyed it warily. "What's in this one?"
"In a word?" He lifted an eyebrow with dramatic flair. "Passion."
"But to put a finer point on it . . . ?" she prompted.
"Poppies, vanilla, and black amber."
"Black amber." Charlotte bit her lip. "Which is . . . ?"
"It's a resin, miss. A product of the rock rose bush."
"Oh," she said, relieved. "That doesn't sound so bad." At least no animal hindquarters were involved.
"It's the most remarkable process." The shopkeeper pantomimed once again. "Nomadic herdsmen in the Holy Land gather it by combing the beards and flanks of grazing goats."
"Really."
She paused, debating just how much she wanted to sniff Eau de Goat Flank, but there was no turning back now. This might be it--the clue that could lead her to the mystery lovers.
She lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled.
Recognition hit her like a lightning bolt. She was transported there again, behind those velvet window drapes. The library, the whispers and rustling fabric. She could all but hear the squeaks and growling.
She could feel Piers's arms about her. Protective and strong.
"This is the one," she said, shaking off the memory. "Do you remember who purchased the other bottle? If it's going to be my signature scent, I'd like to know the other lady's name. We might move in the same social circles."
"Well, I suppose I could look in my . . ." The merchant's voice trailed off.
Piers had joined her at the counter. He made the slightest nod. One that the shopkeeper seemed to instantly know meant, Wrap it up, and quickly. Cost is no concern.
Piers didn't even need words to command immediate compliance.
The shopkeeper's tone became brisk as he reached for the money Piers laid on the counter. "I don't recall the lady's name, miss."
"Wait." Charlotte clapped a hand over the coins. "Can't you check your ledger?"
"She paid with ready money, not credit. Her name wouldn't be in the ledger."
She sighed, releasing the money. It was useless to insist. Thanks to Piers's quick payment, the shopkeeper was a blind alley. Even if he did recall the lady's name, he would never divulge it now--not when doing so could mean losing a guaranteed sale.
As the men concluded their transaction, she felt hope draining into her boots. She couldn't leave this shop without new information. That would mean she'd sniffed beaver glands and whale bile for nothing. Inconceivable.
"Do you recall anything about her?" she asked. "Was she older, younger? Tall or small-statured? Did she have a companion along?"
"Now, now. No need to interrogate the man, Miss Highwood." Piers collected the package, then put the other hand on Charlotte's back, steering her toward the door.
"I'm not interrogating him. I'm merely asking him questions."
"That's the definition of interrogating."
"You," she whispered, "are the definition of an interfering--"
"Dark hair," the shopkeeper called out, as a fishwife tossed a stray cat a bone. "She had dark hair, I think. Beyond that, I couldn't be certain of details."
Dark hair.
That was something. It wasn't much, but it was something.
"Thank you." She gave the merchant a smile. "Thank you so very much for your time."
"Are you going to thank me for the perfume?" Piers asked as they left the shop.
"I will thank you to stop thwarting my efforts to find the mystery lovers."
"Mystery tuppers," he corrected.
"You know, I'm certain he knew the other customer's name. He just didn't want to risk losing the sale once you and all your money showed up. And then you started chiding me for asking questions."
"I
was concerned about the time."
"You were obstructing me. Don't think I missed your purpose with all that neck sniffing and wrist stroking. Trying to break my concentration."
"It seems only fair," he replied evenly. "You broke mine first."
She stopped in the lane and turned to him. "Could you--just for a moment--cease being so maddeningly perfect? For a minute or two, try to look beyond that allegiance to honor and propriety. Perhaps then you'll appreciate that I am trying to save you."
"You can't save me."
"Yes, I can. Save us both--from decades of exactly this frustration and bickering. Even you, with your stinting beliefs about love, cannot view this as any sort of ideal--"
She stopped in the lane. "Where is your carriage?" She turned in place, pausing to peer through the draper's window. "Where are Delia and Frances and my mother?"
"Gone." His gaze met hers, cool and grave. "That's the reason I came searching for you. There's been an incident."
Chapter Eight
"An incident? What can you mean, an incident?"
As Piers watched, the pink flush of anger drained from her face. He offered his arm, and for once she didn't fight him.
"I'll explain everything," he said.
He steered her across the lane and into the square. There, in calm terms, he related the events of the past half hour. Mrs. Highwood, at some point after realizing her daughter had separated from the group, had suffered a sudden attack of light-headedness in the draper's shop--one which no amount of fanning or solicitous comfort could assuage.
"Your mother," he said, "suggested that the Parkhurst sisters had better return her to the manor at once, and then send the carriage to return for us."
Charlotte shook her head. "Of course. Of course she suggested that."
"You don't seem overly concerned for her health."
"That's because there's no reason to be concerned. If there were any true cause for worry, you would have interrupted me at the shop and let me know at once."
She was rather quick with these things.
Piers had been impressed with her questioning technique in the perfume shop. She lacked subtlety, but she had keen instincts.
When she'd first revealed her little plan, he wasn't in favor of it--but he'd told himself it couldn't hurt.
Then she'd burst through his window last night, and now he was reconsidering. Perhaps it could hurt, after all.
In fact, if he wasn't careful, someone could be gravely hurt indeed.
She balled her hand into a fist. "Now we'll be unchaperoned together for at least another hour. Frances will be salivating over the gossip." She moved away from him and sat on a park bench. "We cannot have any appearance of a courting couple."
