Duke of Scandal

by Adele Ashworth

  She’d never experienced such an odd feeling with any other man before last night, and that’s what troubled her the most, she supposed. It had been truly distinctive, unique even, and the funniest thing to her was the fact that nothing had actually happened.

  He stood slightly behind her now as they descended the steps into the salon, her awareness of him just as keen as it had ever been, making her wish she’d brought her fan. If nothing else, it would have given her something to do with her hands.

  The plan, as they’d discussed over breakfast, would be to take some time this morning to acquaint him with the various aspects of Nivan, and the perfume industry in general, much of which Edmund already knew. Later they would sit over tea and discuss the next course of action.

  Olivia fairly breezed into the storefront from the salon, inhaling the marvelous fragrances of the day, recognizing the Oriental subgroups immediately as the scents of the season. This was the work she adored, and she’d been gone from her passion too long.

  Normand seemed busy assisting two elegant ladies near the front display table, giving her ample time to begin the tutoring before he interrupted them.

  “Do you recognize the scent in the air?” she asked to start the discussion, controlling her nerves by forcing a pleasant smile upon her mouth as she gazed up to him.

  “I remember the spice,” he replied rather blandly. “You wore it.”

  That quick answer took her aback. Not only because it came so fast, but more so because he recalled a vague scent she’d only worn in his presence once.

  Without pause in her stride, she confirmed, “Correct. It’s the scent of the spring.”

  “The scent of the spring?”

  “Yes. Every year new scents are developed here in France, and in Italy and the Asian world, which we import. They’re different combinations, really, of the classics, although some can be entirely original. Some ladies, and even gentlemen, choose a new scent each year, some even each season.”

  He said nothing to that as she walked to the center of the boutique to stand next to a round, glass case filled with perfume jars, or flacons, pomanders, potpourri bowls, and sachets. Placing her palms on top, her back to Normand and the ladies to keep them from discerning any part of their conversation, she eyed him directly across the case.

  “Perfume, and its industry, are as old as the ancient world. I won’t bore you with details on the distillation process; however, you should know basics because Edmund does.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, circling the glass case to move closer. That flustered her, imposed on her thoughts, and she made a turn to move. He quickly reached out and placed his open hand gently over her knuckles.

  “Don’t,” he murmured. “They’re watching, and we are married, after all.”

  “Of course,” she replied, though the warmth of his palm on her bare skin made her markedly hot of a sudden.

  She drew a full breath to continue, deciding to just get to the point. “There are six essential fragrances of time, your grace—”

  “Sam,” he whispered.

  He truly possessed a knack for distracting her, though she wasn’t exactly sure why. Lifting her lips in a half smile, she returned, “Edmund.”

  “They can’t hear us, Olivia.”

  She shot a brief glance over her shoulder, finding Normand and the ladies engaged in rapt conversation. Of course he was right. “That’s irrelevant.”

  His brows rose and he nodded once. “If it makes you more comfortable.”

  More comfortable? She couldn’t be less comfortable at the moment. Instead of admittance, however, she brushed over that concern and returned to her original dialogue.

  “As I said, there are six basic fragrances that have been used over time. What I’d like to do is explain them to you in a little detail, giving you a chance to sample each one.”

  “I don’t think I need to sample them,” he remarked.

  She noted the trace of exasperation in his voice but chose to ignore it. “You’ll need to choose a fragrance.”

  He exhaled a fast breath, finally drawing his hand away. “Why?”

  She frowned, momentarily disconcerted. “So you’ll smell like Edmund.”

  He practically gaped at her, and she could feel the heat suffuse her cheeks as she realized what she’d said and that he was on the verge of breaking out into laughter.

  “And, um, what if I’d rather not smell like my brother?” he asked, a trace of annoyed amusement coloring his tone.

  Olivia momentarily closed her eyes and wiped a palm across her brow. “This isn’t an option, sir, you’ll need a scent. Edmund always wore fragrance, and someone would notice if you didn’t.”

  He glanced around the boutique as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his day jacket. “Then choose something original. Something you’d like me to wear, Olivia.”

  His voice had lowered to a rough murmur, especially when he said her name, and she felt her insides melt in the most peculiar manner. “But you—”

  “Am my own man,” he articulated in deep whisper.

  She blinked quickly, her lips parting in a rebuttal that never came. He kept his eyes locked with hers, clearly waiting for her to acknowledge his statement of fact, which of course was already obvious to her. Or submit to him in some feminine fashion. And yet the only thing she could think of at that moment was that he had the most amazing eyes—dark as chocolate, surrounded by thick black lashes. Odd that she couldn’t recall if Edmund’s eyes were the same shade, or how they appeared when he looked at her; Edmund always seemed to be smiling. But this man’s eyes penetrated hers as if he were trying to read her mind, or force her into submission. She felt as confused suddenly as she had when he’d first kissed her back in London.

  He waited, without any notice of her discomfort, and after a second or two Olivia shook herself from such reckless thoughts and drew a deep breath for confidence.

  “I think,” she said after clearing her throat, “what we’ll do to reach an agreement is create something unique, for you, for the season.”

  His brows rose again, his mouth tipped up in a trace of amusement. She ignored the fact that he’d more or less suggested the same thing.

  She began running the pads of her fingers along the top of the glass case. “I realize you don’t like to wear cologne—”

  “I never wear cologne,” he corrected, watching her.

  She ignored his interruption with a half smile. “And so I think I’ll choose a newer scent for you, create one of my own, and that way nobody will know when you’re posing as Edmund. He chooses new scents frequently.”

  He snorted, and almost—almost—rolled his eyes. She didn’t know whether to chuckle or scold him.

  “I’ll do this for you, Sam, so that you don’t have to smell like him.”

  He smiled wryly. “I’ll just smell like—”

  “Yourself.”

  “In a perfume factory.”

  It was Olivia’s turn to roll her eyes. “Give me some credit. I do know what I’m doing.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” he drawled.

  “May I continue?”

  “Please,” he returned a bit too sarcastically.

  She nodded to him once. “As I was saying, there are six basic fragrance types that have been used over time. First we have frankincense, a warm, balsamic scent from Arabia, originally used as incense and enjoyed very much in the ancient world by many of the Caesars, Alexander the Great, even Queen Hatshepsut. Eventually it became a favorite perfume in China, and later in Renaissance Italy.

  “Next is rose, the most widely used and enjoyed scent from around the world, from ancient Greeks, Romans, and later Parisians. It’s particularly enjoyed by English ladies, and was one of Queen Elizabeth’s favorites.

  “Third is sandalwood-jasmine, a marvelous botanical array imported originally from India and Kashmir. Sandalwood exudes a very warm, sensual odor, and jasmine an abundant floral appeal that’s been much attributed to t
he growth of perfumery during the Renaissance.

  “Fourth, we have orange blossom, a very delicious, sweet scent from East Asia, a floral aroma that we use as the primary ingredient in eau de cologne, which I’ll get to in a moment.”

  He let out a long exhale, as a sign of impatience, she was certain. She ignored it.

  “Next is spice, the main ingredient of the fragrance you smell drifting through Nivan at this time.” She broke her instruction for a moment, leaning over the glass top to whisper, “We always fill sachets with the scent of the season and place them everywhere in the store—under pillows and cushions in the salon, behind counters, sofas, under the desks and in the drawers, and even in waste bins. It works beautifully by challenging the customer to ask about it. Then we can introduce it as something new and exciting that all of Paris is talking about and that each lady positively needs in her fragrance collection. It makes very good business sense.”

  Her brother-in-law hadn’t commented at all since she began her essence introduction, though he did cross his arms over his chest with that, continuing to gaze at her, his expression bland but his eyes seemingly enraptured by her oration. She didn’t know if that was good or bad. But she wanted to get this done. Normand would interrupt them shortly; she could count on it.

  She patted the back of her hair into place, just for something to do, she supposed, and finished quickly.

  “Well, in any case, spice comes primarily from both the Near and Far East, and tends to be a mixture of ginger, cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon, in various combinations, and sometimes mixed with other scents.”

  “It’s the scent of the season,” he drawled, leaning his hip on the edge of the glass.

  Olivia started, quite surprised that he’d offered something to the conversation. “Yes, exactly.” She wished she could decipher his manner, read his thoughts from his rather staid expression. Certainly he had to find this at least remotely interesting. Edmund did. Then again, he wasn’t Edmund, and every minute in his presence, she grew more keenly aware of that fact.

  “There is only one more, your grace,” she said matter-of-factly, then felt a bit subdued when he didn’t correct her for using his more formal designation.

  She straightened, and continued. “Finally there is eau de cologne, a French favorite originating from the Farina family in 1709, and which, I might add, adorned the wrists and filled the sachets of Madame du Barry.” She shrugged. “And of course it’s well known that Napoleon preferred it.”

  “Of course,” he agreed.

  She hesitated, uncertain if he mocked her, though in the end deciding it hardly mattered. The point was that he needed to know the basics.

  “Now,” she carried on, tipping her head to the side and eyeing him thoughtfully, “Edmund tended to prefer eau de cologne, or a mixture of orange blossom and sandalwood with a trace of spice. For you, however, I think—”

  “I refuse to smell like a flower,” he said.

  Did he think she knew nothing? She grinned. “No roses for you, then?”

  He didn’t smile in return. “No.”

  She sighed at his emphatic stance. “Well, I think I can do something with a mix of frankincense and spice, perhaps adding a touch of musk, but be aware, darling, you are going to have to wear it.”

  His eyelids narrowed a fraction, whether in annoyance or daring, she couldn’t be sure, and she had to wonder if it was because she’d ordered him, or the fact that she called him by an endearment. Maybe he just didn’t like having no choice in the matter. If nothing else, Samson Carlisle, Duke of Durham, remained a man in charge. She knew that instinctively. And it was going to be a long day.

  One of the ladies in the shop suddenly laughed uproariously, sharply slicing into their engrossed tête-à-tête. Olivia and the duke both looked around toward the sound, noting that the bigger, and louder, of the two women had leaned forward to whisper something to Normand, at which time the man slapped his palm against his ruffled shirt and chuckled, shaking his head as if these ladies were the most marvelously entertaining creatures to ever step foot in Nivan. Of course they’d never know he charmed them all. It was one of the reasons Nivan sold so well.

  Wearily, she returned her attention to Sam and said, “Perhaps it’s time we experimented with a few samples.”

  ———

  If it weren’t for her—the glamorous perfection that was her face, the excitement in her features as she spoke of work she adored, the slight sway of her hips and curve of her breasts beneath her flattering yet totally conservative day gown, and yes, even the subtle scent she exuded—Sam thought he might burst into tears of absolute boredom. In truth he couldn’t care any less about perfume and its history except where the information applied to Edmund and his relationship with his so-called wife. But being a man of intelligent mind, he realized he needed to listen to her explanations and to attempt to absorb at least some of it.

  Actually, the more he listened, the more he found himself absorbed by her. She fascinated him in a manner he couldn’t exactly understand. She took her work very seriously—too seriously, some might say, considering her sex—but he found that almost… alluring. She obviously had a deeply felt passion for perfume, its history, its function in society, its processing, which he certainly didn’t care to hear about in detail, and she clearly possessed an astute business sense not usually found in females. Frankly, he was coming to admire her, and as Sam recalled now, he didn’t think he’d ever—in his life—admired a woman for anything other than how she looked on his arm or in his bed. A strange sensation, indeed.

  Olivia motioned for him to follow her to an ornately carved, white-painted desk, behind which stood a series of white wooden shelves attached to a wall, papered in textured red velvet. Golden tassels hung from the corners of the shelves to add ornateness to the look and to frame all the little bottles, dozens of them, some made simply of glass, clear and colored, some ceramic, some painted elaborately, some even appearing to be inlaid with gold or jewels, though whether real or paste, he couldn’t tell. From the clientele, however, he assumed at least some of them were real. And the bottles, he guessed, contained all the various scents du jour. He groaned inwardly, hoping to God she wouldn’t make him sniff them all. He supposed he should just be thankful his friends weren’t here to witness this.

  “Please be seated,” she said pleasantly, motioning for him to lower his large frame onto the tiny red velveteen chair in front of the desk. He did so without comment, only to wonder how French ladies with big bottoms and large hoops managed it. Then again, it was obviously not here for comfort but for appearances, as was the entire shop’s decoration.

  Olivia expertly moved her skirts to the side and sat gracefully in the same style chair behind the desk, opposite him, scooting it forward a little so she could rest her wrists on the edge.

  “Now,” she began, “this is where we sample fragrances.”

  “You’re not going to make me smell all of those, are you?” he asked, motioning to the rows of fancy containers with a nod of his head.

  Her brow creased for a second or two, then she turned to view the bottles behind her. “Those?” She looked back at him. “Those are empty. We sell those to complement the distinctive fragrance created for each individual.”

  “Oh,” he mumbled, unable to think of a better reply. He felt utterly ridiculous.

  “That way,” she continued, “each lady, or gentleman, can not only choose a unique scent, but carry it in a personally selected flacon—the French word for flask, or for our purposes, perfume bottle—original only to the House of Nivan. All the good houses do the same.”

  Sam wiped a palm across the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortably warm. He looked at her again, noting how relaxed she seemed in her domain, sitting beautifully upright in her velveteen chair. And he had to give her high credit for not making him feel stupid.

  “I see,” he remarked.

  She gave him a genuine smile of pleasure, not one of derision or haughtiness
, and it boosted his opinion of her another level.

  “Now,” she started once more, “I have a few”—she leaned to her side and pulled a small drawer out from beneath the desktop—”samples here. At least enough to give you an idea of what we offer in the basic scents I was telling you about a few minutes ago.”

  She gingerly placed a small wooden tray in front of him. Inside, in compact, specially designed inserts, lay a row of miniature square glass jars, approximately one inch by one inch, labeled with each individual scent. With nimble fingers she lifted one out of the tray and carefully pulled off a corklike top.

  “This is sandalwood.” She waved it two or three times under his nose. “You can easily detect the warmth in it, but it’s not necessarily sweet—until you add the floral of the jasmine. That boosts the full-bodied, botanical essence of the fragrance.”

  What did she want him to say? What a lovely odor? It smelled like perfume. Thankfully, she put the cork back in and replaced it, choosing another bottle before he could comment.

  “Now, this is the scent again when combined with jasmine.” She pulled the cork and offered it to him. “Smell the difference? It’s sweeter, more feminine in color, a bit rounder in its essence.”

  Rounder in its essence? He had absolutely no idea what that meant, but he could detect the scent of flowers. At least that was progress. He nodded, sat back again and waited for the next bottle.

  “This is orange blossom,” she continued in eagerness, “and one of my personal favorites, especially mixed with the right amount of spice.”

  He could definitely smell the orange, though he had trouble imagining a “spicy orange” scent that someone would actually want to wear on his or her person. He did, however, notice that a few stray curls had escaped her plaits to fall over her shoulder, nestling between the uplifted curve of her breasts, sticking to her dewy skin. The view distracted him from his scent lesson.

  “… of Edmund’s favorites, eau de cologne.”

  She’d said something as she stuck another bottle under his nose, and he dutifully took a whiff to satisfy her. Immediately he pulled back. “I don’t like that one at all.”