He glanced sideways at what he was certain was another snort. “Did you snort again, Miss Jackson?”
She shook her head, dislodging even more glorious locks of hair. The thought brought him up short. Hadn’t he just considered the color of her hair obnoxious last night? One morning in this chit’s company and it was suddenly glorious?
She squeezed his arm. “I’m ready to return to the manor now, sir.”
“My Lord,” he corrected.
“My Lord.” She turned her face away but not quickly enough for him to miss catching her rolling her eyes skyward.
“That wasn’t that difficult, now was it?” It was all too tempting to tease this chit. She went to draw away, but he merely placed his other hand overs hers in mock condescension. “What would you be doing right now if you were in America?” Perhaps if he showed interest in her world, she might soften a bit more in his favor.
His question seemed to surprise her. She contemplated the western horizon before answering.
“We’d be testing the mash. Checking for bacteria. Making sure the equipment is clean.” Her brows furrowed.
“Is that a problem?” Jules asked, suddenly more intrigued than he’d expected.
“It isn’t.” She glanced over. “But you aren’t really interested in any of this.”
“But I am.”
He walked along with her silently, curious as to the inner workings of a female mind for the first time in ages. Whereas any other lady of his acquaintance kept her mind occupied with fashion and gossip, Miss Charlotte Jackson occupied her mind by thinking about whiskey, of all things.
“The business is changing. As long as I can remember, my father’s company couldn’t make enough to meet demand. My grandfather, and then my father, succeeded by purchasing grain from every farmer they could. It was all about quantity.”
“And this isn’t the case now?”
“Not to the extent as it has been in the past.” She surprised him again—this time by kicking a stone . “But my father disagrees. That’s why he’s so set on working out of Tennessee. He can decrease his labor costs…”
“Slavery.”
“Yes.” Her lips pursed. “I hate the idea of using slave labor. It’s wrong. If we shift our focus to quality, we could…”
“Sell it for a higher price,” he finished for her.
“Yes. Do you drink it?”
“Whiskey? Of course.” One of his favorite pursuits for that matter.
She regarded him thoughtfully and then reached into her pocket and removed a small flask. “Try this.”
Jules couldn’t help but raise his brows but took the container she offered.
“It would be ideal if I had a glass.” Jules met her gaze but when he went to lift it to his lips, she reached out and stopped him.
“Inhale first. Tell me what you smell.”
Intrigued, Jules removed the cork and raised it to his nostrils. “Oak.”
“That’s from the barrel. What else?” She pinned him with a questioning gaze.
Jules inhaled, concentrating.
“It helps sometimes to close your eyes.”
She was right. “Cinnamon.” He inhaled again. “Maple.”
“Now taste it.” Her voice sounded almost breathless. Whiskey excited her. An odd heat shot through him, and he hadn’t even tasted her yet.
It.
He hadn’t tasted the whiskey yet.
Staring at her over the top of the small bottle, he tilted some of the liquid into his mouth and allowed it to drizzle down his throat.
She waved a hand in the air, as though to stop him. “You need to hold it in your mouth longer than that.” Whereupon she reached up and tilted it to his lips a second time. “Savor it. Roll your tongue around it. Allow it to engage all your senses.”
At the mention of the word tongue, and mouth, Jules couldn’t help but wonder who was wooing who this morning.
He covered her hand with one of his and took a second drink. Slowly this time. He couldn’t help but feel the intensity of her attention, expectant almost. He held the liquid in his mouth and then swirled it around just as she’d advised.
It was sweeter than what he normally drank. Swirling it around a second time, he could still taste the oak, but something else. Vanilla. When he swallowed, it didn’t burn quite as much as the first sip had. In fact, it warmed more than it burned.
He nodded in approval and a satisfied grin stretched across her lips.
“It’s not the same as the whisky I keep in my cellars. Produced at your father’s distillery?” He asked, certain that it must be.
“Yes. And ours is whiskey, w-h-i-s-k-e-y. Just so you know. Unlike Scottish whisky, American Whiskey is spelled with an ‘e.’ I made this batch four years ago. I made my first batch when I was seventeen. I’ve been adjusting my formula ever since. This is the latest one that’s had time to age. It’s tolerable after just two years, but four seems to be ideal.”
She reclaimed her flask, inhaled, and then swallowed a sip before capping the bottle again and tucking it back into her coat.
“But this is your recipe?”
“My blend. Yes.” Those little furrows appeared in her brows again and again, Jules noticed the smattering of tiny freckles that trailed and then flared out across the bridge of her nose.
If he was any other man, he might consider them goddamned adorable.
“My father thinks it’s too sweet.”
He realized something about her in that moment. This young lady was far more complex than he’d initially imagined. Was it possible he’d actually enjoy courting her?
Chapter 5
HONOR IS EVERYTHING
Charley savored the diverse flavors on her tongue and then tucked the small bottle carefully into the pocket she’d sewn into her cloak. Lord Westerley didn’t seem as bad as she’d initially judged him to be. And even though she didn’t necessarily agree with whatever had him laughing quietly to himself half the time, she appreciated his sense of humor.
In addition to that, he liked her whiskey.
Even so, best not to forget that he was an Englishman. No, he was an English Lord.
She slid him a sideways glance. “I appreciate your honesty—regarding…” Her throat felt unusually thick. “The bet my father made with you.”
He nodded. “It wasn’t a bet I would normally take, but I…”
“Had an unbeatable hand?” She nearly groaned because her father wasn’t nearly as lucky as he’d have others believe.
Another nod. “I lost with a royal flush. In poker, it’s the highest possible hand—”
“Depending upon the suit,” Charley finished for him, suppressing the urge to wince. Not only had her father wagered in order to garner her a husband, but he’d cheated in order to win. If the earl was smart enough to realize he’d been swindled, he mightn’t be quite so affable. And although she would prefer to return to America earlier than planned, she certainly didn’t want to be expelled from Westerley Crossings thanks to her father’s duplicitous gambling practices.
“Be that as it may,” She returned to her initial train of thought, “I’ve no intention of marrying. Ever.” She’d much rather spend her time developing new brands for her father’s distilleries. “If you’d like me to, I’ll speak to my father for you.” How many other schemes did her father have up his sleeve? She appreciated he wanted to fulfill the promise he’d made to her mother but what about what Charley wanted?
“I beg of you not to.” His voice came out sounding clipped—much as she’d imagined him to sound initially. “The matter doesn’t concern you.”
A sound emerged from her, and she wasn’t sure if it was a snort or a scoff. “Pardon me? Not that I ever intend to tie the knot, but are you implying that the identity of this hypothetical groom would not concern me?” It seemed he was indeed one of those pompous English lords she’d heard about.
“That is not—"
“I beg of you to explain your reasoning, sir.”<
br />
He slashed a frown in her direction. She knew he didn’t appreciate the ‘sir’ form of address, but she wasn’t feeling all that congenial herself just then.
“It’s not the marriage that doesn’t concern you. It’s the agreement. It has everything to do with honor.”
“A wager?” She raised her brows. “Made late at night regarding another person? Most likely while both parties were half-drunk?”
He slowed their steps until they’d stopped walking altogether. “Tell me, Miss Jackson, how does a man garner respect in America?”
The answer was an easy one. “His ability to provide for his family—his work ethic. His ability to put his leisurely tendencies aside in order to do what needs done.”
“And that is commendable. It gives a man purpose.”
“Surely, my father would be willing to exchange your promise for some sort of payment,” she suggested.
He was shaking his head as she spoke. “A wager as it applies to a man such as myself—a man who is highborn and in need of nothing—is not about the winnings. It is about his value as a man.”
She wanted to scoff again, but his steady gaze prevented her from doing so. Not only did he unnerve her with his intensity, but he sent a shiver of unease through her.
“I’ve been given more than any man could ever want or need—before I was even born. What good am I, Miss Jackson, if I act without honor? A gentleman does not skirt his responsibilities, nor does he break a promise.”
Charley exhaled an uneven breath. “I will not marry you,” she announced not so much to reassure him but to reassure herself.
“I will commit myself until you change your mind.” He began walking again, and she had to skip a few steps to keep up.
“In any other situation, I would find your determination commendable,” Charley disclosed reluctantly, “but in this matter…”
“My honor is the only thing I have to lose, Miss Jackson. I must protect and defend it at all costs.”
The conviction in his words sent a shiver down Charley’s spine, which made no sense at all. She was not a person easily swayed, and she’d already determined not to marry. Of course, he could not convince her otherwise when she had already made up her mind. She grinned determinedly. He could woo her, or court her all he liked, but he’d be wasting his time.
* * *
Later that afternoon, long after he’d taken his leave of her, and as Charley followed the countess and the other lady guests through the garden to the orangery, the earl’s words played themselves over and over in her head.
Because if she was to understand him clearly, this sense of honor was not something to take lightly, and his commitment to it could prove to be as stubborn as her own decision to remain unwed. It would be up to her to hold firm against any charm he might utilize in his bid to gain her consent. She must simply keep reminding herself that his attempts to woo her were not genuine and consequently had nothing to do with him feeling affection for her.
Likely, she was worrying over nothing. Resisting him ought to be easy, what with all his Britishness and his lordliness.
Although—she contemplated as she stepped through the glass doorway—it was possible he’d found her great weakness.
The blasted earl had liked her whiskey.
Thoughts of Lord Westerley took second place, however, as she stepped inside of the glass-enclosed building. Her breath caught. She tilted her head back, awed, and surveyed her impressive surroundings.
As she moved into the artificial environment, warm fragrant air washed over her like a balm, and she had to resist spreading her arms out and twirling in circles. What a brilliant idea! She glanced around at the colorful plants sprouting inside, in the middle of winter, no less, and then wandered away from the line of ladies who’d entered alongside her.
What a magical place.
The orangery didn’t only include flowers and vegetables but true to its name, it housed a handful of citrus trees—oranges, lemons, limes. She reached out to touch a leaf. They were real!
“Welcome to my favorite place on all of our estate.” The countess’s voice echoed off the glass walls. “This is Mrs. Finch, and she has traveled all the way from Brighton so that my guests can benefit from her expertise in the art of making centerpieces. I enjoy the endeavor myself, but you will quickly learn why she is considered something of an artist.”
Charley hadn’t known what to expect for entertainment at such a house party as this, but this most certainly was not it.
“Hello. And thank you for your polite attention this afternoon. It is my hope that all of you will be able to improve on the décor of your various manors and houses after we’re done here today.” Mrs. Finch, a plump lady whose riotous gray hair was barely contained in the knot atop her head, wore a canvas smock over a loose-fitting gown. The numerous rings on her fingers sparkled as she gestured with her hands toward a walkway behind her. “Come this way and you’ll see that Lady Westerley’s gardeners have kindly provided enough blossoms for all of you to use.”
Charley followed dutifully but then gasped again when she turned the corner.
When Lady Bethany had mentioned they’d be designing flower arrangements today, Charley had envisioned working with cuttings of silk and dried plants, or a handful of plain-looking blossoms. But that was not at all the case. Blossoms of all colors, along with lush greenery, had been cut and placed in buckets. Part of her wanted to scoff at the waste of this resource, but she couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty merely for the purpose of being… beautiful.
“My father has an orangery, but it’s nothing like this one,” a blonde young woman standing beside her said reverently.
Charley nodded, still caught up in the wonder of it and tried to remember the lady’s name.
Lady Bethany leaned forward and whispered, “My grandfather had it built shortly after marrying my grandmother. You’re welcome to explore any time you’d like, Felicity.”
Charley inhaled deeply. She’d always had a strong sense of smell, whether it was something she’d been born with or developed over time, and the scents floating around were nearly overwhelming.
But not in a bad way—in an exciting and delicious way.
After listening to Mrs. Finch’s instructions, each of the ladies, old and young, were directed to take up a place around a large worktable where they were all provided with an elegant vase and had access to the carefully cut flowers.
Lady Bethany and Lady Felicity right away reached for various blossoms and began placing them into their vases. Charley collected a few of the smaller ones and then organized them in her mind by smell. The perfect arrangement would not have one overwhelming scent but one that provided a bouquet of aromas. She chose only one rose, a white one, and then a few small lilacs and a handful of snapdragons.
After that, Charley viewed the table and frowned, only to be caught doing so by Lady Tabetha from across the way.
“Is there something the matter, Miss Jackson?”
“There aren’t any herbs.” Because, why wouldn’t there be?
Lady Tabetha eyed her and then smiled. “What a magnificent idea!” And before Charley could stop her from doing so, the younger girl promptly requested the gardener bring out a handful of clusters to set about the table.
Charley carefully added lavender and then some rosemary. She inhaled and smiled.
“You are making your bouquet by scent!” Lady Felicity announced, leaning forward. “It’s delightful. Will you help me? I love roses but perhaps the fragrance is overwhelming?”
“Roses always remind me of my dead husband,” an older woman offered from across the table.
Two younger ladies, obviously twins, giggled but then one quickly shushed the other. Both had chestnut-brown hair and perfect complexions. Their eye color was the same, but whereas one of the girls flashed hers about, placing flowers willy-nilly in her vase, the other girl’s eyes were quite somber as she contemplated her vase, where she’d placed three
daisies.
“They are Lady Lucinda and Lady Lydia, Blackheart’s younger sisters,” Bethany murmured in Charley’s ear. “They’ll be making their come-out this spring as well.”
“Blackheart also has a younger brother, but he’s off at war.” Tabetha exhaled a sad sigh. “He’s arguably even more handsome than the duke. Oh, I do hope his regiment is on leave again this spring.”
Over the next twenty minutes, Charley found herself listening to all manner of gossip but also assisting and making recommendations to a few of the other ladies working around her.
“And what have we here?” Mrs. Finch joined them. “Some most unusual arrangements.”
Lady Bethany explained what they had been doing and the instructor commended them all. “I shall have to incorporate this consideration into some of my future lessons.”
“Ladies!” The countess had risen. “Thank you so very much for making the arrangements for the dining room this evening. We will certainly have a most interesting table, will we not?”
Some laughter and a few mumbled answers sprang up around them, because although most of the arrangements were indeed, quite lovely, each was a little different and they certainly wouldn’t match. Charley couldn’t help smiling, however.
She had not expected to enjoy herself and it was with some reluctance that she acknowledged that she’d had fun.
Wonders might never cease.
“We shall meet for tea in the front drawing room in one hour. Please take the time you need to freshen up, if you’d like.” Lady Westerley waved her hands in front of her face. “I am always amazed at how warm I am in here, even in wintertime.”
“It’s called a hothouse for that very reason,” Lady Tabetha teased her mother with an affectionate smile.
Lady Bethany hooked her arm through one of Charley’s, and Lady Tabetha did the same with Lady Felicity as they strolled out of the room and back through the garden. The duke’s sisters were ushered away by an older lady, likely a companion or governess.
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