“Civet oil,” Aunt Jane said. “Apparently the Empress Josephine wears a similar fragrance, though from what I’ve read rumours are swirling that she may not be Boney’s wife for long. They say he’s going to cast her aside because she’s barren, or so the story goes.”
Grace nodded, having read the same news stories herself. “Yes, well, those rumours have been swirling for a while. But perhaps you would do well to steer clear of perfumes favoured by wives of the enemy, even ones in danger of being divorced.”
Aunt Jane waved a dismissive hand. “Pish-tosh. If we did away with everything French, we’d have nothing decent to drink or wear. Still, I think you’re right about this particular perfume.”
Replacing the stopper, her aunt gave a contemplative nod. “Mayhap I should discuss a custom-made scent with the owner, a fragrance created exclusively for me. I suppose the price might be a bit dear, but what’s the point of a widow’s portion if you can’t spend it on an indulgence or two?” Visibly excited, she hurried off to find the head perfumer.
Grace watched with a smile before resuming her inspection of the merchandise.
Seconds later, the tiny brass bell that hung above the door gave a tinkling chime as a new patron stepped inside. Instead of another woman come to join the all-female throng, however, the newcomer was a man. But not just any man.
Jack Byron.
From the moment of his arrival, he dominated his surroundings, tall and commanding in a superfine coat of rich dark, Spanish fly green that was all the rage that year. He wore a pair of close-fitting navy blue pantaloons that hugged the muscular contours of his long, powerful legs, with polished black boots on his feet. On another man, the outfit could easily have appeared as ostentatious as a peacock. But on Lord Jack, the effect was nothing short of divine.
As he strolled further into the shop, Grace noticed that hers wasn’t the only pair of female eyes to turn his way, nor the only ones to linger in clear appreciation.
Annoyed by her weakness, she turned away.
What is he doing here? She wondered, since the shop catered almost exclusively to feminine tastes.
And where has he been? She wanted to ask, since she hadn’t managed to catch so much as a glimpse of him lately.
Not that I care, of course.
She hadn’t long to ponder either question before she sensed him at her side.
“Miss Danvers,” he greeted in a throaty rumble that caused tingles to chase over her skin. “We meet again.”
Turning slightly, she looked up as though she had only just then noticed his arrival. “Your lordship. How do you do?”
“Quite well, thank you,” he replied. “Particularly now that I have the pleasure of such lovely company.”
Aware that flirtation must come as naturally to him as breathing, she did her best to ignore his remark. “So, what brings you here, of all places? This hardly seems like your sort of diversion.”
One mahogany brow arched skyward, an amused glint sparkling in his eyes. “Ah, Miss Danvers, there you go again, deciding what does and does not suit me. Whenever shall you learn?”
She flushed slightly at his amused rebuke.
“I am here to make a purchase,” he offered in a gentle tone.
Of course he is, she realized. Undoubtedly he’s buying a gift for a female acquaintance, maybe even a lover. Surely he isn’t shopping for his mistress, she thought, the notion settling like a lump of undercooked potato at the bottom of her stomach.
“Perhaps you might be so good as to assist me,” he continued.
Help him buy perfume for his paramour? Most certainly not!
“I am looking for a present for my sister. Or at least for one of my sisters, since the other is far too young yet for such adornments. I thought there might be something here to please her.”
“Your sister!” she exclaimed, relief rushing through her. “Well, of course. What a thoughtful idea.”
His azure eyes twinkled again. “I am glad you think so. Although you seem a bit surprised to discover I have a sister. To whom else had you imagined I might be giving such an intimate gift?”
“N-no one,” she denied, hoping he would let her gloss over the answer. “So, what kind of fragrance does your sister prefer?”
For a brief moment, his face went blank. “Actually, I have no idea.”
“Does she like flowers, or are herbs and spices more to her taste?”
He considered her query. “Flowers, I believe. Mallory loves anything with petals and a scent.”
She smiled. “That should make it easier then. Mallory, hmm? What a pretty name.”
His gaze met hers. “Indeed. Though not as lyrical as your own.” Almost imperceptibly, he moved closer, the warmth of his body radiating outward, together with his own mesmerizing scent—clean and male and uniquely him. “What fragrance are you wearing?” he asked.
“Nothing. I don’t wear perfume, at least not often.”
He inched nearer still, his voice lowering to a murmur. “You’re just naturally sweet then, are you? Exactly as I suspected.”
Her legs turned weak. Surreptitiously, she gripped the wooden counter in front of her, glad of its support. She was relieved as well that she didn’t send any bottles toppling over to crash in a noisy splash of scent on the floor.
“She…um…she might like jasmine or hyacinth.” Grace broke eye contact, striving to collect herself. “Is she older or younger than yourself?”
“Younger. She’s nineteen.”
“Something more youthful, then. Orange blossom water. It’s light and frivolous, like a warm spring day.”
He placed a hand on the counter next to hers, so close that their gloved fingers were all but touching. Although her hands were appropriately proportioned for her height, she’d always considered them far too large, even ungainly. But his hands dwarfed hers, big and wide and so clearly strong beneath the dark fabric covering them. She stared, noting their differences, wishing suddenly that he would lift his hand to cover her own.
Her pulse sped faster. What am I doing? Thinking? More to the point, what is he thinking? Very likely nothing, she decided. He probably wasn’t even aware of her response, and if he were, he’d be appalled. Or, worse, amused.
Abruptly she drew away. Taking a step back, she straightened her shoulders and deliberately, almost defiantly, stood at her full height. “Your sister might also enjoy lilacs. Always a delightful scent.”
He lowered his hand to his side. “I’m sure it is, but the orange blossom water sounds just the thing.”
Signalling a clerk, he placed his order, then waited while the man moved away to box and wrap the purchase.
“I am in your debt,” he said. “My thanks for your aid. Perhaps you might suggest something for my other sister as well.”
Grace swallowed, deliberately meeting his gaze as she forced aside any lingering awareness of him. “How old is she?”
“Ten. And she likes to draw. Art is quite her favourite pastime.”
At the mention of something so completely familiar, Grace relaxed. “There is a fine store only a block distant on Bond Street. Ask for George and he’ll find you anything you need. A paper block never goes amiss with an artist. Nor paints or crayons.”
“George, hmm? You must be a frequent visitor to know the clerks by name. I assume you paint?”
“I watercolour a bit.”
“Ah,” he said, though without the usual note of male condescension.
A brief silence fell between them. He was just opening his mouth to say something further when her aunt appeared suddenly at her side.
“My new fragrance is created!” Aunt Jane announced. “Carnation with a delicate hint of lime. Delicious.” She paused, her keen gaze fixing on Lord Jack. “But pardon me for so rudely interrupting. Perhaps you might make the introductions, Grace, since it is obvious from the way you two have been conversing that you are acquainted with this gentleman.”
Grace traded a brief glance with Lord Jack
before turning to her aunt. “Yes, his lordship and I met a few days ago at the botanical lecture near Sydney Gardens.”
“Did you now?” Aunt Jane’s grey-haired head bobbed with interest.
“And briefly in London before that,” Lord Jack offered in a smooth aside. “Miss Danvers and I frequent the same bookseller, you see.”
Grace shot him a look for divulging such unnecessary information, then hurried on before anything further could be added. “My lord, pray allow me to make you known to my aunt, Mrs Jane Grant. Aunt Jane, Lord John Byron.
Her aunt’s eyes grew round. “Byron? No relation to the poet, I suppose?”
“No, ma’am. That particular gentleman and I share no familial ties, nor do I claim to have so much as an inkling of talent in the art of penning sonnets and odes. Let me say, however, that it is a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He bowed with a practiced flair that made her aunt’s cheeks pink like a schoolgirl’s despite her nearly sixty years.
Apparently age was no barrier to succumbing to Lord Jack’s undeniable charm. Grace was sure women routinely fell at his feet, especially since he was obviously one of those men who simply liked women—no matter their age, looks, size, or marital status. He could, she suspected, have his pick of any woman in the world.
So why is he troubling with me? Then again, he really wasn’t, since their encounters were no more than mere happenstance and coincidence.
Her aunt recovered enough to recall her manners and sink into a respectful curtsey. “Oh, the pleasure is all mine, your lordship,” she said, straightening to a height that only brought her up as far as Grace’s shoulder.
“Byron, did you say?” Aunt Jane continued, tapping a finger against her chin. “There is another family, quite illustrious and noble, who holds that surname. I have read accounts in the guidebooks of the Duke of Clybourne’s principle estate. It is said that Braebourne is even more elegant than Chatsworth or Blenheim, and that the duke’s grounds and gardens rival those of the royals themselves. I don’t suppose you are at all acquainted with those Byrons, are you?”
“Aunt Jane, really,” Grace admonished in a hushed tone.
Lord Jack, however, seemed to take her aunt’s inquisitive nature in his stride. His face remained composed, although Grace thought she detected a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
“As it happens, ma’am,” he answered, “I do know that family. Quite intimately, in fact. The duke is my brother, you see.”
Grace’s eyes were the ones to widen this time. Surely she had misheard him? Surely he hadn’t just said his brother was the Duke of Clybourne! But it would seem he had said exactly that, since her aunt was, at that very moment, fluttering her small hands in front of her chest, as a flurry of “oh my’s” bubbled from her lips.
Lord Jack smiled with sympathetic amusement at her dismay.
Lord Jack.
Of course, Grace thought, she should have realized long ago that he was the son of some high-ranking noble, since only the children of dukes, marquises, and earls were granted the use of an elevated courtesy title such as his.
Nevertheless, a duke’s son. A duke’s brother.
Good heavens, if she’d thought him out of her reach before, he was so far away now that an ocean might as well be standing between them.
Maybe two oceans!
Her aunt recovered quickly, her tongue in as fine shape as ever. “Oh, your lordship,” she said, “I never dreamt you might be the duke’s brother. How extraordinary. And to think I am standing here in a little shop in Bath speaking to one of the most distinguished men in the land.”
“Fear not, dear lady. There is nothing much distinguished about me. I am only a third son and of little use for much more than conversation and making up an occasional fourth at cards.”
“Oh, do go on,” Aunt Jane scolded with a teasing smile. “I am sure you are only being modest. Particularly if you like such serious pastimes as botany lectures and books. I can’t see the point to either, but dear Grace loves anything that exercises her mind.”
Lord Jack turned his head, his jewel-coloured eyes meeting Grace’s over the top of her aunt’s bonnet. “Nothing wrong with a bit of exercise for the mind. Or the body.”
Warmth swirled abruptly to life within her. Anxious to extinguish the flame, Grace looked away.
“Well, I vastly prefer entertainment,” her aunt said. “Nothing better in my estimation than a good party. Oh, heavens, what a superb idea I’ve just had.”
Grace frowned, suddenly sure of her aunt’s next words. “Aunt Jane, I am certain he doesn’t wish—”
“Of course he does,” she said, waving aside Grace’s objections. “You mentioned cards, my lord, so you must like to play.”
“I enjoy a game every now and again,” he conceded.
“Then you must join us this Friday eve. I am hosting a card party with a bite of supper afterwards. I would be ever so honoured if you would come. Do say you will and I shall send ’round a card with all the particulars.”
Inwardly Grace cringed. Bad enough that her aunt had interrogated him over his lineage. But now to invite him to a party that was so clearly beneath him socially—well, it went beyond the bounds of proper decorum.
Grace’s late uncle might have been a well-respected solicitor in his day, and of genteel heritage, but his background was nothing compared to the son of a duke—even a younger one.
As for Grace herself, her father was one of the most brilliant men in England, at least when it came to finance. But he was of humble origins, having clawed his way up from poverty as the child of a village blacksmith. As a young man, he’d run off to London to make his fortune, and he’d succeeded. He’d married her mother, whose own father had been a physician.
But no matter Ezra Danvers’s immense wealth, he would always be the son of a blacksmith, and Grace the granddaughter of one. Her time at the ladies’ academy had taught her that much. Her years since had only reinforced that lesson.
Duke’s sons and tradesmen’s daughters did not mix. Nor did aristocrats come to card parties hosted by audacious middle-class matrons who clearly did not know when to hold their tongues.
Grace waited for Lord Jack to think up an excuse and refuse.
He smiled at her aunt. “You are all kindness, ma’am. Cards on Friday, hmm? I shall be delighted to attend so long as you promise to partner me for at least one hand.”
Grace stared, her lips parting in surprise.
“Oh, your lordship,” Aunt Jane tittered, her smile as wide as the street outside. “I cannot wait for the days to pass between now and then. Not to worry, you will have a fine time and make no mistake. Grace will see to it as well, will you not, dear? You won’t let our dear Lord John grow bored.”
“Dear Lord John” met Grace’s gaze again, one eyebrow sweeping upward like a dark, silky wing. For a second, she thought she saw a spark of pure devilment and delight in his eyes.
Suddenly the clerk arrived behind the counter, the wrapped bottle of perfume in hand.
“Your gift for your sister, my lord,” Grace said, grateful for the interruption. “I hope the scent is to her liking.”
“I am sure it shall be,” he drawled, accepting the parcel. “Until Friday, then.”
“Until Friday.”
* * *
CHAPTER 5
He won’t come.
That was the phrase Grace had been silently repeating to herself over the past four days, ever since she and Jack Byron had happened upon each other in the perfume shop—and Aunt Jane had invited him to the card party.
Any minute now, a footman would arrive at the front door bearing Lord Jack’s note of regret—some politely worded excuse written in a fine hand on heavy white vellum. Undoubtedly, her aunt would be cast into the boughs over the news, particularly given how she’d been telling the entirety of her acquaintance that the Duke of Clybourne’s brother was promised to attend her party! But Aunt Jane was a resilient sort and would recover apace.
As for herself—well, she would have nothing to recover from, she told herself. No disappointment to assuage, since she’d known all along that he would bow out of the engagement. Ill-founded generosity had prompted him to accept. Clearheaded rationality would lead him to refuse.
It’s not as though I care if he attends tonight’s party, she assured herself from her seat at her bedchamber dressing table. The man is nothing but trouble disguised in a pleasing package. A truly gorgeous, heart-stopping, mouth-wateringly delectable package that would send even a blind woman into a swoon—but trouble just the same. The less she saw of him the better off she would be.
She sighed aloud, her shoulders sinking beneath the amber satin of her short-sleeved, empire-waisted evening gown.
“’old still, miss, or I’ll never get these pins set right,” her maid chided from where she stood behind her.
The girl worked to arrange the burnished mass into a pleasing style, combing and re-combing a few strands of Grace’s long, thick hair. Grace held steady and forced herself not to fidget, as the last of her wilful tresses were tamed into place.
With her coiffure finished, she fastened a simple gold locket around her throat, the piece a favourite that had once belonged to her mother. Next, Grace drew on a pair of long, white gloves, then stood and crossed to the door.
He won’t come, she thought once again before she moved into the hallway and down the stairs.
An hour later, she was more convinced than ever of the correctness of her assumption, for the house was noisy with guests—everyone save Lord Jack. Still, she couldn’t help but glance toward the parlour doors every few minutes to check for signs of his non-arrival.
She was conversing with a round-faced, former legal associate of her uncle’s when a tingling sense of awareness travelled down her spine. Without quite realizing what she was doing, she stopped talking and turned around.
And there he stood—Jack Byron, in the flesh.
He was large and dynamic, and so handsome in stark black and white evening attire that, for a moment, all she could do was stare. Framed in the doorway, he eclipsed every other person in the room. In an earlier era, she was sure they would all have fallen to their knees in obeisance to beseech his indulgence. Instead, guests began to fall silent as his presence was noticed and acknowledged.
Seduced By His Touch Page 4