by Erica Ridley
But he made no move to exit.
Penelope’s heart beat alarmingly fast. Something was happening. She tried to think rationally. A racing pulse was a good thing. Every beat of her heart was sending tiny pulses of Duchess from her pulse points to his nostrils. The scent was subtle. He would not know what was so intoxicating about her. It would just work.
She hoped.
Unfortunately, his scent was having an equally disruptive effect on her senses. This feeling of vertigo was not due to Duke or any other eau de toilette. She doubted he used one. He didn’t have to. His scent was deeper than that, more real, more complex. A trace of his soap, the scent of his skin, an essence of arrogance and romance and danger. She swallowed hard.
Of course Saint Nick would not require cologne water. He was quite capable of being intoxicating all on his own.
At last, he dipped an extravagant bow followed by a cheeky grin. “Until tomorrow, Miss Mitchell.”
“Until tomorrow,” she murmured, unable to curtsy back.
He didn’t so much as glance at the fallen rose as he strode back into the snow-covered streets and disappeared from view.
Penelope stood at the crack in her curtains for much longer. Her uneven breath steamed the window-glass until the wind stole away every last scarlet petal.
Chapter 5
Nicholas prowled through Marlowe Castle’s public dining area in search of his brother. Not Miss Mitchell, he reminded himself for the third time. His brother.
The castle perched on the zenith of the mountain served as more than an iconic landmark for the village of Christmas. It was the largest employer for the townsfolk, and the fashionable place to see and be seen.
Even before the town’s late founder had bequeathed the castle to the villagers in a philanthropic trust, its grand dining hall had been available to all residents, free of charge.
Most took every meal in the castle in order to fraternize with their fellow neighbors. Meeting over a dinner table after a day’s work or before an evening out was a fundamental component of local tradition. The residents thought of themselves not as a town, but as a family.
Nicholas’s brother was exactly the sort of gentleman who would find romance in such quaint notions. Nicholas had little doubt that Chris was already imagining himself starting a family in a cozy, snow-frosted cottage with a crackling fireplace and a panoramic vista of evergreen-studded hills.
Nicholas was only staying until his planned fortnight was over. He’d set aside limited time for a holiday. Half was now gone. His fingers itched to get back to work. The last thing he should be doing was stalking through some castle dining hall in search of Penelope Mitchell.
Er, in search of his brother. Nicholas was definitely searching for Christopher. The rascal had to be here somewhere.
There he was!
Nicholas made his way to his brother’s table and sat down beside him.
Chris stared at him as if he’d sprouted antlers and a bright red nose.
“What is it?” Nicholas growled in irritation.
His brother smirked. “If only I could say I’ve never seen so many women sigh in unison as you walk by. I just witnessed a room full of ladies flutter every possible fluttery thing. Eyelashes, fans, handkerchiefs, fichus… A peacock would be impressed with their ingenuity—and your stoicism,” he added, impressed. “It truly looked as if you didn’t notice any of it happening.”
Nicholas cleared his throat. He hadn’t noticed any of it happening. He’d been looking right through all the other castle guests in search of the only one that mattered.
His brother, of course. He had one hundred percent been looking for his brother.
“Perhaps I’m not interested,” he said.
Chris nearly spit ale out his nose. “When are you ever uninterested in women? The very night we arrived here, you—”
Nicholas waved this away. “Ancient history.”
“It was last week,” Chris pointed out. “It’s not like one becomes a different person overnight.”
He had made no such transformation, Nicholas promised himself.
The only reason he had been plagued by troubled dreams last night was because his visit with Miss Mitchell had been unsettling. She had gotten under his skin.
Not that he was interested in her. His strict code of conduct did not allow emotional indulgences.
That she was the first woman he’d ever purposefully planned to see two days in a row did not signify. They weren’t in the midst of an affaire de cœur. There was nothing between them at all, save for a potential business arrangement.
One with which Nicholas intended to shut down this Duke nonsense once and for all.
“What were you thinking about just now?” Chris asked curiously. “You had the strangest expression. As if you were trying to solve a puzzle but could not.”
“No one. Nothing.” Nicholas leaned back. “Have you found a bride yet?”
“I’ll make my inquiries when they regain consciousness from swooning. Witnessing so much rakish presence in one room must be exhausting.”
Nicholas frowned. His brother’s mouth might have curved in jest, but there was no humor in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Nicholas said contritely. “I didn’t mean to distract the ladies.”
“You never mean to. It’s what you do.” Chris shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
Nicholas glanced about the wide chamber.
Dozens of startled gazes immediately swung away, followed by a rustle of whispers.
“Five quid says they’re working up the nerve to talk with me.” Chris took a sip of his ale. “In order to beg an introduction to you.”
A rock formed in Nicholas’s stomach. “The sort of woman who would be interested in me is not the right bride for you.”
“Even the sort that wasn’t previously the sort, turns into the sort after she sees you,” Chris said and finished his ale.
Nicholas slid the empty mug away from his brother. “How many of these have you had?”
“One,” Chris answered. “I’m not sotted. I’m bored of living in your shadow. I am ready to take a wife. But you are the worst person to have along when a man is out bride-hunting. I give up.”
“You can’t give up,” Nicholas said in horror. “You’ve always wanted to get married.”
Chris toyed with his empty glass. “It’s not as easy for me as it is for you. I can’t walk up to a stranger and start talking.”
Balderdash. Nicholas tried to understand. “Because you need a formal introduction first?”
“Because I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s a lie. You’ve made more friends in the week we’ve been here than I’ve made in the past year.”
“I’m not looking for friends,” Chris muttered. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. How has your morning gone? Have you been forced to commission a new bedpost to mark your conquests on?”
Nicholas tilted his head uncertainly at his brother. “You never seemed critical of my choices before.”
“I’ve been critical of your choices since I could talk.” Chris arched a brow. “I’m always telling you to stop wasting your time with the wrong women so you can find the right one.”
“You never seemed resentful of my choices before,” Nicholas clarified.
Chris shrugged. “You never paused your conquests long enough to notice. I haven’t figured out why you’re still sitting with me right now instead of sweeping one of these fine maidens off for the best hour or two of her life.”
Did he truly seem that cavalier? Nicholas swallowed a lump in his throat. The answer was clear.
Even at Oxford, the only times he and his brother saw each other were in social situations. Whenever Chris wasn’t in class—or being dragged by Nicholas to some soirée or another—Chris was more likely to be found on a roof staring up through his telescope. Or staying up all night with the rest of the Junior Astronomers Club in hopes of glimpsing a shooting star or a new come
t.
Or whatever aspiring astronomers did. Nicholas had no idea if comets and falling stars were the same thing.
He had his own interests. Interests he’d been too embarrassed to share with others. His brother knew, of course. Family was different. But even still, Nicholas had been happy to let everyone else believe he spent every possible moment dedicated to the fine art of wenching.
What had started as a convenient lie quickly took over his life.
Back at Eton, Nicholas had become the rake he’d pretended to be. And then he began to enjoy it. To revel in it. He liked the rules, the lines. “One night” was easy to understand. Fun. Predictable. Safe.
Becoming a rake had rescued him when he was adrift without direction. It had given him someone to be. Rules to live by. One night was not enough time to get to know another person. Not enough time to like them. To be vulnerable. To have it all fall apart. Being a rake gave him control of his world.
He had never intended to ruin his brother’s life in the process.
“Should I leave?” he asked quietly.
Chris shook his head. “You’re paying for accommodations, too. Try the fish. I think you’ll like the white sauce.”
“I mean this village.” Nicholas met his brother’s eyes. “Should I leave?”
Chris let out a breath. “This is your holiday, too. Enjoy it.”
“I’ll be gone in a week,” Nicholas promised. “Faster if I wrap up this business I’m trying to handle. In a few days, you’ll be able to bride-hunt without my presence mucking up the works.”
“You have actual business here?” His brother’s eyes widened in shock. “Are you going to sell some of your—”
“No one knows about that,” Nicholas said firmly. “Let’s keep it that way.”
“But you’re good,” Chris said. “One shouldn’t keep one’s talents a secret.”
Nicholas’s mouth curved dryly. “Some would say I don’t.”
“Not those talents.” Chris rolled his eyes. “You should definitely keep those more secret. Give the rest of us a chance.”
At that, Nicholas could not help but think of Miss Mitchell’s words the previous afternoon. He straightened in alarm. “Please tell me you’re not going to start bathing in Duke perfume.”
“I said I agreed with you on the subject.” Chris lifted a shoulder. “If I cannot woo a woman with honest romance, I shan’t take her as my wife.”
Nicholas blinked. “What the devil is ‘honest romance?’”
“Romance that means something.” His brother’s eyes took on a far-off sheen. “Not a dozen roses, but her favorite flower. Not poetry from the masters, but some truly awful rhyming couplets that come from one’s heart. Not an afternoon promenade to march her before all of London, but a hundred quiet moments that mean everything. Moments only the two of you would understand.”
It was Nicholas’s turn to stare at his brother as though he had sprouted antlers.
Good God. Nicholas wouldn’t be engaging in any such behavior. Not only was romance for people who intended to see the same person again and again, it was an exercise in futility.
When Mother and Father’s love match had turned sour, he and his brother had watched the drama unfold before their eyes. The snide comments. Long silences. Father’s mistresses. The night Mother never came back.
Chris had sworn to do better.
Nicholas had vowed never to love at all. By far, the safer choice.
“You don’t look convinced,” Chris said.
Nicholas was very convinced. They just held opposing beliefs.
“Love isn’t for me,” he said. Even if he were to find it, it wouldn’t last. He didn’t need the heartbreak. But he wished his brother well. “Keep looking. You’ll find her eventually.”
And he would. If anyone deserved to find the love of a lifetime, it was his brother. Chris would do it right. He’d be better than their father. He’d start a romance that never ended.
“I wish you would change your mind,” Chris said softly. “You can’t live life in single-night segments forever.”
Nicholas gave him a crooked grin. “Why not? If I sum all the ‘one nights’ together, it adds up to the same thing.”
Sort of.
“At least do something you like,” Chris suggested. “There’s that smithy on the edge of town. Didn’t you say they would rent it?”
Nicholas’s fingers itched again. The le Duc smithy wouldn’t be the same as home, but maybe it would be close. “That’s a good idea. I’ll try.”
Chris gave an exaggerated shudder. “How can you stand crouching in front of a fireplace for hours at a time?”
Nicholas shrugged. “I like chimneys.”
“You’re mad,” Chris said. “Raking has to be more fun.”
With a hint of a smile, Nicholas rose from the table and made his way out of the dining hall. A sliver of the afternoon was still free.
He had promised to meet Miss Mitchell again, but they hadn’t formalized a certain hour. This errand would clear his head, give him time to think. Prepare him better than yesterday when she caught him so off-guard. He strode faster.
The smithy was a large wood-and-brick structure on the edge of the le Duc family property.
Nicholas knew little about the three siblings, save that they were French refugees fleeing Napoleon’s regime, had become talented blacksmiths, and were willing to rent Nicholas the entire workshop for an hour at a time, no questions asked.
Perhaps they needed the money. Or perhaps they didn’t need the money, and preferred to spend the afternoon competing in one of their famed carriage races.
Nicholas was simply grateful for the borrowed space.
He stepped into the workshop and breathed in a warm, comforting mixture of iron, dust, and grease. His shoulders relaxed. The familiar scent alone was better than any massage.
Today he was not here to work, but to explore. Inspect the arrangement, test the equipment, gauge the privacy. He walked about the interior, taking his time.
He could only imagine the fun the caricaturists would have if it ever came out that Nicholas Pringle, avowed rake and man-about-town, spent every moment outside the London Season holed up in a private workshop not unlike this one, creating art from boiling glass and red-hot metal.
It would be the death of his reputation. Death of the life he had built for himself. Glassblowing and mold-casting were not the activities of a Casanova, but the pastime of a recluse just as happy with his hands covered in calluses as in dancing gloves.
By Jove, was this a wonderful workshop. Nicholas had missed smelling of bronze and fire. Hated being away from his forge, his kiln. He spent long minutes inspecting each shelf, and the treasures it contained. This was exactly what he needed.
No amount of riding in Hyde Park or boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s or fencing with members of his club came close to the sensation of tumbling into bed at night after spending the entire day hard at work on his glass.
Nicholas did nothing with his creations, of course. Locked them in a wardrobe to gather dust. What else was he to do? He had no pretensions of becoming an artiste. That wasn’t what the world wanted from him.
But it didn’t mean he had to give it up completely. Not even here in Christmas. His pulse sang with joy as he inspected the workshop. It was perfect. Next time he would not rent it for an hour, but an afternoon. Or perhaps all night long. Once he started on a project, he was likely to forget all about time and—
Miss Mitchell! She was expecting him. He pulled out his pocket watch and grimaced. The hour had grown late so quickly. With a last glance toward the kiln, he forced himself to quit the smithy. He would come back soon. In the meantime, he didn’t want to miss his opportunity to convince Miss Mitchell to sell Duke.
As he hurried back toward the street, a tiny stone caught his eye. Intrigued, he bent to pick it up. As big as a strawberry and as smooth as a grape, its oblong surface glittered in the late afternoon sun as if dusted with fool’s
gold. Nicholas grinned.
The color reminded him of Miss Mitchell’s eyes. Complex. Full of mystery. More beautiful than they were given credit for. He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the pretty stone, then shoved it into his pocket, irritated with his flight of fancy.
Those were precisely the sort of foolish thoughts Father had castigated him for as a child. Rocks weren’t pretty. A man’s sons needn’t always behave like gentlemen, but they ought to be manly, for God’s sake. Did Nicholas want to be the laughingstock of Eton?
No, Nicholas had not wished to be the laughingstock of anywhere. Out of necessity, he’d learned to keep his inside separate from his outside. Make friends, seduce women, become the sort of man his father could be proud of. Publicly, at least.
Only his brother knew that Nicholas still dabbled with molten glass. But even Chris had not seen many of the painstaking creations. It was better that way. Easier. Nicholas couldn’t disappoint people if they didn’t know who he truly was.
He adjusted the rakish angle of his hat and strode up Miss Mitchell’s front walk. As before, she was the one who answered his knock.
Today, she looked as though she had lost a battle with a fire-breathing dragon.
Her leather boots were badly scuffed. Her linen frock was worn at the elbows and missing half of its trim. Her thick gray smock was stained with every color imaginable, and featured three suspiciously large holes that appeared to have been singed with some sort of corrosive liquid. Her oversized gloves were burnt in odd places, as if she’d put out a runaway fire by smacking at it with her hands.
Her hair was mostly clumped together in some sort of knot that hung precariously to one side, a forgotten pencil poking haphazardly from tangled curls. One freckled cheekbone was streaked with the remnants of white powder, and a tiny spot of soot marred the tip of her nose. He grinned.
She looked positively magnificent.
Like a Greek painting come to life. A capricious goddess who cared not one whit what mere mortals thought of her. She didn’t hide. Wasn’t ashamed to be herself at all. The concept was as baffling as it was intoxicating.