Kiss of a Duke: 12 Dukes of Christmas #2

by Erica Ridley

  He followed her into what was apparently her laboratory. It was filled with perfectly organized tools and flasks of every shape and size.

  His spirits soared. He loved workshops. He wondered what she might think of his. This one was marvelous. He gazed about with pleasure. One section of the workbench held a project clearly in progress.

  He edged closer with interest. “What’s this?”

  “Duchess,” she answered. “I’m on iteration twenty-seven point five.”

  He blinked. “Duchess?”

  “A perfume for women,” she explained as she took a seat before a row of glass vials. “Men shouldn’t have all the fun.”

  “You’re making Duke for ladies,” he repeated. Good God. It was the apocalypse.

  She nodded. “Duchess. I’ve been working on the formula for months.”

  He swallowed his panic. “How does one work on a formula?”

  “Field tests.” She made an exaggerated pout and fluttered her eyelashes. “I tally how many gentlemen swoon at my feet.”

  An unreasonable surge of searing jealousy shot through him. No man could resist her. And now, with this…

  He stared aghast at the slender vials. Perfume was perfume. It could not be targeted at a single source. If the new concoction worked half as well as Duke, she would have to wield an umbrella about to shield herself from all the smitten swains.

  The strange sensation in his stomach didn’t go away. How many tally marks would that be? Nicholas might be heir presumptive to a dukedom he was unlikely to inherit, but he was far from the only gentleman in town.

  The Duke of Azureford famously had a cottage right here in the village. Azureford! An actual handsome, single duke who did not require eau de toilette to attract young ladies. He was unequivocally the better catch.

  “Are you going to sit?” she asked.

  He sat.

  There was no reason to be jealous, he told himself. Azureford had always been the better man. Almost everyone was. Nicholas wasn’t the marrying type. He wasn’t even going to stay in Christmas. His feelings were irrelevant. What Miss Mitchell did on her own time had absolutely nothing to do with him.

  “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “How do you know?” She lifted the stopper from a vial. “Would you like to smell it?”

  He wanted to stop it. This was worse than Duke.

  “Sell me exclusive production rights,” he said quickly. “Name your price.”

  She lowered her nose to the vial. “Why do you think everything can be bought?”

  Clearly it could not. He would have to find some other way to halt its production.

  “If you’re just going to glower at me over my shoulder, then you might as well go back into the kitchen.” She stoppered the vial and placed it back with its siblings. “I knew having a guest in here would be a bad idea.”

  His heart skipped at her words. He stared at her speechlessly. She had brought the stool in for him. He was the first person she’d allowed in her private space. And he was about to lose that privilege due to a raging case of illogical jealousy.

  “I’ll stay,” he said quickly. “I’ve finished glowering. Tell me what you do with these vials. Do you measure with them, like we did for the biscuits?”

  “Not like the biscuits at all,” she said with a chuckle. “The ones over here…”

  So began a fascinating, if abbreviated, tour. There was far more in her laboratory than could be discovered in twelve short minutes. Nicholas doubted he could understand it all in twelve months or twelve years.

  Miss Mitchell was nothing short of a genius. He loved listening to the passion in her voice as she described how the layer water between the nested containers of her bain marie allowed gentle heating at fixed temperatures, or the struggle to achieve the perfect drip rate and monitor appropriate volume levels without disrupting active experiments.

  He drank it all in. He couldn’t look away if he tried. Science made her so beautiful. Her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed, and her joyful smile could be felt all the way to his toes. He was forced to engage every shield in his arsenal.

  She was exactly the wrong sort of woman. Not because of her interests or looks or mannerisms. But because he was going to miss her. His throat dried. He had never missed anyone before. Never known anyone for long enough. Every second spent with her would flay open his soul when it came time to leave.

  And of course he would walk away. It was what he did. But more importantly, if she was wrong for him, he was very, very wrong for her. She knew it as well as he did.

  All he had to offer was a body that she had helpfully pointed out would one day soon be going to shite, rendering him useless. What she had to offer was beauty and brains, science and sweetness, biscuits and friendship and laughter. She deserved more.

  He wished he could impress her the way she impressed him. Their easy rapport was as terrifying as it was addictive. He enjoyed her company so much. Dreamt each night about coming back.

  He thought again about the scrap of glass lying out on her mantel. It symbolized so much to him, although to any other observer it would look like nothing at all. Perhaps her maid would mistake it for rubbish and toss it directly in the bin. Perhaps she would do so herself.

  After all, she didn’t expect anything from him. To her, he was just some rake with nothing but wenching on his brain.

  His stomach twisted. He could fix that, if he told her the truth. He could say we both love creating things with our hands or even I have a workshop, too. But what if she laughed? Or what if she believed him, but didn’t care?

  The only way to prove himself to her as something other than an aging gigolo would be to rip off the mask. He could not risk destroying the image he had so carefully crafted. It was all he had. Once it was gone, there would be nothing to fall back on.

  A dull object crashed to the roof over their heads with a thud, followed by a strange, rhythmic scratching sound.

  Her startled eyes met his. “Something’s on my roof.”

  He nodded. “I hear it.”

  They listened for a moment in silence.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “No idea,” he admitted. But perhaps this was a better way to show his usefulness. “Do you have a ladder?”

  Chapter 8

  Penelope stood in the center of her drawing room with one ear turned attentively toward the ceiling. Once the ladder was secured against the roof, Nicholas had ordered her back inside, so she would not catch cold. Nonsense, of course.

  She could have argued that today was unseasonably warm. Or that the night they’d gazed up at the stars had been a half degree above freezing. But he wanted to handle the situation, and to be honest, it was lovely to have someone taking care of her.

  Lovely in a terrifying sort of way.

  She had never experienced anything like it. Never met anyone like him. Together, they formed a compound she was not quite able to identify.

  To keep her mind off irrational matters like emotion, she glanced about the drawing room to see what might require tidying up.

  Nothing, she realized with a sigh. Tidying up was what she did when she was trying to avoid uncomfortable thoughts in her mind, which was why her cottage stayed immaculately tidy.

  A glint of sunlight from the front window refracted on a shiny surface atop the mantel. She hesitated. There should be no shiny surfaces atop her mantel. She moved closer to investigate.

  It was a shard of glass. No, not a shard. A petal. It had been left there for her. Her stomach gave a little flip as she lifted it in her palm. This wasn’t just any petal. It was a rose petal. One that would not be swept away by the wind or wilt and crumble into nothing.

  She closed her fingers about the smooth, delicate glass and held it to her chest. Where on earth had Nicholas purchased such a perfect gift?

  A frantic knock sounded upon her door. Penelope shoved the petal back upon the mantel and rushed to answer.

  “You have a burglar
,” Virginia said, panting. “Someone is up on your roof.”

  Penelope dragged her inside and shut the door. “It’s not a burglar. Saint Nick is up on the housetop.”

  Above them, footsteps paused, then began anew.

  “You have a rake on your roof?” Virginia chuckled. “Isn’t that a risky object to keep about?

  Penelope was unamused. “What’s wrong with being a rake?”

  “What’s good about it?” Virginia countered.

  “It’s honest,” Penelope said without hesitation. “No promises or emotional manipulation. Men like Nicholas take extra care to ensure all parties not only know what they’re getting, but get what they want. Come to think of it, he executes the role of rake rather scientifically.”

  Virginia’s eyes widened. “You approve of the man you’re interested in being a rake?”

  “I’m not interested in him,” Penelope protested. “I’m interested in science. Everything we do is an experiment.”

  “I thought a visit from Saint Nick was only supposed to be one night,” Virginia said with a grin.

  Penelope scowled at her. “He comes during the day.”

  “I imagined as much.” Virginia tilted her head. “Have you fallen in love with him yet?”

  “There is no love,” Penelope said in exasperation. “So, no, I haven’t fallen in it.”

  “Are you sure you don’t believe in love?” Virginia asked. “Or is the problem that you believe other people aren’t capable of loving you?”

  “I…” Penelope glanced away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Blast Virginia and her razor-sharp questions. Penelope crossed her arms over her smock and wished she had something to tidy.

  It had nothing to do with romance. Biologically speaking, of course, any member of any species would wish to be attractive to its own kind. If not to be loved, then to be chosen. Perhaps to come together in a reproductive ritual. Perhaps to form a more lasting mate bond. Those weren’t emotions. It was nature.

  A clatter sounded on the roof, followed by an extended silence.

  Penelope and Virginia exchanged concerned glances.

  Just when she couldn’t stand the uncertainty any longer, the front door burst open and Nicholas strode inside bearing a wide grin and a small poof of fluffy brown feathers in his hands.

  “You got a pet!” Virginia exclaimed in delight.

  “It’s not a pet.” Penelope stepped closer to inspect the tiny chick shivering in Nicholas’s hands. “This little thing made all that noise?”

  He nodded. “I think it crashed into the chimney.”

  “You should name him Rudolph,” Virginia suggested.

  “No,” Penelope said quickly.

  “Randolph,” Virginia tried again.

  “No,” Penelope repeated.

  “I know,” Virginia said slowly. “Name him ‘Reindeer.’”

  Penelope turned around. “It’s a bird.”

  Virginia put her hands on her hips. “Have some whimsy.”

  “I could use some whiskey,” Nicholas said. “Why are we naming the bird?”

  “We’re not.” Penelope took another look at the trembling chick. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Its wing is hurt,” he said softly. “I’m afraid of making it worse.”

  Penelope glanced over her shoulder at Virginia. “Can you help it?”

  Virginia’s eyes narrowed as if sensing a trap.

  “Please,” Penelope coaxed. “I’ll let you name it.”

  Virginia rushed forward to take the chick from Nicholas. “Dasher will be fine before you know it.”

  “Dasher?” Nicholas echoed.

  “She dashed into your chimney,” Virginia explained. “She’s a chaffinch. You can tell by the white bars on her wings.”

  “Then she’s in good hands,” Nicholas said solemnly.

  “The best,” Virginia agreed. “I will get her situated at once.”

  She disappeared as quickly as she had come.

  Laughing, Penelope turned to Nicholas.

  He was standing right before her. Close enough to touch. Her heart lurched. She wanted to kiss him for a job well done. Throw her arms about his neck, and lay her ear to his chest to calm her racing pulse with the beat of his heart.

  She did no such thing. It would spoil the experiment. Duchess was a test to see if Nicholas with throw himself at her, not the other way around.

  “What were you doing while I was on the roof?” His eyes widened. “Wait. You’re a natural philosopher. Were you transmuting lead into silver?”

  “I’m a chemist, not an alchemist.” Her lips quirked. “Besides, you were only gone for eighteen minutes.”

  He widened his eyes. “How long does transmutation take?”

  “Three hours and forty-seven minutes,” she told him with a twitch of her lips. “If you’re a madman who believes in such things.”

  “Like James Price?” Nicholas cast his gaze skyward. “I was still in leading strings when he published that ludicrous claim about inventing a powder that turned mercury into gold, but even back then I knew he was a charlatan.”

  Penelope frowned. Nicholas read essays on alchemy?

  “Price has his shortcomings,” she admitted. “As does his acolyte, Josias Humphries.”

  “Humphries doesn’t have shortcomings. He’s a blithering idiot,” Nicholas said with a groan. “Do you know what happens to iron at 2,800 degrees? It melts.”

  “I did know that,” Penelope said. “Why do you know that?”

  The wry humor vanished from his eyes. “I… Doesn’t everyone know that?”

  “Most people don’t know the temperature at which water boils, and it’s a task they perform every day.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you melt iron every day?”

  “I prefer to make tea out of water,” he assured her. “Otherwise the leaves get all stuck. Have you ever tried to stir sugar into a glass of molten iron?”

  “I don’t imbibe more than the daily recommended dosage,” she said with a straight face. “Now, confess. Why do you know about iron?”

  “If you owned a carriage, you too could spend more time in a blacksmith’s shop than actually driving. I’m thinking about getting a sleigh.”

  “I should’ve known,” she said with a laugh. “Rakes have one interest, and it isn’t science.”

  A shadow crossed his eyes. “I did pay attention to lectures. Does it surprise you?”

  Did it? She supposed it should not. If she could be a woman and a spinster and a chemist, there was no reason he had to limit himself to being a single-minded rake.

  “Did you get good marks?” she asked.

  “The worst,” he answered cheerfully. “Just to appease my father. He believed a man’s interest should lie in women, not scholarly pursuits.”

  She arched a brow. “Were there many women at Eton?”

  “Regrettably, it remains a school for boys.” His blue gaze was intense. “You would have done very well there, I imagine. Been ‘top prefect’ in no time. The utterly obnoxious sort, with exemplary marks and perfect recall of every lecture.”

  She shook her head. “I like to think I would’ve been the one accidentally blowing up the chemistry laboratory.”

  He burst out laughing. “You’d like that? Is blowing up laboratories a particular dream of yours?”

  “An occupational hazard,” she corrected with a smile. “You’ve seen the metal door. Thick sheets of metal also span the interior of the walls all around the laboratory in case of fire. Even if it blows, the rest of the house should stay standing.”

  His brow furrowed. “But what about you? Is your smock some sort of anti-chemical, anti-fire material?”

  “Oh, I would be incinerated with the rest of my equipment,” she replied. “I’d be famous in no time.”

  “Please don’t get famous,” he said fervently. “I prefer seeing your molecules clumped together in their current form.”

  Her cheeks warmed. “Even my freckles?”
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br />   “Especially your freckles.” His voice had grown hoarse.

  Her stomach flipped.

  “You do?” she whispered as he slowly lowered his head toward hers.

  “I like these freckles.” His lower lip brushed featherlight against her left cheekbone.

  She shivered, her heart pounding.

  “And I like these freckles…” His mouth brushed against the opposite cheek. “And…”

  She held her breath, terrified she would vaporize from anticipation alone before she received her first kiss. “And what?”

  “And I’m very interested in your mouth,” he murmured huskily.

  At last, his lips brushed hers.

  Her pulse soared. Her breath caught. Her entire body surged with awareness.

  She was going to swoon.

  Heaven help her, she was going to embarrassingly and un-scientifically melt into a puddle of quivering Penelope molecules right at his feet. He was finally kissing her. His mouth was warm and sweet and perfect. She was frozen solid in shock.

  Wait, no she wasn’t. Her legs trembled quite alarmingly. And her arms—dear God, when had she wrapped them about his neck? How was she supposed to mentally tally every interaction when she could no longer think about anything but this kiss?

  His arms wrapped warm and tight about her. His lips were gentle against hers. Even if she swooned, he would keep her safe. But she did not dare swoon. She did not want to miss a single moment of his lips kissing hers.

  The heady sensation of her heart pressed against his did not calm her pulse, but sent it racing even faster.

  She had to regain her senses. This was just biology, she reminded herself urgently. The way her breasts grew sensitive and her nipples hardened, the desperate sensation of want deep in her core. It wasn’t personal. This was how their species survived.

  Kissing was a reflexive part of the human mating ritual, like the dance of the ostrich or the displays of the puffer-fish. It was nature, nothing more.

  And yet, when his tongue touched hers, she was swept into another world. Their connection was not biology, but electricity. A lightning strike, again and again, anywhere their mouths or skin touched. It was the most dangerous storm she could have imagined. A hurricane of unprecedented feelings, overwhelming and unpredictable. A rush like nothing she had ever imagined. Something new that could only be achieved with him. Together.