by Suzi Love
She laughed at herself and her heightened senses, made jests about following her nose to uncover people’s deepest secrets. In truth, her heightened sense of smell was a startling gift which allowed her insights into people’s wants and needs. Yet once she’d sensed a person’s greatest joys or worst fears, her compassionate nature stopped her using the knowledge in a hurtful way. He hoped his face never displayed his true feelings. Prayed his many and varied licentious imaginings of Laura, partly clothed or entirely naked, were hidden from her family.
He’d tried, often without success, to conceal the exaggerated stories about strings of courtesans or wild romps with bored ladies of title from innocent ears—including Laura’s—as being regarded as a cad, or having well-bred ladies avoid his company, grated on his innately honorable nature. How the gossip columnists imagined he found the time or energy, he’d no idea. Managing estates, escorting sisters and accounting for a sheaf of investment portfolios kept him running from one dawn till the next.
According to his plan, he had another three years before he needed to choose a bride, when his youngest sister would whirl her way through London ballrooms for her first season and, he prayed, the others would be married. Until all four were comfortably situated, they remained his primary consideration. After which he’d select a bride, a quiet and biddable chit, who was the opposite in every way to his passionate mother and his exhausting sisters.
A sensible young lady, who wouldn’t turn his hair grey or disrupt any facet of his life, business or personal. He intended passing his days with a woman of sedate charm and his nights with a placid bedfellow. Not a passionate woman who’d embrace the pleasures of sex and demand to be taken, night after night, in every place and position she desired.
Enthusiastic games would be reserved for the bedchamber of his mistress. He’d sworn to never watch another well-bred lady, one as exciting and intelligent as his mother, miscarry babe after babe because she stirred her husband’s baser instincts. Because her husband was so enraptured with his wife that he had no control over his rutting nature.
Laura stared at him, no doubt trying to read his thoughts. Her famed perception stood tall between them, the main reason he would never weaken, succumb, or beg this remarkable young lady to become his countess.
If he invited this termagant into his household, she’d unravel the secret he’d taken pains to hide since his first day at boarding school. Pity might become the only chain keeping Laura with him, and though during some lonely nights he thought he could suffer anything if only Laura lay beside him, a marriage based on nothing more than sympathy and compassion would kill him.
“Your male relations understand my stance on marriage. I abhor marriages based on notions of romantic ideology, and I believe love matches create more unhappiness than joy. My convictions exclude me as a suitable suitor for you and make me the safest choice of escort, especially compared to the fortune hunters and rakes I’ve seen sniffing around your skirts recently.” Under her intense scrutiny, he shifted his feet. “For a woman as passionate and exciting as you, I’d prove very poor husband material.”
He realized how his words might be interpreted when she said, “Are you complementing me for my passion? Or lamenting that I’m not the milk-pudding-miss you profess to require as your bride?”
He stiffened. “My countess will not be as bland as you imagine. She’ll be admired by everyone, including me of course, for her competency in running several large households.”
“Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “Because sewing and pianoforte and menu-planning and…reciting the bible…. are vital for any woman’s sanity. Mind you, your countess will need some distraction during the long boring months waiting to deliver your heir. And, of course, a possible spare or two. Stitching handkerchiefs may be the most excitement she experiences if her marriage to you is as boring as it sounds. I don’t believe you’re stupid enough to settle for a young girl who completely lacks wit.” Her gaze met his, confronting and demanding. “A chit with whom you’ve nothing in common, malleable enough to bend to your will and willing to be held at an emotional distance.”
He stared straight ahead, unable to meet her eyes. Laura, and this damnable conversation, would strip his long-held convictions regarding marriage from his bones.
“It’s the way of our world, Laura. Men of rank list their requirements and choose the wife who best meets their needs. My countess needs to have enough spine to act as my hostess, yet be biddable and undemonstrative.”
“Poor, poor girl. Selected like a horse from Tattersall’s to carry on your breeding program, and then ignored for the remainder of her marriage. No doubt you’ll desert her in favor of your latest mistress.”
“You’ve no right to scoff at my rationale. Not after you’ve terrified every bachelor in London by scribbling notes about them in your little books. Only giving the poor sods a tick of approval if they have a pleasing aroma. You’re selecting your husband the same way I intend finding my wife. By examining their credentials. Your scientific theorizing degrades their worth as men far more than my plans for my countess. At least I’m choosing her for her … ah…gentler traits.”
When she scowled, he clasped a hand to his chest in a dramatic fashion and gave her a wide-eyed look. “Consider your lack of traditional female skills arts as providential. Instead of wasting your time testing me as a potential husband, you can treat me as an older and wiser financial advisor, as well as a loyal sentinel.”
She frowned. “Once again, I can’t decide if I should be insulted or relieved.”
He searched for a non-committal response, but couldn’t reassure her without revealing his thoughts. A fast change of subject would be better.
“You realize that if you were a man, I’d call you out for insinuating I might steal from you.”
“Then treat me as if I’m a man.”
He looked down, his gaze lingering at the dip in her fashionably-cut neckline. “Hard to think of you as a man when you dress like that. Perhaps knowing I’m a better shot than London’s weak-kneed dandies frightens you.” To make her want to check she was covered, drifted up again. “Curses to Sherywn for teaching you girls how to shoot. He bolstered your self-confidence at far too early an age.”
“We needed to protect ourselves. Our father is…” She shrugged. “Well, if an archaeological dig opens, he disappears for most of the year. The boys are studying.”
“Still, young girls shouldn’t have been left to run wild.”
“Stop acting high-and-mighty. You loved our tomboyish company.”
“It was different as children. But once girls leave the schoolroom, things change.”
“Hypocrite. Chastising me for reveling in my bit of freedom. Choosing a simpering miss when it’s time to set up your nursery.” She narrowed her gaze. “Yet I’ve seen the women, or rather, the wanton females you take to bed.”
“Are you going to remind me, every time we meet, of the countess holding a conversation with me at Featherstone’s ball?”
“That woman did not converse with you. She devoured you, gobbled you up. I feared there’d be only the heels of your shoes protruding from her bosom. I was ready to summon footmen to grasp your legs and retrieve you. If her efforts to entice you back to her bed had become any more heated, you’d have burst into flames.”
As he turned back to watch the street, he heard her reciting botanical names and, despite summer warmth and a melting-sun dress, he felt her shiver. “This morning,” he said, giving her hand a pat, “I rose before dawn to organize the arrival, on time and suitably dressed, of four capricious ladies. Being the target of your ill-tempered barbs is a stroll in the park by comparison. I believe your washed-out appearance and uncharacteristic churlishness are due to your worry about Lady Hetherington. Imagining that lunatic gathering more men gives us all nightmares. So I sympathize, I really do. But–”
When she started to interrupt, he held up a finger. “Be warned. If you’re about to weep all over my
new coat, in front of the worst gossips in London, I shall turn tail and run.”
She looked down, kicked the step. “I-I never weep.”
“Liar. Your eyes were red when you left the church.”
He meant no offense, knowing her behavior was out of character, but she stiffened her spine, lifted her face and glared. The swift return of Laura’s fighting spirit pleased him, though he covered his mouth to hide his satisfied grin. Then he covered her hand with his, securing it on his sleeve with what he hoped was a light and reassuring touch. What he’d prefer to do was bundle her in his carriage and drive her out of London to somewhere safer. With Lottie and their aunt, of course.
“There’s no shame in accepting assistance.” He dipped to see her face beneath the brim. Damn! Her eyes were moist, with those tears she’d denied shedding. “From a….a… friend.”
“Friend?” She swiped at her face with a gloved fist. “Everyone believes us to be sworn enemies.”
He shrugged. “Let others think what they like. Despite our bickering—” He gave her a small smile. “Which I’m certain you do to irritate me—”
Her own lips twitched. “And to stop your head from swelling any larger. Saving you from having to purchase new hats.”
He chuckled. “But on a more serious note, I expect you to be sensible. To yield some ground. Let me deal with your finances.”
“No, blast your arrogant hide.” She tried to tug her arm free. “This is my chance to prove to you—” She sucked in a sharp breath. “To everyone that I’m more than the middle Jamison sister. More than the uncivilized one who tinkers with medicines and perfumes and such.”
Richard’s ears pricked at an odd sound. Comprehension struck like a fist to his gut.
He wrapped his arms around Laura, who was shouting, “Gun! Gun.”
Michael yelled from behind them, “Run. Take cover. Someone’s shooting.”
Chapter Three
Laura had turned to run, when an intractable force grasped her bodily and threw her off her feet, hurling them both sideways. Winchester, or to be precise, his muscled arms, had circled her body, heavy, protective, and immovable. Women screamed on the street below. Footsteps pounded across the stone steps.
Laura and Richard hit the ground a few feet from where they’d been standing and he rolled, his arms wrapped around her. The cocoon of his body stopped her from slamming onto the harsh stone, and he kept her lifted free of the blistering gravel on the pavement. After a series of rolls and tumbles, they pulled up in a tangled heap, a foot short of the tree-lined fence that separated church land from a row of buildings.
Not out of danger but, thank God, no longer sitting ducks. A large palm spread across the back of her head and gripped, as the Earl thrust her head into the concave shell of his chest. Her rib cage hurt as she struggled to open her lungs. She sucked in noisy streams of air, bobbed her head skyward and fought for normal breaths. His hand brushed her hair.
“Shush. Just breathe. Slowly.”
His mouth nuzzled, soothed, and hot breath lifted her curls. Under his guidance, she managed to slow her breathing to ease the ache in her chest and calm herself. She turned her head to listen, before peering out from under his arm. Sweat dripped off her brow and splashed onto the gravel below her chin, while drops fell from Winchester’s face onto her.
From beyond the high-piled vegetable cart, which provided a little protection, came chaotic noises—the terrified whinny of horses and high-pitched shrieks from humans. By the mix of lower-class voices calling to each other along the pavement, the crowd was confused about what had happened. Though not Laura.
She’d been stunned for a few seconds, but hadn’t needed any announcements to know a bullet had been fired. Not after several other incidents in recent months. They’d been physically threatened, and Becca had witnessed the murder of their friend who did the book-keeping at the Women’s Betterment Society.
For well-bred ladies to participate in share trading was scandalous enough, but the Jamison women had a reputation for uncovering crimes. Laura had been nearby when their enemy, Lady Hetherington, had sent a marksman after Becca. Little wonder that several friends had been ordered by their parents to avoid her company. And the Jamisons were about to become the talk of the ton once again.
“Laura!” Aunt Aggie’s voice sounded distant and panicked. “Where are you, Laura?”
“Laura’s with me,” Winchester called back. “Safe. Behind the carts.”
“Is anyone hurt?” Laura couldn’t keep the panic out of her own voice. Her jaw stayed clenched shut until Michael called out, “All fine here. Auntie and Lottie are behind the church. We’re around the side. Watching.”
She and Winchester drew in ragged breaths. Their tangled bodies rose and fell in a shaky rhythm.
“When I release you,” he said, between more sucking breaths, “rise up half-way. Run to the fence. We’ll follow the hedge up to those trees. Stay beside me.”
“But you’ll be exposed—”
“No arguments. Go.”
She rose into a half crouch, his spread palm on her neck an unvoiced reminder to stay bent over. His assumption of command would normally gall her but, right now, she was grateful to place their well-being into his hands.
Terror had held her family in its grip once before. Now, with Becca and her brothers leaving, responsibility for her aunt and sister fell on her shoulders. Loathe as Laura might be to depend on Winchester, his size and experience gave him an advantage.
Stories abounded of his efficient yet ruthless dealings with crooks. And she’d had a ringside view when he’d helped Scotland Yard toss Lady Hetherington’s first band of criminals into goal earlier this year. If the Earl’s well-honed survival skills helped sniff out a new threat and eliminate it, she’d swallow her pride and obey his heavy-handed orders.
Time was suspended as she picked up her hems and scuttled towards the hedge, hampered by layers of petticoats and skirts. He matched her, pace for pace, as they followed the fence line up towards a gnarled elm tree. Yanking her behind the wide trunk, he sagged back against the bark and enfolded her in his arms. His chest heaved, more than her own.
“You’re safe.” His voice sounded gruff and fraught.
Surely his anxiety wasn’t solely for her welfare? Still, firm hands remained clasped around her waist as she dragged in welcome breaths. She burrowed into his chest and surrendered to the fatigue that had been racking her mind and body for the past two weeks. Something about his soap-scented linen shirt nagged at her senses, a tiny incongruence she’d ponder later in her distillery.
From the moment the Duke had asked his cousin to step back into their lives, the Earl’s presence had disturbed her equilibrium. His habitual nosiness and his interference in her daily routine upset her carefully laid plans. Plans that included her and select candidates for her future marriage. Plans that couldn’t include him.
When she’d begun using her highly-developed sense of smell to test gentlemen’s aromas, and therefore their suitability as a marriage partner, she’d never dreamed Winchester would be eliminated first. Never dreamed his skin’s natural oil combined with a cologne, one she normally loved and mixed especially for him, would disturb her own senses so much she’d want to sneeze.
Her experiment tested and meticulously recorded the high and low aromatic notes emanating from a man’s skin. She matched them with her own aromatic pitch in identical situations—happy, stressed, or excited—using her perfume-making procedures.
According to the theory of sexual selection, any sensually-compatible man should be tested further. She’d read the earlier treatises of scientists such as Thomas Malthus and Erasmus Darwin, and believed wholeheartedly she could aid human survival by choosing her most compatible mate. The perfect man would give her strong and healthy children who wouldn’t desert her, unlike her father who’d abandoned his children in favor of excavating Roman ruins. So far, the only man who challenged her intellect and ignited her passion had d
istressed her olfactory senses and made her sneeze.
She wriggled in his grasp. “Please let me go. I must get to my aunt.”
Winchester listed the reasons she couldn’t leave their shelter. Told her why it was too soon to expose themselves. Gave assurances her family were in a safe place. Still her gut clenched. “If anything happens to Aunt Aggie, it’ll be my fault. I promised Becca I’d take care of her. And Lottie.”
“Laura, listen to me. Your brothers are with your aunt and your sister. Some idiot shooting bullets on a crowded street isn’t your fault. It’s no wonder you’re exhausted. You carry too much weight on your shoulders.”
Only the sight of her brothers standing to the right of the church, presumably shielding her aunt and sister, let her relax a little. She twisted her finger in a hanging gold thread of Winchester’s loosened vest button and willed away a rush of tears.
She’d rejected the Earl’s guardianship because he reminded her of a prowling lion whose dark eyes dared you to come closer; a golden predator ready to devour her in one quick bite. Her core was as female as all the others. If the king of the jungle roared, his pride would fall in behind him, and unless she stood strong against Winchester, she’d never stand on her own two feet and earn the respect of her father.
Booming laughter sounded from across the street, and a rough voice called, “Cowards. ′Twas only a barrel. Somethin′ fallin′ on stones be'ind yonder church.”
Others joined the uproar, satisfied the first man’s guess was correct while, several feet away, her family called out to remain behind shelter. Laura waited and fretted. Her fingers worried at the Earl’s button as seconds dragged into minutes, and they listened, tensed for a repeat gunshot. Movement in the street resumed, while muffled conversations changed into a more boisterous buzz, with bouts of loud laughter, as the footpaths filled with people.
Brian arrived at a run from down the street to lean a hand on the tree beside them. He bent forward, gasping. “We can’t find any sign of a weapon. Or a shooter. Whoever it was seems to have disappeared.”