Do You Want to Start a Scandal

Charlotte had never been so thankful for an interruption.

With a smiled apology and Charlotte’s enthusiastic blessing, the shopkeeper turned to help a pair of aging ladies replenish their supply of toilet water.

While he did so, she took the opportunity to sniff her way through the entire tray of samples. Heaven only knew what bestial secretions and nether-glands might be represented therein, but she didn’t have the stomach to ask.

Within a few minutes, she’d worked her way through the entire tray. No luck. None of them was the distinctive perfume she’d smelled in the library at Parkhurst Manor.

“Here you are. I’ve been searching for you.”

The words, spoken in a smooth, deep—and familiar—voice, startled her. She wheeled about, nearly upsetting the entire tray of samples.

“Lord Granville. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t see you walk away.”

“Everyone seemed occupied. I decided to duck in here for a bit of shopping.”

“Looks more like a bit of snooping to me.”

Charlotte decided to change the subject. “You wouldn’t believe what goes in these things.” She offered her perfumed wrists. “Here, tell me which scent you prefer. Lilies and whale vomit, or lemon balm and beaver’s arse.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. He took her right hand in his, lifted her wrist, bent his head, and inhaled deep.

Then he repeated the same with her left wrist.

All the while, his penetrating gaze never left hers. The exchange was intimate, sensual. Despite the nearby conversation of the elderly ladies and shopkeeper, it felt almost indecent.

“Well?” she prompted, her mouth suddenly dry.

He lowered her hands but did not release them. His gloved thumbs worked under the undone cuffs at her wrists, sliding back and forth across the exposed skin—leather sliding over her tender flesh. Her pulse quickened beneath his touch, pounded in her ears.

She went hot all over.

He stepped closer, closing the distance between them, and inclined his head until he hovered just inches from her neck. Then he inhaled.

Charlotte’s breath sucked in, as well.

“I think,” he murmured, “I prefer this one.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m not wearing any scent there.”

“Are you certain?” He lifted one hand to her hair, pushing the carefully arranged ringlets behind her ear and tilting her head to expose the slope of her neck. Then he breathed deeply again.

This time, a small sound rose in his throat.

A masculine sound.

A sensual sound.

A satisfied sound.

She nearly whimpered in response.

“Sun-dried linen,” he murmured, “ironed smooth. A lavender and rose-petal pomander in the cabinet. Sips of chocolate at breakfast. Beneath it all, warm skin—washed with jasmine soap.” He straightened. “Yes. That’s the scent I favor.”

The muscles of her inner thighs quivered.

How did he do this to her? His skin had barely brushed hers. Not six paces away, a pair of elderly women stood discussing the inflated prices of toilet water. And despite it all, Charlotte was . . .

Aflame. She worried her clothing would incinerate. Vanish into smoke, leaving her bare and trembling. Exposed to the world. No flirtation had ever affected her with one hundredth of this power.

She was being made love to, in plain view. That was how it felt. Illicit, exciting, dangerous.

Anything but proper.

“Did you decide, miss?”

Her eyes snapped open. She didn’t even recall closing them.

How long had she been standing there, entranced? Piers had moved away. His back was to her as he inspected a row of colognes.

Devious man. She knew he didn’t approve of her investigation. He must have been deliberately trying to rattle her.

For a minute, he’d succeeded.

She cleared her throat and willed her vision to focus on the sample vials. “I’m afraid none of these are quite what I’m searching for. I was hoping to find a signature scent, if you will. One that few other women could have purchased. Are you sure you’ve nothing else?”

“I do have something new from Paris. I only received two bottles in, and I’ve already sold the other.” He wandered briefly into a storeroom, returning with a bottle fashioned from dark, smoky glass with a gilded stopper.

Before she sniffed, Charlotte eyed it warily. “What’s in this one?”

“In a word?” He lifted an eyebrow with dramatic flair. “Passion.”

“But to put a finer point on it . . . ?” she prompted.

“Poppies, vanilla, and black amber.”

“Black amber.” Charlotte bit her lip. “Which is . . . ?”

“It’s a resin, miss. A product of the rock rose bush.”

“Oh,” she said, relieved. “That doesn’t sound so bad.” At least no animal hindquarters were involved.

“It’s the most remarkable process.” The shopkeeper pantomimed once again. “Nomadic herdsmen in the Holy Land gather it by combing the beards and flanks of grazing goats.”

“Really.”

She paused, debating just how much she wanted to sniff Eau de Goat Flank, but there was no turning back now. This might be it—the clue that could lead her to the mystery lovers.

She lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled.

Recognition hit her like a lightning bolt. She was transported there again, behind those velvet window drapes. The library, the whispers and rustling fabric. She could all but hear the squeaks and growling.

She could feel Piers’s arms about her. Protective and strong.

“This is the one,” she said, shaking off the memory. “Do you remember who purchased the other bottle? If it’s going to be my signature scent, I’d like to know the other lady’s name. We might move in the same social circles.”

“Well, I suppose I could look in my . . .” The merchant’s voice trailed off.

Piers had joined her at the counter. He made the slightest nod. One that the shopkeeper seemed to instantly know meant, Wrap it up, and quickly. Cost is no concern.

Piers didn’t even need words to command immediate compliance.

The shopkeeper’s tone became brisk as he reached for the money Piers laid on the counter. “I don’t recall the lady’s name, miss.”

“Wait.” Charlotte clapped a hand over the coins. “Can’t you check your ledger?”