Miss Whitehall’s aunt was a lovely elderly woman. The sort that reminded Jordan of finely spun Flemish lace with her silver hair and nearly translucent skin.
What is that smell?
“My niece, Miss Odessa Whitehall.”
Onions.Rawonions.Thatwas the odor emanating from the settee.
He glanced at the tray assuming it to be the scones…possibly? He couldn’t imagine the smell would be coming from anywhere else. Jordan’s gaze slid over the robust, bulbous figure of Miss Whitehall.
Or anyone else.
Miss Maplehurst hadn’t yet let go of Jordan’s fingers. Her shrewd, assessing gaze traveled the length of his body from the tips of his boots up to the shock of hair falling over his forehead. Taking his measure as if he were a bloody horse at Tattersalls. He half expected her to ask to examine his teeth.
A tiny, knowing smile lifted one side of Miss Maplehurt’s mouth.
Jordan had garnered that look from any number of women, but never from one who could well be his grandmother. Flustered at her unexpected perusal, he turned to Miss Whitehall. Hair a nondescript golden brown, the same color as the honey he’d drizzled on his toast this morning. Delicate ears. Oval face. No pockmarks or warts. Not that he could see. That at least was a good sign.
“A pleasure,” he said taking her fingers. Surprisingly slender and graceful for a young lady who was so—
Thick. Not so much as a curve to indicate a waist.
Her thighs, he assumed, would be chunky. Ankles only slightly smaller than the legs of one of his pigs. The breasts pushing up against her bodice appeared ridiculously small when taken in comparison to the rest of her overly generous form.
The onion smell hit Jordan square in the nose.
“My lord,” Miss Whitehall said in a shy voice, lips barely moving. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” She jerked back her fingers as a small, unladylike belch left her mouth, spewing out a cloud of onion in Jordan’s direction. “Pardon,” she whispered.
Words failed Jordan. No wonder Bentley had wanted to beg off. The last ten years of Jordan’s life had been spent in Spittal, a village filled with fishmongers, day laborers, farmers, and sailors. Notoncehad he been burped on. At least not by a young lady.
Struggling not to pinch his nose, Jordan forced a polite smile to his lips and settled himself across from Miss Whitehall, wishing he could pull the chair halfway across the room. Possibly seat himself outside in the garden and merely converse through the window. Eyeing the spread of Miss Whitehall’s skirts, he wondered what other horrors hid beneath the fabric. Hooves? An overabundance of hair, perhaps?
Another soft belch filled the air, followed by a puff of onion.
Dear God.
“Tea, my lord?” Miss Maplehurst asked, seemingly oblivious to the smell emanating from her niece.
“Yes, thank you,” he answered. A shot of whiskey would be more welcome.
Miss Whitehall rolled awkwardly on the settee, wiggling the enormous wings of her buttocks, trying to force her strange body to maintain a seated position. She twitched, bottom tilting to one side before straightening once more. Miss Whitehall didn’t seem to be completely in control of her faculties.
A pair of grayish-blue eyes, like a piece of wet slate, snapped to his. The sky over the ocean before a hurricane comes ashore. So lovely and fierce. Impossible they belonged to such a creature.
An unwelcome ripple of sensation shot through Jordon as those orbs met his.
Dislike for Jordan splintered across the blue-gray, like dark clouds gathering before a storm. Miss Whitehall’s lips parted slightly once more and she breathed out the smell of onions at him.
Purposefully.
“Please accept our deepest condolences on the death of Lord Emerson.” Miss Maplehurst frowned. “ThepreviousLord Emerson. I beg your apology.” A hand flew up to her lips. “Goodness, how strange that sounds.”
It would be better if Miss Maplehurst covered her niece’s mouth rather than her own. Wasn’t there a sprig of parsley or mint handy?
“Don’t distress yourself, Miss Maplehurst,” Jordan returned smoothly, determined to remain courteous when every instinct begged him to flee. “The situation is awkward at best. Did you know my brother well?”
“He only called upon me a handful of times,” Miss Whitehall answered, oddly slender fingers grasping her teacup; she took a sip.
Jordon prayed the tea would lessen the onion on her breath, but he wasn’t hopeful.
