A bloodthirsty troll who smelled of onions.No wonder Whitehall had to blackmail someone to wed her. Next, Miss Whitehall would tell Jordan she enjoyed gravedigging.
“There is a section,” she said, bouncing in excitement, “of the exhibit, which is rather horrifying.” She placed one hand on her throat, probably to stop herself from dancing about in glee. “Acompletereproduction of those that perished so tragically. Blood and all.”
Miss Maplehurst cleared her throat.
“Sounds intriguing.” Thank goodness he had absolutely no intention of bedding Miss Whitehall. If the mysterious horrors beneath her skirts didn’t terrify him to death, he was just as likely to awaken with a knife at his throat.
“Not everyone relishes such grim details, Odessa.” She placed a hand on Miss Whitehall’s arm. “I apologize, my lord. The waxworks are a particular favorite of my niece. There are other figures on display which are not so… shocking to one’s system.”
“Have you ever heard the tale of the German baker? He baked his wife into a pie.”
“I have not.” Jordan would definitely not be residing in the same home with Miss Whitehall. Never mind being murdered in his sleep. She was just as likely to make a death mask of him or put him in the pudding.
She took a deep breath, prepared to recite the entire terrible story to him, when Miss Maplehurst’s fingers tightened on her niece’s arm. “Odessa, not everyone shares your fascination for such things.”
Miss Whitehall lowered her gaze, though Jordan didn’t think her chastised. She burped. And wiggled her giant bum about some more.
“I’ll take your suggestion of Madame Tussauds under consideration.” Jordan took in her fingers, now twisting about gracefully in her lap. Shouldn’t a woman of Miss Whitehall’s large proportions have plump digits?
She looked up, catching him watching her from beneath her lashes. Scratching rather forcefully at her midsection, as if infested with fleas, Miss Whitehall expelled another burp in his direction.
Deliberate.
“Oh,” she murmured, covering her lips. “I must apologize, my lord.”
Though Jordan thought he would likely regret asking, he said, “You are…fond of onions? I confess, Miss Whitehall, the aroma is difficult to miss.”
“I am notintentionallyfond of onions, my lord.” Her lashes fluttered down once more to brush her cheeks. “If we are to wed, I suppose I should confess. I do not wish our relationship to start with dishonesty.”
Their entire acquaintance was nothing but dishonest, from start to finish.
“My niece has an affliction,” Miss Maplehurst offered quickly. “Of the skin. Most unfortunate.”
“Involving onions?” Jordan had never heard of such a thing.
“The onions are only a temporary cure for my affliction.” Miss Whitehall pursed her lips, drawing Jordan’s attention to her mouth. Her bottom lip was unusually plump. Made for nibbling and pulling between the teeth.
Jordan exhaled slowly and reclined further in the chair. The smell of onions had made him mad.
“There is no permanent cure, I fear. An onion must be consumed every day to avoid the condition, according to the physician.” Miss Whitehall shook her head sadly. “I understand if you find the idea repellant.” The slate blue eyes stayed lowered. “Unfortunately, onion also causes a host of unpleasantness, stomach distress, for instance.”
“The gases,” Miss Maplehurst added in a helpful tone, “must be released.”
“Most would wish to avoid such unpleasantness.” Miss Whitehall once more lowered her gaze, sounding more mournful with each passing moment. “I would understand.”
The smell of Miss Whitehall’s breath permeated across the tea tray, completely blotting out the aroma of the currant scones, once Jordan’s favorite. Could he wed a woman who reeked so horribly? Or worse, released the odor from various points of her anatomy?
Jordan had little choice. Whitehall hadn’t mentioned a word about the strangeness of his daughter or her affliction, but the marriage contract had already been signed. He’d have Miss Whitehall’s dowry and Bentley’s debt erased. Miss Whitehall could have her onions and her grisly wax exhibits.
Separate houses. He’d already decided to depart for River Crest after the wedding.
“There isn’t any other remedy for this affliction?” Jordan inquired politely. “Besides a daily onion?” Admittedly, he knew nothing about diseases of any sort unless they involved animals, mainly pigs. It was just Jordan’s luck that in addition to—he held his breath as she belched again—her appearance and unwelcome interests that she be diseased as well.
“The best physicians in London have examined my poor niece and they all agree,” Miss Maplehurst informed him. “Itisrather unfortunate. Terribly distressing.”
Whitehall had been more desperate than Bentley. It wasn’t just her father’s reputation that kept Miss Whitehall unwed. He glanced once more at the spread of her skirts, trying to restrain the urge to shudder.
“I must ask for your discretion, my lord. We don’t speak of Odessa’s affliction. Mr. Whitehall becomes incredibly upset at the mere mention of her defect.”
