Rhys shrugged, all bravado. “If you’re going to weep every time I buy you something, this marriage will bankrupt me.”
She laughed, but the sound was shaky. “It’s perfect. It’s—no one has ever?—”
He cut her off with a kiss. It was brief, but she tasted like hope and oranges, and he wondered if she had already made a batch of morning perfume.
She stepped back, her eyes narrowed. “Wait. Is there an ulterior motive? You’ve never given me a gift without expecting some grand humiliation in return.”
He feigned innocence. “I simply want you to be happy.”
Her brow arched. “Liar. What is it?”
“Fine,” he conceded. “You’ll need to invent a scent that strikes terror in the heart of Lord Julian Ashford. He’s coming in a week, and I want the pleasure of watching him suffer.”
She giggled, running her hand along the row of vials. “You do realize he’s entirely immune to olfactory distress. He once drank a bottle of cheap gin that had gone bad.”
Rhys tried for a stern look and failed. “At least make me something I can wear to Parliament. If I have to endure another session surrounded by the Earl of Wembley’sessence of musk, I’ll need an antidote.”
She picked up a vial, uncorked it, and sniffed. “Hm. Tobacco and vetiver. You could do worse.”
“I usually do.”
She glanced up, lips curved in a secret smile. “I’ll make you something new. Something no one has ever worn.”
He leaned against the table and folded his arms, watching her move from instrument to instrument. “If you burn down the manor, I’ll have no choice but to blame you in court. But you may use the kitchen maids for experiments, provided you return them unharmed.”
She flashed him a grin. “You’re a terrible man.”
“True, but I have impeccable taste in wives.”
She sobered, tracing the edge of the brass still. “Why did you do this?” she asked, so quietly that he almost didn’t hear her.
He stared at her for a moment, then said, “Because it seemed a shame, having a duchess who could outwit most chemists in London, and giving her nothing but roses to play with.”
She looked away, but not before he saw the flush on her cheeks.
He let the moment stretch, then reached for her hand and tugged her close.
“You’re certain you’re not a romantic?” she asked.
He snorted. “God, no. I’m an utter scoundrel. But if I were, I’d say you deserve to have everything you ever wanted and more.”
She touched his jaw lightly. “You are… impossible.”
He kissed her again, more deeply, until she melted into him.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers and whispered, “Make me something that smells like you.”
She laughed, and he thought he could listen to that sound for the rest of his life.
He wondered, dangerously and achingly, if there was anything in the world he wouldn’t give this woman.
The thought tightened his chest, as fierce and as bright as his longing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Ah, dearest London,” Rhys muttered as he peered out the window. “How fondly she welcomes us.”
The city was sprawled out beyond the carriage, but Celine did not share the sentiment. They had decided to return to London and spend some time there because she had missed her father.
