“You’re scowling,” Noelle said suddenly. “Do the journals not meet your approval?”
Before he could reply, the door swung open and a woman in a light blue gown and a colorful scarf rushed in.
Splendid. His muscles tensed. Instead of a duke alone in a room with one female, now there were two. He gave the new arrival a closer look. Nearing thirty years of age, at least this one did not appear to be a debutante. Perhaps Noelle had summoned a chaperone after all.
“I love it.” The woman rushed forward to envelop Noelle in a quick embrace before pointing both index fingers at her throat. “It’s perfect.”
The scarf, Benjamin realized. Noelle must have gifted her friend a scarf.
“Your Grace, I present Miss Penelope Mitchell.” Noelle’s laughing eyes were not on him, but her friend. “Penelope, this is His Grace, the Duke of Silkridge.”
“Mr. Marlowe’s grandson,” she breathed, as if that were Benjamin’s greatest accomplishment. “How do you do? Isn’t this the cleverest scarf you ever saw?”
“It’s a thoughtful gift,” he teased, “but I don’t know about ‘clever.’ There isn’t a colder corner of England.”
Miss Mitchell laughed. “Or a more stylish one. I have dozens of scarves. This is the first one that has been personally knitted for me by Miss Pratchett.”
His gaze flew to Noelle. Her organizational skills had not only conquered accounting journals, but also colored yarn. She was not just intelligent, buttalentedas well. Full of hidden layers.
Deuce it all, Benjamin had not needed another reason to hold her in high esteem. He had found her unforgettable the last time. Fate was cruel indeed to make her all the more fascinating.
“Of course you would think Cressmouth cold,” Noelle told him. “You weren’t even wearing your scarf when you arrived.”
“I didn’t bring one,” he admitted. He had not planned on staying long enough for sartorial choices to matter. One night, no complications. And now…
“Miss Pratchett could lend you one,” Miss Mitchell suggested. “She has an entire armoire full of scarves she knitted herself.”
Noelle’s cheeks flushed pink.
“That won’t be necessary,” Benjamin said quickly to extricate her from obligation. The next time he braved the horrid weather, it would be to climb in his carriage and go home.
Noelle sat on the edge of her desk and faced her friend. “You did not come all the way up here to show me a scarf I knitted myself. Out with it.”
“It’s a new perfume,” Miss Mitchell admitted. She removed a small glass vial from a leather satchel.
Noelle brought the vial to her nose and lifted the stopper. “It smells… pretty?”
“It’s supposed to this time. I’m looking for testers.” From her satchel, she pulled the smallest accordion bellows Benjamin had ever seen. “Individual drops are too inefficient a delivery method. I’m developing a new dispersal system.”
“Silkridge volunteers,” Noelle said without hesitation.
With a practiced motion, Miss Mitchell squeezed the bellows shut. An immediate cloud of perfume shot from the opening and enveloped Benjamin in a fog of vanilla and lilac.
He coughed into his fist and waved a white handkerchief in the air to dispel the fragrant mist surrounding him. If his gesture of surrender also dispelled the diabolical women giggling to themselves, so much the better.
Noelle stroked her chin. “I believe it’s too…”
“Powerful?” Miss Mitchell guessed.
“Feminine,” Noelle corrected with a laugh.
“Perfect. This version is for women. The scent is meant to arouse the passions of gentlemen.” Miss Mitchell lowered her voice. “I hope the duke isn’t attracted to himself all day.”
“I’m sure he’s used to that,” Noelle promised dryly.
Benjamin glared at them both. “You’re going to need a smaller bellows.”
“She’s a scientist, not an engineer,” Noelle said. “Her perfumes sell to apothecaries by the drum.”
