“You haven’t met my left toe,” she reminded him, lips quirking.
He wiggled his brows.“Would you like to show it to me?”
“I’d be happy to kick you with it,” she replied sweetly.
“I’d let you,” he said with a grin.“I like a woman who knows what she wants.”
“As long as the thing she wants is you?”she asked dryly.
“Or biscuits,” he said, but his throat was now tight.
For the second time in the same conversation, her unveiled allusion to his rakish reputation caused a twinge of guilt.He knew she was teasing.If ever there was a woman who would find no fault in obeying the body’s urges, that woman was Miss Penelope Mitchell.And yet Nicholas could not help but wish she was wrong about him.That he could do better.That he couldbebetter.
It was unfamiliar ground.None of his previous interactions with women had involved much talking, much less quiet introspection and meaningful revelations.He’d had encounters, not relationships.
She was forcing him to change all that.
Somehow, they had become friends.Or something far more complicated.
When Chris had asked if Nicholas had ever had a day so perfect he’d wished all others were like it, the answer had been no.
Yet he’d returned to this cottage several days in a row, with the express purpose of repeating the previous day’s delightful banter and delicious biscuits.His brother was wrong.With her, each day wasn’t the same.It was better than the last.He hadn’t expected to pour out cups of sugar and flour, squish it all together with eggs and butter, his forehead bumping hers between giggles as they bent over the same bowl of batter.
In that moment, he’d wanted nothing more than to kiss her.He could think of nothing else.Yet he also didn’t want to ruin what they had.He wanted to be able to come back.He wanted whatever tomorrow might bring.
A horrific, mind-deadening racket filled the air.Miss Mitchell calmly rose to her feet.Nicholas narrowly avoided apoplexy.He would never get used to that alarm.
She switched off the noise and pulled the biscuits out of the oven.
“Let them cool,” she warned him firmly.“Twelve minutes.”
He widened his eyes innocently.“How ever could two young, stunningly attractive people with the perfect amount of hair, possibly pass twelve long minutes?”
“I’ve an idea.”She walked out of the kitchen and crossed into an adjoining room.“Coming?”
Her idea was unlikely to be the same as his, but he was up for adventure.
He followed her into what was apparently her laboratory.It was filled with perfectly organized tools and flasks of every shape and size.
His spirits soared.He loved workshops.He wondered what she might think of his.This one was marvelous.He gazed about with pleasure.One section of the workbench held a project clearly in progress.
He edged closer with interest.“What’s this?”
“Duchess,” she answered.“I’m on iteration twenty-seven point five.”
He blinked.“Duchess?”
“A perfume for women,” she explained as she took a seat before a row of glass vials.“Men shouldn’t have all the fun.”
“You’re makingDukefor ladies,” he repeated.Good God.Itwasthe apocalypse.
She nodded.“Duchess.I’ve been working on the formula for months.”
He swallowed his panic.“How does one work on a formula?”
“Field tests.”She made an exaggerated pout and fluttered her eyelashes.“I tally how many gentlemen swoon at my feet.”
An unreasonable surge of searing jealousy shot through him.No man could resist her.And now, with this…
