It did not appear so.
Rather than coo or simper or whatever female reaction single red roses were meant to elicit, Miss Mitchell glanced over her shoulder as if she had left something far more interesting in another room before returning her irritated gaze to Nicholas.“Did you want something?”
What was the best opening gambit?
Her eyes were neither cobalt nor emerald nor turquoise, but brown: a color rarely waxed poetic upon by romantic fools.Clearly, they had never glimpsed Miss Mitchell’s eyes.Hers were not a dull brown, or a forgettable brown, or even a plain, serviceable brown.Not even the brown of coffee or cinnamon or chocolate.
Hers were different from all the other brown eyes Nicholas had ever seen.Deeper.Sharper.More dangerous.These were eyes that did not merely look, butsaw.He would need to be careful.
“Forgive me for not waiting for a formal introduction,” he said pleasantly, lifting the perfect rose a little higher so she could not miss it.“My name is—”
“‘Saint Nick’, the infamous London rake.”She pursed her lips.“I’ve heard.”
Well.That explained the frosty welcome.
“My calling card phrases it a bit differently,” he said, and tried again.“I am Mr.Nicholas Pringle of London, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“That makes one of us.”She sent another impatient glance over her shoulder.“I’m not interested in you or your services.Is that all?”
“I’m not offering myself to you,” Nicholas stammered.There was nothing to purchase.He wasn’t a cicisbeo.Good God.How had he lost control of what was meant to be an easy conversation?“I was merely hoping for a brief tête-à-tête.”
She arched a brow.“Then why bring a flower?”
Excellent point, blast it.He’d known her eyes would see too much.He chucked the rose onto a snow bank.“Now may I come inside?”
A sudden, deafening din rent the air like the chaos of a hundred woodpeckers drilling their beaks in unison against a sea of clattering pots.
“Very well,” Miss Mitchell said and disappeared.
At least, Nicholas presumed she’d saidvery wellaloud.He could hear nothing over the ungodly racket.The last thing he wanted to do was inch closer to it.
He stepped over the threshold anyway.If he came back some other time, the chemist might not allow him inside.This was his chance.The perfect, golden opportunity to… to… Good God, how could anyone think with that brain-splitting clamor rattling the walls?
“Miss Mitchell?”he shouted.Or hoped he shouted.He could not hear himself over the infernal noise.“Do you need help with—”
All sound abruptly stopped.A heavy silence filled the air so thick and so absolute it was almost more deafening than the cacophony had been.
His ears felt as though they were underwater.He couldn’t hear anything.Not the wind, not the ticking of a clock, not the noise from the street outside.Only the sound of his own startled intake of breath assured him he hadn’t been struck deaf.
Miss Mitchell appeared from around the corner, wiping a fresh dusting of white powder from her smock as if nothing of interest had occurred.“You were saying?”
Nicholas cleared his throat.“Might I ask the origin of that fascinating sound?”
“My kitchen alarm,” she said with all the same import one might give a comment upon the weather.“When I reinforced the walls to inhibit distribution of sound, I had to counteract my own efforts by inventing an alarm with even greater capabilities in order to discern its call when the sound barriers are engaged.”
The explanation engendered a dozen new questions.Why had she felt the need to cut off all sound?How had she achieved it?Why create the world’s most deafening alarm instead of leaving her door ajar?And most importantly—
“What are you cooking?”he asked.
“Baking,” she said.“My maid does the cooking.Baking is chemistry.I never pass up an opportunity for chemistry.”
Nicholas hesitated.From any other woman, a rake could correctly assume any oblique comment referencing “chemistry” to be an invitation to create some… all night long.
He was used to women coming to him entranced by tales of his prowess in a bedchamber.Sexual desire was something he understood, something he appreciated, something he enjoyed exploiting with someone who felt the same.
Miss Mitchell clearly was not that woman.
She was singularly unimpressed with his rakish reputation, and thus far remained unswayed by his looks or charm.And yet she had let him in.He straightened.Perhaps she was more open than she seemed.
