Was this how he’d gone through life? Never being denied? And if it was, was it because of his title or because of the man himself?
Likely a combination of the two.
She inhaled and her knees went weak. And not in a bad way. But because she was partial to his scent, which was somehow becoming familiar to her.
“Leather and smoke.”
“Pardon?” He paused and leaned his ear lower to her, managing only to heighten her awareness of him.
“Um.” She needed to stop uttering whatever thought jumped into her head. It was possible she’d spent a little too much time alone over the past few years. “Your perfume.”
“My what?”
“Your scent. I mean.” She might as well explain. “I inventory them… the interesting ones.” And the pleasant ones.
“Leather and smoke.” This time, it was she who leaned closer. “But the other notes are difficult. Something sweet. Vanilla? Cherries? Not wine…” She frowned.
“Leather from the saddle, I imagine, and Chaswick’s pipe this afternoon, no doubt.” His gaze caught hers with that quizzical expression again.
But something else. “Bergamot in your soap. And an aroma that is distinctly from your person. You, my lord, are your own particular brand of earl.”
He was still holding her arm, and she’d drawn closer than she’d initially intended. “Your next line of whiskey. Distinctly Earl,” he joked.
Good heavens but hewasintoxicating. His scent, his voice, and most of all something far too elusive to be identified.
She stepped back, needing to clear her senses. “Or we could go with something more straight forward: Westerley.” And then she wanted to kick herself for even joking about naming one of her blends after him. As if this English nobleman needed any more accolades to add to his confidence. She’d name them after his ancestral cat first.
“Almost anything would be an improvement on that, Miss Jackson.” He opened a door and drew her into a room she hadn’t seen yet. “Perhaps Westy, or Miss Perkins.”
Was he reading her mind?
His hand at her back gently urged her to step into a room of such grandeur that her brain stumbled to process it.
“The ballroom?” She counted nine chandeliers that had been lowered to the floor where they rested on large tarps. By the scent of lemon polish in the air, each one of them had just undergone a thorough cleaning and also been loaded up with tapers that had never been burned.
“They are on pulleys and will be lit and then lifted to the ceiling just before the musicale planned for this evening.”
It was beautiful but… “Do you not consider any of this wasteful?” She knew families back home who rationed the burning of their candles so that they wouldn’t go without when absolutely necessary.
And all of this opulence… Only a small number of individuals would ever benefit from it. At least she could appreciate the practical usefulness of the orangery.
“Must everything have an industrial purpose, Miss Jackson?”
Before she could answer with a resounding yes, she caught herself. Lined up on one long table, the arrangements they’d created earlier that day were placed on different levels and at various angles, making for a surprisingly delightful display.
His stare followed the same direction and then moved around her to approach them. “You made one of these?”
Sitting amongst the others, hers didn’t look nearly as impressive as it had been in her own mind and she hated that it reminded her of how she felt while standing beside other ladies her age.
He studied them carefully as he walked around the table. Many of the ladies had incorporated large and beautiful roses. They were pretty but would be cloying. Lord Westerley moved along, pausing at some, passed hers, and then stepped back to it again.
After somewhat of a pregnant pause, he pointed at it. “You made this one.”
“Is my name on it?”
He laughed and met her eyes. “Who else could create something so perfectly balanced and delicate? I knew right away yours wouldn’t be ostentatious. You are far too subtle for that.”
Charley felt her face flush because her hair was more ostentatious than all of the arrangements put together.
