“You have chosen a garden of smells rather than colors,” Georgia whispered when the realization struck her.
“The latter would be pointless for me. I wish to appreciate my garden, and so it must provide for other senses. I can identify each flower by its scent and pick out individual aromas from a crowd.”
The corner of her lips lifted. “That is quite remarkable. How long did it take you to learn this skill?”
“Necessity is the mother of invention, Miss Roseton,” Keaton replied.
Georgia stopped walking. It took Keaton a moment to detect the fact. He paused too, lifting his head as though listening. She caught the flare of his nostrils and knew that he was picking out the scent of her perfume from among that of the flowers.
“I am Georgia Deverall, Duchess of Westvale,” she declared again.
“Legally, but not morally,” he replied.
She glared at him, and he stared back, unyielding and silent.
“Then I choose the legal. I would be addressed properly. By my name.”
“I will not call you Duchess, not ever,” he muttered.
“Nor do I ask it,” she retorted. “Simply call me Georgia, as I use your own name.”
“Without my leave. I have no problem being addressed by my honorific.”
As cold and impenetrable as granite. Georgia felt there was no getting through to him. No way to break through his high walls to reach the man beneath.
“I cannot spend a month living like that. Being called Miss Roseton by you, and I expected to call you Your Grace.”
She threw up her hands, marching away a few paces before halting and hugging herself. Frustration boiled within her, threatening to over-spill. She looked back at Keaton, who was staring into the middle distance. Except she knew that he wasn't. His other senses were all focused on her, hearing and smell pin-pointing her and following her. It onlylookedlike he was ignoring her.
“Why?” Keaton asked at last. “We are not husband and wife. Nor even friends. We have found ourselves in this situation and must make the best of it in public. But we are not in public now. So, why pretend?”
“Because I cannot live with a stranger!” Georgia exclaimed, unable to understand why he needed this explained to him.
“Wearestrangers and your actions have thrown us together,” Keaton reminded, his own voice rising in response.
“But must we remain strangers? Should we not seek the path of least resistance? I am willing to try.” She walked back to him, knowing her scent would be stronger.
I am not manipulating him but merely making him aware of my presence. He cannot ignore me for an entire month!
Keaton took a deep breath, and Georgia thought that he was savoring her scent. It gave her a brief thrill, a moment of excitement at the notion of being appreciated by a man.
“Very well,” he conceded at last. “I am willing to try also.”
Georgia smiled brightly, feeling relieved.
“Thank you,” she said.
For a moment, she found herself lost in an examination of his face.
There are few men whom I could stand before unabashed and just stare at. At least not without giving an impression I do not mean to or attracting entirely the wrong sort of attention.
Keaton was beautiful. There was no other word for it. His face might have been sculpted by a Renaissance master. Georgiacould not help but think of the kiss, the feel of those lips upon hers, pressing, hard. The feel of his arms about her, holding her close to him. His body against hers. Hard against soft.
She blushed at the images that cascaded through her mind and felt a glorious liberation that she did not need to be embarrassed by them. He could not see, would never know.
“Shall we continue to explore?” He quirked a brow.
Georgia jumped, brought from her thoughts back into the real world.
