As if he knew her thoughts, he grinned at her. His wicked smile combined with the look in his eyes did something strange to her stomach, as if she were on her childhood tree swing at their country estate, rising up and falling fast.
While they lingered in the doorway, he tilted his head behind them and raised an eyebrow. She nodded and let him draw her backward, one step, two, and they dashed around the corner and along a floral-carpeted hallway.
Another of his exquisite kisses was in store for her, and she could hardly wait.
*
Owen pulled Adeliainto a parlor, empty and unlit save for the moonlight streaming in through the open draperies. Closing the door firmly behind them, he reached for her. She spun to face him, a look of anticipation upon her trusting face.
Sneaking away for private time wasn’t something he expected ever to do with Lady Adelia Smythe. Furthermore, he didn’t really want to take advantage. He simply wanted to hold her and say emphatically how highly he admired her.
Of course, now that they were, in fact, alone, he very much did want to kiss her. His blood was singing through his veins with pure passion. Enfolding her in his arms, relishing her warm curves against him, he kissed her.
Willingly, she opened for him, tasting of sweet custard, almonds, and French wine. But something was different.
“Mm,” she sighed with pleasure against his lips.
He ignored whatever was distracting him, ravaging her mouth as his hands roamed her torso. Bending to nuzzle her soft neck, a familiar scent assaulted him.
He froze, eyes closed, breathing deeply against her skin. That was the difference—she always smelled of a light, floral fragrance. Until tonight.
Moreover, he knew that scent. His mouth went dry.
How could she be wearing the same perfume his sister used to wear?His brain wouldn’t, at first, accept it.
When he glanced down, Adelia’s eyes opened. She looked up at him in the moonlight, her familiar green gaze looked black, unsettling him further. She offered him an unsure smile.
He sniffed her hair, then her neck, and there it was, lingering upon her skin. His stomach turned. It was indubitably, impossibly Sophia’s French perfume.
“Owen?” Adelia asked. That was the first time she’d said his name. He had dreamt of her doing so, crying it out when he made love to her. He had imagined whispering hers against her bare skin.Adelia.
In the silence, she exhaled sharply.
His hands had begun to grip her too tightly. But this was Adelia who hadn’t even known Sophia. Immediately, he uncurled his fingers and relaxed his hold.
“What fragrance are you wearing?” His voice was a strange, toneless husk of its normal sound.
She cocked her head. “Do…do you like it?”
He wished he could say he did. But the ramifications of her having it in her possession were slowly creeping upon him.
“What is it?” he repeated.
This time, she took a step back at his gruff tone.
Would she lie?Suddenly, he realized the killer must have taken it from Sophia’s reticule into which the shopgirl said she’d seen his sister deposit the small bottle. It hadn’t been with her after she died. For some reason, Owen hadn’t thought about the perfume since the moment he’d found her lying on the floor, lifeless. Never once had he wondered what had happened to it.
“La Rose d’Amour,” Adelia said, and the room closed in around them.
He could hardly breathe.
“Where did you get it?” he demanded.
“What’s wrong? You’re…scaring me. I won’t wear it again if you don’t—”
“Where did you get it?” he yelled.
The shock on her face mirrored what he felt inside.How could this be?Something dreadfully sinister was afoot.
