Surely his mother hadn’t meant for him to be made miserable by his choice? She couldn’t have known her dear friend Lady Dingley would raise such a foolish, frivolous, ungrateful daughter who, despite the ton’s approval, was as ill-suited to become the Countess of Melrose as a feral cat?
Good Lord, he was in a mood. Hardly the right frame of mind for a cotillion, was it?
Johnathan’s heated gaze roved over Lady Susanna, taking in the dark, shiny curls gathered into an elegant knot at the back of her head, several long locks of which had been left loose to caress what looked like acres of smooth, white bosom, presented to great advantage by a tight bodice of dark pink silk.
Cross had been right all along. Johnathan was too deep in his cups, and it would have been best if they’d avoided this ball entirely, but it was difficult to care, now he had Lady Susanna in his sights.
Besides, Lady Christine’s dance card was likely full for the evening. Yes, of course it would be. She was the belle. Mystifying, that, in much the same way cricket being one of England’s most beloved sports was mystifying.
Johnathan prowled through the crowd, his gaze on those dark curls, that white bosom, but he was sluggish from drink, and everywhere he turned he found a wall of bodies blocking his way.
By the time he made it to Lady Susanna’s corner, she’d vanished.
Damnation. Where could she have gone in the time it took him to cross a ballroom?
He turned this way and that, frowning at the faces swimming around him, but the silky curls and generous bosom were nowhere to be seen. He huffed out a breath, and was about to return to Cross, admit defeat, and allow his friend to take him home when he spied a darkened hallway adjacent to the alcove where Lady Susanna had been standing.
He stepped closer and peered into the gloom. Perhaps she’d gone…ah, yes! Just there, a fold of pink silk, whisking around the corner.
Later, Johnathan would pinpoint that fateful moment as the one in which his better angels abandoned him.
Emmeline tiptoed through the garden, the rich scent of soil and roses teasing her nose.
Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and…yes, just there!
At the very end of the very last row, where it might bathe in the full heat and light of the afternoon sun, was the Hambleden Glory, her father’s prized hybrid, the one she’d feared was lost forever.
She squeezed her eyes closed, but it was too late. Tears—tears, of all absurd things—were stinging her nose, threatening to spill down her cheeks. Emmeline swiped her hand across her eyes, impatient with herself.
This was no time for tears.
She was meant to be tucked safely inside her bedchamber, not running about the gardens at night with her hair in a wild tangle and nothing but a pair of flimsy silk slippers on her feet, but the roses were most fragrant at night, before their oils evaporated in the sun.
Not that it would matter to Lady Fosberry if she happened to wander onto one of the balconies off the drawing room and catch sight of Emmeline out here. She’d find herself in a carriage on her way back to Buckinghamshire before the sun rose tomorrow morning.
At any other time, an escape from London would be a reason to rejoice, but that was before Emmeline had found the Hambleden Glory.
It wasn’t in bloom yet. The buds were still tightly furled, protecting the delicate treasure inside. Emmeline had only ever seen it in bloom once, in the walled garden at home, but she’d known it the moment she saw it tonight by its distinctive, glossy green leaves and the elongated shape of the rosebuds.
It was a big, extravagant rose with sprawling scarlet blooms, the dramatic color a perfect match for an exotic, complex scent that was difficult to describe, but that made Emmeline think of cloves, violets, and honeysuckle.
If ever a rose were destined to become a perfume, it was the Hambleden Glory.
Her father had known it, had recognized it at once, and begun distilling the scent in his workroom, his big, rough hands gentle on the delicate petals, careful of the oils in their dark glass bottles.
Emmeline reached into her pocket, pulled out a tiny bundle, and peeled back several layers of linen. Nestled inside was a violet ribbon, faded with time and too much handling, but a faint scent still clung to the limp silk.
It was all she had left of the scent he’d created. He’d fallen ill soon after he perfected the formula, and died soon afterwards, leaving only a tiny bottle behind with enough scent to fill the center of Emmeline’s palm, but no more.
He hadn’t written the formula down. He rarely did, and even if he had, Emmeline would never have been able to find it in the clutter of his workroom, but she had a nose for scent, just as her father had, and she’d managed to pinpoint the various scents in his formula.
For the most part.
The Hambleden Glory with a touch of coriander to temper the sweetness, orris root, the barest trace of plum, and…something else.
A second rose, certainly a damask, perhaps one of his rare hybrids, one with a delicate scent of ginger, but despite a frantic search through every inch of dirt in the walled garden, Emmeline hadn’t found it. The elusive rose had likely fallen victim to the blight that had reduced her father’s beloved rose garden to ruins.
But Lady Fosberry’s garden was a different matter entirely. Surely one of the twenty thriving roses in their tidy rows would prove to be the one she needed. She’d dropped the last of the perfume left in the tiny glass bottle onto the silk ribbon to preserve the scent, and enough of it still lingered for her to identify the rose she sought in Lady Fosberry’s garden by its fragrance.
