Unsealing the bottle, he applied a precious drop to a handkerchief and gave it to Lillian. The first inhalation was light and mild, almost innocuous. But as it traveled up the nose, it became a surprisingly voluptuous fragrance, and long after the initial rush had faded, a certain sweet influence lingered.
Lillian regarded him over the edge of the handkerchief with patent wonder. “What is it?”
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“A rare orchid that gives off its scent only at night,” Nettle replied. “The petals are pure white, far more delicate even than jasmine. One cannot obtain the essence by heating the blossoms—they are too fragile.”
“Cold enfleurage, then?” Lillian murmured, referring to the process of soaking the precious petals in sheets of fat until it was saturated with their fragrance, then using an alcohol-based solvent to draw out the pure essence.
“Yes.”
She took another breath of the exquisite essence. “What is the orchid’s name?”
“Lady of the Night.”
That elicited a delighted chuckle from Daisy. “That sounds like the title of one of the novels my mother has forbidden me to read.”
“I would suggest using the orchid’s scent in place of the lavender in your formula,” Nettle said. “More costly, perhaps, but in my opinion it would be the perfect base note, especially if you want amber as a fixative.”
“How much more expensive?” Lillian asked, and when he named the price, her eyes widened. “Good Lord, that’s more than its weight in gold.”
Nettle made a show of holding the little bottle up to the light, where the liquid glittered and shimmered like a diamond. “Magic is not inexpensive, I’m afraid.”
Lillian laughed, even as her gaze followed the bottle with hypnotic fascination. “Magic,” she scoffed.
“This perfume will make magic happen,” he insisted, smiling at her. “In fact, I will add a secret ingredient to enhance its effects.”
Charmed but clearly disbelieving, Lillian made plans with Nettle to return later in the day to collect the perfume. She paid for Daisy’s tin of pastilles as well as the promised fragrance, and walked outside with her younger sister. One glance at Daisy’s face revealed that her younger sister’s imagination, always easily stirred, was running rampant with thoughts of magic formulas and secret ingredients.
“Lillian…youare going to let me try some of that magic perfume, aren’t you?”
“Don’t I always share?”
“No.”
Lillian grinned. Despite the sisters’ pretend rivalry and occasional squabbles, they were each other’s staunchest ally and closest friend. Few people in Lillian’s life had ever loved her except for Daisy, who adored the ugliest stray dogs, the most annoying children, and things that needed to be repaired or thrown out altogether.
And yet for all their closeness, they were quite different. Daisy was an idealist, a dreamer, a mercurial creature who alternated between childlike whimsy and shrewd intelligence. Lillian knew herself to be a sharp-tongued girl with a fortress of defenses between herself and the rest of the world—a girl with
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well-maintained cynicism and a biting sense of humor. She was intensely loyal to the small circle of people in her sphere, especially the wallflowers, the self-named group of girls who had met while sitting at the side of every ball and soiree last season. Lillian, Daisy, and their friends Annabelle Peyton and Evangeline Jenner had all sworn to help one another find husbands. Their efforts had resulted in Annabelle’s successful match with Mr. Simon Hunt just two months ago. Now Lillian was next in line. As of yet, they had no clear idea about whom they were going to catch, or a solid plan for how they were going to get him.
“Of course I’ll let you try the perfume,” Lillian said.
“Though heaven knows what you expect from it.”
“It’s going to make a handsome duke fall madly in love with me,naturally ,” Daisy replied.
“Have you noticed how few men in the peerage are young and nice-looking?” Lillian asked wryly. “Most of them are dull-witted, ancient, or possess the kind of face that should have a hook in its mouth.”
Daisy snickered and slid an arm around her waist. “The right gentlemen are out there,” she said. “And we’re going to find them.”
“Why are you so certain?” Lillian asked wryly.
Daisy gave her an impish smile. “Because we’ve got magic on our side.”
Stony Cross Park, Hampshire
“The Bowmans have arrived,” Lady Olivia Shaw announced from the doorway of the study, where her older brother sat at his desk amid stacks of account books. The late afternoon sun streamed through the long, rectangular stained-glass windows, which were the only ornamentation in the austere, rosewood-paneled room.
Marcus, Lord Westcliff, glanced up from his work with a scowl that drew his dark brows together over his coffee-black eyes. “Let the mayhem begin,” he muttered.
Livia laughed. “I assume you’re referring to the daughters? They’re not as bad as all that, are they?”
“Worse,” Marcus said succinctly, his scowl deepening as he saw that the temporarily forgotten pen in his fingers had left a large blot of ink on the otherwise immaculate row of figures. “Two more ill-mannered young women I have yet to meet. The older one, particularly.”
“Well, they are Americans,” Livia pointed out. “It’s only fair that one should give them a certain latitude, isn’t it? One can hardly expect them to know every elaborate detail of our endless list of social rules—”
“I can allow them latitude on details,” Marcus interrupted curtly. “As you know, I am not the kind to fault the angle of Miss Bowman’s pinkie finger as she holds her teacup. What I do take exception to are certain behaviors that would be found objectionable in every corner of the civilized world.”
Behaviors?thought Livia. Now, this was getting interesting. Livia advanced farther into the study, a room
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that she usually disliked, because it reminded her so strongly of their deceased father.
Any recollection of the eighth Earl of Westcliff was not a happy one. Their father had been an unloving and cruel man, who had seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room when he entered it. Everything and everyone in his life had disappointed the earl. Of his three offspring, only Marcus had come close to meeting his exacting standards, for no matter what punishments the earl had meted out, no matter how impossible his requirements or unfair his judgments, Marcus had never complained.
Livia and her sister, Aline, had been in awe of their older brother, whose constant striving for excellence led him to get the highest marks in school, to break all records in his chosen sports, and to judge himself far more harshly than anyone else ever could. Marcus was a man who could break a horse, dance a quadrille, give a lecture on mathematical theory, bandage a wound, and fix a carriage wheel. None of his vast array of accomplishments, however, had ever earned a word of praise from their father.
In retrospect, Livia realized that it must have been the old earl’s intent to drive every lingering touch of softness or compassion out of his only son. And it had seemed for a while that he had succeeded.
However, upon the old earl’s death five years ago, Marcus had proved himself to be a very different man from the one he had been reared to be. Livia and Aline had discovered that their older brother was never too busy to listen to them, and that no matter how insignificant their problems seemed, he was always ready to help. He was sympathetic, affectionate, and understanding—miraculous, really, when once realized that for most of his life, none of those qualities had ever been shown to him.
That being said, Marcus was also a bit domineering. Well…very domineering. When it came to those he loved, Marcus showed no compunction about manipulating them into doing what he thought was best.
This was not one of his more charming attributes. And if Livia were to dwell on his faults, she would also have to admit that Marcus had an annoying belief in his own infallibility.
Smiling fondly at her charismatic brother, Livia wondered how it was that she could adore him so when he bore the physical stamp of their father so strongly. Marcus had the same harsh-hewn features, broad forehead, and wide, thin-lipped mouth. He had the same thick, raven-black hair; the same bold, broad nose; and the same stubbornly jutting chin. The combination was striking rather than handsome…but it was a face that attracted female gazes easily. Unlike their father’s, Marcus’s alert dark eyes were often filled with glinting laughter, and he possessed a rare smile that flashed startling white in his swarthy face.
Leaning back in his chair at Livia’s approach, Marcus laced his fingers together and rested them on the hard surface of his stomach. In deference to the unseasonable warmth of the early September afternoon, Marcus had removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular brown forearms lightly dusted with black hair. He was of medium height and extraordinarily fit, with the powerful physique of an avid sportsman.
Eager to hear more about the aforementioned behaviors of the ill-bred Miss Bowman, Livia leaned back against the edge of the desk, facing Marcus. “I wonder what Miss Bowman did to offend you so?” she mused aloud. “Do tell, Marcus. If not, my imagination will surely conjure up something far more scandalous than poor Miss Bowman is capable of.”
“Poor Miss Bowman?” Marcus snorted. “Don’t ask, Livia. I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
Like most men, Marcus didn’t seem to understand thatnothing torched the flames of a woman’s curiosity more violently than a subject that one was not at liberty to discuss. “Out with it, Marcus,” she commanded. “Or I shall make you suffer in unspeakable ways.”
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One of his brows lifted in a sardonic arch. “Since the Bowmans have already arrived, that threat is redundant.”
“I’ll make a guess, then. Did you catch Miss Bowman with someone? Was she allowing some gentleman to kiss her…orworse?”
Marcus responded with a derisive half smile. “Hardly. One look at her, and any man in his right mind would run screaming in the opposite direction.”
Beginning to feel that her brother was being rather too harsh on Lillian Bowman, Livia frowned. “She’s a very pretty girl, Marcus.”
“A pretty facade isn’t enough to make up for the flaws in her character.”
“Which are?”
Marcus made a faint scoffing sound, as if Miss Bowman’s faults were too obvious to require enumeration. “She’s manipulative.”
“So are you, dear,” Livia murmured.
He ignored that. “She’s domineering.”
“As are you.”
“She’s arrogant.”
“Also you,” Livia said brightly.
Marcus glowered at her. “I thought we were discussing Miss Bowman’s faults, not mine.”
“But you seem to have so much in common,” Livia protested, rather too innocently. She watched as he set the pen down, aligning it with the other articles on his desk. “Regarding her inappropriate behavior—are you saying that you didnot catch her in a compromising situation?”
“No, I didn’t say that. I only said that she wasn’t with a gentleman.”
“Marcus, I don’t have time for this,” Livia said impatiently. “I must go welcome the Bowmans—and so must you—but before we leave this study, I demand that you tell me what scandalous thing she was doing!”
“It’s too ridiculous to say.”
“Was she riding a horse astride? Smoking a cigar? Swimming naked in a pond?”
“Not quite.” Moodily Marcus picked up a stereoscope that was poised on the corner of the desk—a birthday gift that had been sent from their sister, Aline, who was now living with her husband in New York. The stereoscope was a brand-new invention, fashioned of maple wood and glass. When a stereo card—a double photograph—was clipped on the extension behind the lens, the picture appeared as a three-dimensional image. The depth and detail of the stereo photographs were startling …the twigs of a tree seemed likely to scratch the viewer’s nose, and a mountain chasm yawned open with such realism
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that it seemed you might fall to your death at any moment. Lifting the stereoscope to his eyes, Marcus examined the view of the Colosseum in Rome with undue concentration.
Just as Livia was about to explode with impatience, Marcus muttered, “I saw Miss Bowman playing rounders in her undergarments.”
Livia stared at him blankly. “Rounders? Do you mean the game with the leather ball and flat-sided bat?”
Marcus’s mouth twisted impatiently. “It occurred during her last visit here. Miss Bowman and her sister were cavorting with their friends in a meadow on the northwest quadrant of the estate, when Simon Hunt and I happened to be riding by. All four of the girls were in their undergarments—they claimed that it was difficult to play the game in heavy skirts. My guess is that they would have seized on any excuse to run about half naked. The Bowman sisters are hedonists.”
Livia had clapped her hand over her mouth in a not-very-successful effort to stifle a fit of laughter. “I can’t believe you haven’t mentioned it before now!”
“I wish I could forget,” Marcus replied grimly, lowering the stereoscope. “God knows how I’m going to meet Thomas Bowman’s gaze while the memory of his un-clothed daughter is still fresh in my mind.”
Livia’s amusement lingered as she contemplated the bold lines of her brother’s profile. She did not fail to note that Marcus had said “daughter,” not “daughters”— which made it clear that he had barely noticed the younger one. Lillian was the one he had focused on.
Knowing Marcus as she did, Livia would have expected him to be amused by the incident. Although her brother possessed a strong sense of morality, he was the farthest thing from a prig, and he had a keen sense of humor. Although Marcus had never kept a mistress, Livia had heard the rumors about a few discreet affairs—and she had even heard a whisper or two that the outwardly straitlaced earl was decidedly adventurous in the bedroom. But for some reason her brother was disturbed by this red-blooded, audacious American girl with raw manners and new money. Shrewdly Livia wondered if the Marsden family’s attraction to Americans— after all, Aline had married one, and she herself had just wed Gideon Shaw, of the New York Shaws—was holding true for Marcus as well.