Page 22 of Never a Duchess
Oh, Lillian Ware wanted him.
His touch left her breathless. He was in no doubt.
But she fought this mutual attraction with the strength of a Norse shield maiden. If Callan had any hope of breaking through the barricade, he needed to know why.
“Then I shall use my Scottish charm and convince her to stay. Were my forebears nae famous for their strength and courage in battle?”
“Yer forebears were murdering heathens,” MacTavish teased. “Dinnae brag about that.”
Their ancestors were once sworn enemies, fighting over land centuries ago. Now, this Scot was Callan’s closest friend and ally. A father figure who had helped him through the toughest times.
“Ye could have any woman of yer choosing.”
Did MacTavish fear Callan might follow in his parents’ footsteps and spend years in a loveless marriage?
“Aye, and I choose her.”
Miss Lillian Ware. The woman who haunted his dreams.
MacTavish sighed. “Ye dinnae make things easy for yerself, lad. The lass has a Scot’s stubbornness. She’ll fight ye to the bitter end. It will be a clashing of swords, make nae mistake.”
“Maybe that’s why I like her.”
Good things never came easy.
And unlike other women, she wasn’t interested in his fortune or title.
MacTavish chuckled. “If ye can work a miracle, Lady MacTavish will be thrilled. She thinks of the lass as a daughter.”
“Still, my clansmen willnae want me marrying an Englishwoman.”
MacTavish frowned. “Now I know the mild air has turned yer brain to mush. Yer own grandmother was from Northumberland.”
“Hush.” Callan tapped his finger to his lips. “Do ye mean to ruin my chances of snaring Miss Ware? I’ll nae scare the woman away. She’ll take to the hills if she thinks I might marry her.”
MacTavish gave a sly wink. “Canny devil. How do ye plan to make yerself seem more appealing?”
Callan pushed all doubts aside and slapped his friend affectionately on the back. “By giving the lady what she desperately desires. The adventure of a lifetime.”
* * *
Society’s elite used scent to flaunt their wealth. Lazy devils used it to mask the stench of stale sweat and days’ old grime.
Nothing turned a man’s stomach more than the cloying smell of heavy perfume. Hence why Callan stood at Baudelaire’s marble counter, fearing he might cast up his accounts.
“While I often catch a hint of roses on yer skin, Miss Ware, I cannae recall ye ever wearing heavy perfume.”
The lady kept her gaze trained on the busy assistant, keen to get his attention. “I bathe in nothing but rosewater. A friend recently told me perfume is just an artifice employed to attract a gentleman.”
Callan fought to banish a vision of her lounging naked in a tub of rose petals. “A male friend?”
“No. Miss MacTavish.” Miss Ware looked to the adjacent counter, where Ailsa stood, forcing her father to sniff a host of sample perfumes. “She is extremely practical, as you know.”
“Aye, yet she’s spoken in error.”
Miss Ware faced him, gazing into his eyes for the first time since agreeing to take the case. “Then why do courtesans drench themselves until they smell sickly sweet?”
“Because they believe the same misconception, and nae man cares enough to tell them the truth.”
