Page 37 of No One's Bride
His smile reached his beguiling eyes. “When this is over, I doubt we’ll snipe at each other like we used to.”
No, she feared their relationship had changed. She would always wonder what might have happened had she allowed him to put his hands up her skirts. Whenever he opened his mouth, she would remember that passionate kiss.
“Then we should begin now, before it’s too late. Teasing ye is the highlight of the London Season.” Struggling to find anything unpleasant about him at present, she returned to their old jibes about his excessive use of cologne. “Though after suffering yer sickly scent for days, I long to fill my lungs with Scottish air.”
He hit her with a maddening smirk. “Cologne is my weapon of choice. This is new from Truefitt & Hill and is said to repel stubborn Scots.”
“It didnae work and smells like old leather carriage seats.”
“It does? Can you not pick out the notes of musk and vanilla?” Strong fingers captured her wrist, tugging her closer. He turned his head, offering his sculpted jaw and a chance to inhale the fragrance.
Ailsa craned her neck and sniffed, ready to wrinkle her nose and feign a sudden coughing fit. A week ago, she would have mocked him, sought a means to knock him off his pedestal. Not anymore.
Mingled with cologne was the earthy essence of the man. A bewitching scent that assaulted her senses, left her so dizzy she placed her hand on his chest.
The hard planes flexed beneath her fingers. “It can be rather overpowering,” he said. “A cologne should reflect something of the man who wears it. Do you not agree?”
“Aye,” she breathed.
He turned his head. Their mouths were but inches apart. The close proximity proved more dazing than the masculine fragrance. His hot breath on her lips sent a bolt of heat to her core.
“Perhaps I’m not as dominant as I profess,” he said.
“What makes ye say that?”
He looked at her mouth, a moan rumbling in his throat. “Because despite everything I’ve said to the contrary, I’m like a fly trapped in your womanly web.”
Ailsa swallowed. This man knew how to make her feel desirable. “’Tis only lust, my lord.” And a mindless curiosity. An insatiable hunger. “Surely ye’ve battled against it many times in the past.”
“Never like this.”
Having grown tired of blaming the grimoire, she sought another explanation. “This often happens when two unattached people spend time alone together. ’Tis why we need a chaperone.”
“What if I don’t want a chaperone? Neither of us wants to marry. What if we give in to our whims and begin a romantic affair? It’s obvious we’re compatible.”
She blinked as her body and mind went to war. “Ye’re suggesting we become lovers?” It was outrageous—as tempting as it was terrifying.
Lord Denton shook his head as if to jolt his logical brain from slumber. “Forgive me. Doubtless, it’s the greatest insult of your life.”
And yet she wasn’t offended.
“I have the utmost respect for you, madam,” he said, though he did not straighten or pull away. “Too much respect to take liberties when I cannot offer marriage. Again, forgive me for speaking out of turn.”
“We’re not acting like ourselves. And the strange events these last two days have left us questioning many things.”
They fell silent, though their gazes remained locked.
“A case of road dust in the eye, Miss MacTavish?” Mr Daventry’s amused voice dragged them from the spell.
Lord Denton released her abruptly. “Quite.”
Ailsa coughed to hide her embarrassment. “After the poisonings at the perfumery last month, Lord Denton wished me to smell Truefitt’s new cologne.”
“I’m surprised you couldn’t smell it from the doorway.” Mr Daventry motioned to the sofas and waited for them to sit before dropping into a chair and updating them on the case. “I’ve just returned from a meeting with the coroner. He believes the murderer had some knowledge of anatomy. That, or he has committed other ritualistic killings in the past.”
He removed a piece of paper from his brown leather portfolio and gave it to Lord Denton. The lord studied it carefully before handing it to her.
It was a pencil sketch of the murder scene. The villain had tied Mr Hibbet’s wrists to the legs of his desk, bound his ankles in fetters.
