Page 28 of Hearts of Briarwall

She’d been taken by the shoulders. “You have a sword,” Violet had warned, glancing pointedly at the parcel from Floris. “Wield it carefully.”

Her elbow had been gripped. “I believe our dear Mr. Hayes will have a difficult time keeping his nose from your neck this evening.” That shocking comment had come from Florrie. Though the fact that it had come from Florrie was not so shocking. Neither was Lydia’s full blush.

Now Lydia sighed and picked up the perfumed “weapon of choice” from the dressing table.

“You,” she addressed the bottle, “are not a love potion or some sort of aphrodisiac. I chose you forme. Do you understand?” She set the bottle down, stacked her fists on the dressing table, and rested her chin on top. “You are a reminder of things I love and nothing more.” She stared hard at the pale elixir in the crystal for several moments. “Spencer can sneeze all he wants, for all I care.” She huffed, knowing that wasn’t entirely true.

But shouldn’t there be a happy medium? A place where what she wore and smelled like simply conveyed who she really was, and what she wanted to be, and with whom she wanted to spend time? A place where she could be herself and not some idealized projection others expected her to be nor an instrument of entrapment?

“By the world’s standards, I’ve been considered an adult for a few years now, and it’s only getting more complicated.” She sighed. “To illustrate, I’m talking to a bottle of perfume and half-expecting it to answer.”

She dragged herself up and looked hard at the door, then back at the bottle.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She stepped back, opened the bottle, dabbed a drop to her finger and touched just behind each ear then rubbed the excess onto her wrists. Taking in a steadying breath, she leaned weakly against the table. “My, that’s glorious.”

She straightened, pulled on her gloves, and walked to the door. If the perfume did indeed have any magical power, it was that it made her feel completely irresistible. With that brazen thought at the forefront of her mind, her shoe caught on the rug. She stumbled and banged her shoulder on the doorjamb.

Wincing, she smoothed her gown. “Irresistiblyridiculous,” she muttered. Humbled, she paused with her hand on the door. “‘The moment you doubt whether you can fly,’” she quoted under her breath, “‘you cease for ever to be able to do it.’”

She opened the door and yelped.

“Miss Wooding?” Spencer, midstride outside her door, jolted, taking a large step backward.

Why wouldn’t he call her Lydia? “Spencer, you startled me.”

“I hardly meant to. Next time, I shall wear a bell to give you notice.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

In a larger estate house, bedrooms would be in separate wings, but Briarwall had only a lovely staircase leading up to family and guest rooms on the second floor, with a shorter gallery on the west end. Therefore, Spencer passed Lydia’s room while walking to and from his guest room.

He drew in a breath, arched a brow, and presented his arm. “May I escort you downstairs?”

She narrowed her gaze. “Is it something you wish to do? Or do you feel compelled, as if you can’t help yourself?”

He studied her right back, his expression worried. “It is the gentlemanly thing to do, or so I was taught. If my mother were standing behind me, I suppose I might feel slightly more compelled, but I assure you, I have my wits about me.” He tilted his head. “Do you?”

She drew back. “Yes. Of course. Good. All right, then.” She took his arm, a nervous laugh bubbling up from her throat. “It’s the silliest thing. I’m sure I’m making more of it than I should. You see, we visited Floris today—”

“The perfumery?”

“You know it?”

“I do. My mother expects to receive an ounce of White Roses every Christmas and does not let me forget it.”

“I see. And do you like it? Her perfume, I mean.”

He seemed to consider. “I do. I associate the scent with her. What matters is that she likes it, very much, and beams with delight when she opens the package, as if it were a great surprise. Every time.” He glanced at her.

She smiled at the way he spoke of his mother. “It sounds as though she is grateful to you for the gift.”

He nodded. “It was a traditional gift to her from my father, before he passed. It was something I could not let go unattended now that he is gone.”

“I was unaware your father had passed. I’m very sorry. What a thoughtful thing to do for your mother.”

“Were you familiar with my father?” he asked with surprise.

“No. Only I think having lost mine so early, I assume everyone else still has theirs. Isn’t that childish of me?”

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