“New baron… new baron!” Her body jolted into awareness, and she pushed him away, peering up into his face. “Are you Mr. Grant?”

  “Lord Knightly now, but between you and I, I prefer Mr. Grant to the more esteemed title.” He bowed, hands bereft and cold without soft skin to smooth them across. “At your service.” Any service, apparently. He should be upset about that. Wasn’t. Damn strong elixir. “And who are you?”

  “I’ve read about you! In the newspapers. And the gossip columns. Your name is everywhere. You’re a hero!”

  He grunted. Wasn’t a hero, but no one listened when he said that. “I need answers, little potions mistress. Who are you?”

  “You’re a genius. You invented the summoning stones.” Her eyes glowed. “How useful.”

  “Supposed to be.” The summoning stone he’d recently presented to the king had been invented to serve a purpose, to do some good. He’d imagined communicating a dire need—news of fires or deaths or invasion—from hundreds of miles away. But now it was hiding in the king’s velvet pocket and used to summon servants to do his bidding.

  “I’m sure you understand the implications. You did invent it. It’s incredible. My interests lie much more in the past than in the future, but I must admit your discoveries lend the future an… excitement I’ve never felt for it before.”

  If she was trying to seduce him, she was doing a bang-up job of it. No love potion necessary.

  “Who are you?” he asked, stepping closer, needing to be closer.

  She rounded him and sat in a chair near the potioned whisky decanter and folded her hands in her lap. “You should leave now. Not only because the elixir is working on you, but…” Her gaze wandered toward the decanter then toward the door.

  “You’re expecting someone, of course.” Someone couldn’t reach her if Temple locked the door. Found some raw iron somewhere in the room and twisted it to his purpose to nail the damn door shut.

  Hades’ hellfire. A few drops of potion had ruined him. He propped a shoulder against the door. Her scent still clung to the air around him. Champagne, rose, and copper. He shook his head. “Love elixirs are gimmicks. Glorified aphrodisiacs. I feel a… spike in physical attraction. That’s all. Not more than I can handle. I’m not going to maul you. And you still haven’t told me who you are.”

  Laughter sounded in the hallway at his back.

  She perked up like a hunted faun hearing a footstep in the forest. “You must leave. That could be him.” She ran to the curtain she’d appeared out of and disappeared once more.

  He should stay. Confront the man she waited for, send him away, keep the little mouse to himself. She was amusing. Had a steel backbone. Was she unwed?

  Elixir thoughts. Useless.

  Yet he was striding across the room and slipping behind the curtain, letting the darkness swallow him as he curled around her. She squeaked, and the door he could no longer see swooshed open. Footsteps and muffled laughter, as if lips were touching lips as whomever entered laughed. The click of a lock.

  As his vision grew used to the curtained dark, he found her staring at him with eyes wide as innocence and glowing gold with anger. He lifted a finger to his lips. Those wide eyes narrowed. If a finger to the lips meant quiet, those narrowed eyes meant fuck right off. He swallowed a laugh, bit the inside of his cheek to keep from doing it again.

  He bent low over her until his lips did brush her ear. “Stuck here with me.” The words barely audible.

  Her hands fisted in his jacket, and she jerked him down low, her lips brushing against his ear now, her warm breath coasting a shiver down his spine. “You jackanapes!”

  He cupped the back of her neck. “Willing to risk discovery with insults?”

  “There’s a window,” she hissed, her entire body tight and tense in his light hold.

  “Wanna put money on whether it creaks or not when it’s opened? I bet it does, darling. This lot has no money for fixing squeaking windows.”

  Her hands were fisting so hard in his jacket, he knew—knew—she’d like to stomp his foot.

  She wouldn’t. Wouldn’t risk a yelp, risk discovery. Fiery little mouse, wasn’t she?

  “Slow down, Polly!” A woman’s voice, not his companion’s. “You’ve been worthless since the opium. Cock limp as a dead fish. And now whisky?”

  “It’s good whisky,” a man said. Polly, presumably. “God, you’re gorgeous, Lissy. No dead fish tonight, no matter how much I’ve smoked.”

  “Your bride’s glamour isn’t working. I saw her tonight in the ballroom. She’s pretty, actually.”

  “Is she? Hadn’t noticed.”

  The little mouse in his arms stiffened.

  “Your glamours, Polly…” Lissy was hesitant to say something. “None of them seem to be working right.”

  “It takes time,” Polly roared. Silence, then, softer, “You know the talent is unreliable in the first month or two after it’s transferred. A fellow can’t practice the talent until he has it. That’s all this is.”

  “As you say, Polly.”

  “Think he’s downed the entire bottle?” Temple mumbled, his mouth still close to the lady’s ear. His teeth close to her earlobe. He could give it a little nip, a little tug to see what kind of noise she’d make. When she didn’t answer (not that he wanted an answer), he said, “What’s your name, darling?” his thumb was stroking her neck. He liked holding her close.

  She jabbed him in the ribs.

  And he liked it.

  Didn’t want to like it. Fake. All of this desire coursing through him entirely fake. Like the ton, like the illusions they mastered. Didn’t seem to matter. He wanted to make the brazen little mouse in his arms purr with pleasure.

  He nuzzled her neck.

  She swatted him away, her scowl more potent than her swing.

  “Lissy,” the man on the other side of the curtain said, “I want you. I’ve never wanted you so much as I do now.”

  “What? Here? Now?” Lissy seemed pleased, her voice rolling and languid.

  “Yes. I’m ravenous for you.”

  The sounds of kissing. Wet smacks and grunts and clashing teeth. Moans and pleas and—oh. Damn. That kind of echoing smack usually resulted in a lasting hand imprint on someone’s backside.

  The woman in Temple’s arms dropped her forehead against his chest with a groan.

  “Is that him?” he whispered in her ear.

  A tiny nod against his chest.

  Poor little nameless mouse. Her elixir was working but with the wrong woman. And she had to listen. Temple peeked through a slim parting in the curtains. Polly had Lissy bent over the back of a couch. Her skirts had been tossed above her waist, and his pants dropped to his ankles. Polly was tall and lean with thick dark hair and a rather pale arse.

  “You’re not missing much,” he whispered.

  Clutched to Temple’s chest still, his mouse groaned again and twisted toward the part in the curtains.

  “Don’t look. You don’t want to see him this way. It’s not him. It’s the elixir. Makes beasts of even the most well-intentioned men. He wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.” A bloody lie, that. The man had tumbled into this room with another woman in his arms before the elixir had even passed his lips.

  She huffed. It would have been a snort if she’d been able to give it volume.

  Then Lissy cried out and so did Polly, and it seemed not even a love elixir could improve a man’s stamina. At least he’d done well by the woman before losing control. Unless the lady was pretending pleasure to be done with the tryst.

  Lissy stood upright immediately, her skirts falling to her ankles. “There’ll be less of that once you’re wed.” She tapped Polly’s nose.

  “There’ll be more of it,” he sneered. “For me and you.” He shivered. “I have no desire to bed my cousin. God, she’s like a sister, but I promised my damned grandfather on his deathbed. Can’t get out of it now. Doesn’t feel right to go back on my word. Don’t worry, Lissy. A wife won’t get in the way of our pleasure. I’d rather marry you. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I’d rather my cousin fall into the Thames than abandon you.”

  “She’d drown.”

  Polly seemed to struggle with that a moment, then he shrugged.

  “She could get run over by a horse or carriage,” the woman said.

  “Or fall down a flight of stairs,” Polly offered. “There’s a thousand and one ways to freedom. As long as you are beside me, I don’t care what happens to her.” Polly stared at his mistress, still a bit tilted and drunk-eyed. Then he kissed her temple and ushered her out of the room.

  Silence.

  The little woman in his arms exploded away from him, leaving their hideaway and flying for the door. She stood rigid, glaring at it, her hands fisted as if she meant to strike it. As if she meant to strike the man who’d just disappeared through it. “It worked.”

  Temple joined her, scratching the back of his neck, trying to rub away the feeling of her neck still tingling in the pads of his fingertips. “What worked?”

  She swung around, grinning brightly. “It worked!”

  He couldn’t help it. He grinned back. “Congratulations?”

  She danced across the room and threw herself onto the couch, her arms falling wide in an attitude of utter relief. “I cannot believe it worked!”

  He stood above her, unable to look away from the smile stretching out her lovely lips. It could outshine the stars. “I hope you do not mind me asking—again—but I must. What worked?”

  She sat upright, biting her bottom lip. “He seemed enamored of her, didn’t he? He said he wanted to marry her.”

  “Yes. And rather concerningly occupied with ways you might die.”

  “That is distressing, but… it worked. The potion worked!”

  Temple stepped gingerly toward her, choosing his words carefully as his steps. “But don’t fret about it. It was the elixir. It’s powerful stuff. If he’s meant to be yours, he still can be.” Temple would rather throw Polly off St. Paul’s than let him have this woman. She was bold and bright and ran after what she wanted, even if it was—he tugged his cravat—illegal. Shouldn’t like that. But she reminded him of iron—the simplest of elements, his element. Strong yet malleable. Magnetic. Necessary. She was prickly now, but could she become, like the lump of old iron in his pocket, smooth with care and attention?

  He would like to find out.

  Or not. Could be the elixir talking. Probably was.

  Yet… Right beneath the jealous possessiveness was something broader and stronger than that. He simply… didn’t want her… unhappy. She was risking so much to get what she wanted. She deserved to have it. Those who worked hard and with passion deserved victory.

  “I’m not fretting,” she said. “It’s marvelous. He’s… Oh, it does not matter who he is. Only that he’s distracted. And he’s that, yes? Clearly distracted?”

  She wanted reassurance, and he wanted to give it to her. “Clearly. Do me a favor?”

  She tilted her head.

  “Tell me who he is to you.” When she looked away from him, he sat beside her. “It’s a secret? I can figure out who you are quick enough. I know your face. I know part of his name, and you owe me. The elixir, remember.”

  “I told you not to drink it.”

  “True.”

  She exhaled, a clear yet frustrated capitulation. “He’s my betrothed.”

  The cousin like a sister the man had mentioned, the deathbed promise. “You don’t want him to be, though.” Silence his only answer, so he said, “Do you have to marry him?”

  “I suppose so.” A grumble as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I do not have many options. At least now I know I can use the elixir to keep him from my bed.”

  So that’s what she meant by distraction. “Options. They’re scarce for me, too. I have a proposition for you”—he unfolded her arms and held her hands in his—“Don’t marry Fish Cock.”

  She grunted, a poor attempt to hide a laugh.

  Surely it was the elixir, those few drops running thick and heady through his veins, that put him on his knees before her, that squeezed her small hands and looked into her amused face.

  Surely it was the elixir that put the notion in his mind and set it wicked at the tip of his tongue.

  Surely it was those few miniscule drops of elixir.

  But it damn sure felt like him when he said, “Marry me, darling. I promise you won’t have to trick me out of your bed. I promise you won’t even want to.”

  3

  A HAPPY FAMILY

  Merlin licked Diana’s hand beneath the breakfast table, and she passed him a toast point, looking up from her book only long enough to ensure neither her aunt, sitting across the table, nor her cousin, sitting at the far end of the table, saw. But Lady Tascott was reading the papers and Apollo was face down on the table next to an empty plate.

  Merlin inhaled the bread before anyone could stop him. He butted his big, furry head against Diana’s leg. He was going to eat everything off her plate before she had three bites. She ruffled her hand across his head, shaking his ears, and his back leg thumped loudly in the cavernous silence of the breakfast room.

  “Stop that!” Lady Tascott shrieked.

  Apollo shot upright then fell into the back of his chair with a groan. “Quiet,” he groaned. “Quiet.”

  The thumping stopped, and Merlin dropped his heavy head into Diana’s lap.

  “That beast should not be in the house,” Lady Tascott said. “Your grandfather is no longer alive to allow the slobbering brute free rein.”

  “Merlin hurts no one.” Diana’s hand tightened in the dog’s fur. What would she do without the big old dear? He was the only one ever happy to see her.

  “He’s a nuisance.” Lady Tascott folded the paper and placed it beside her plate then picked up her knife and fork.

  Usually, Diana didn’t mind the clicking and clacking of cutlery across china, but today it felt like claws screeching across her brain. A side effect of the potion? Or of the unexpected marriage proposal?

  More likely of humiliation. She curled down to nuzzle Merlin’s big bony head and hide her red cheeks. She’d love-drugged the wrong man. And now her half-eaten eggs sat heavy and sour in her stomach.

  The screech of silver against china stopped.

  “Thank God,” Apollo groaned. He’d ingested more potion than Lord Knightly or herself. By leagues. And he was much worse off than Diana. She couldn’t look at him without thinking of his pale backside, of him slamming into his mistress from behind. Her stomach clenched, and she swallowed bile. Thank heavens the potion worked. She would not trade places with his dear Lissy for the world.

  “The flowers.” Lady Tascott blinked at her from across the table. At least six feet stretched between them, and six feet between them and Apollo, all of it empty and cold. Her aunt held her fork and knife poised above her plate, and her graying blond hair had been harshly parted in the middle, looped in braids on either side of her head. She wore fashionable mutton sleeves in copper, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. Her blue eyes were pale and worried. “What are we to do about the flowers? The wedding is soon, and while we could purchase real flowers, you know how… gauche they are.” She looked left then right, inspecting the room for eager ears, but the footmen had retreated to the kitchen for a moment.

  She looked at her son as if he were dying of consumption, her bottom lip trembling. “Cannot you try once more? A tiny attempt to conjure something.”

  “No,” Apollo snapped. “I’ve told you before. I cannot! I’ve been trying since he died and have failed every attempt.”

  “Often it takes time⁠—”

  “And sometimes it doesn’t happen at all.” Apollo tugged his hair with skeletal hands. “Grandfather’s glamours have already begun to flicker. They’ll be gone soon, entirely. And everyone will know.”

  Lady Tascott dropped backward with a huff. “Perhaps you could. If you really tried.”

  “Grandfather popped off into the afterlife without a single thought for me. Or for what would happen to us when we are found out.” Apollo grabbed a nearby glass of wine and guzzled it.

  “Apollo,” Diana ventured, “you should not⁠—”

  “I’ll do as I please. And mother’s right, Di, that dog shouldn’t be in here.”

  As if he knew he was under consideration, Merlin withdrew his head from her lap and crawled beneath her chair, his head sticking out one side and his backside out the other. The old dear. She wanted to curl up with him on her bed and fall to sleep.

  “If you truly cannot,” Lady Tascott said to her son, “then I cannot see what we are to do.”

  Diana offered a small smile. “I am sure real flowers are fine, aunt. We will simply set a new trend.”

  “You know nothing, Diana. Nothing of high society.” With a scowl, Lady Tascott returned to her meal. “I could call in a favor or two. I loaned the Duchess of Lovington a huge sum last year. She might ask her husband to—” She sighed. “No. Then they would know.”

  “Truly, aunt, real flowers are lovely. And everyone will think Apollo has done such a wonderful job with his glamour that he’s created a scent to go along with it. A miracle!”

  Apollo snorted, tried to grin, groaned instead.

  His mother gasped. “Flowers that smell? Real flowers in a church? That smacks of”—she leaned over the table and lowered her voice—“witchery. Potions nonsense. Not a single petal will touch your church the day of your wedding, Apollo. Even if there are no flowers at all.” She nodded, decisive.

  “What about the outside ones?” Diana asked, training her mouth into a straight line.

  Lady Tascott blinked, the gears in her head whirring. “I, well… you might be right. We should have those removed.”

  “See what you’ve done now, Di,” Apollo said, finishing off his wine. “She’ll have every damn footman out there, plucking individual blades of grass.”

  “If you think it would help us maintain the dignity of our station.” Lady Tascott could look like an owl—eyes wide, hair ruffled like feathers.

 

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