Chapter 2 #2
The real woman stood before him, glamour gone entirely.
Brown hair, big luminous eyes, skin pale and smooth with cherries high in her cheeks.
She was as tall as his chin and—he allowed himself the swiftest glance downward—yes, with a lovely bosom.
There was also, if one squinted, the fullness of her lips to catch a man’s attention.
Nothing to write sonnets about. Not that he was the rhyming type.
But a definite improvement over the glamour. Almost a beauty in comparison. Odd, though. Transcendents always glamoured themselves and their families to appear blindingly beautiful.
Someone had hidden her away.
“Your glamour’s gone,” he said.
Her eyes widened, her mouth parted. The little mouse was startled.
“I-it is?” Was she trembling? She looked at her hands as if they did not belong to her.
“My grandfather recently died. You know how it is… a man’s glamours can continue on for some months after his death.
His have… they’ve only just started flickering in and out.
” She studied her feet as she spoke, the walls, the windows, the ceiling, looking every which way but at him.
Because he was an alchemist and not worth looking at? “You look better without it.”
Oh, now she looked at him, pleading, begging. No. She did not beg. The expression in her eyes could not be bent so easily. He worked with iron, knew strength when he saw it. She was not begging him. She was demanding. Frantic and desperate, yes, but a demand nonetheless.
“Did you ingest any?” A drop of something dripped down her temple. “Did you?”
“Not enough to matter. It’s all on the rug. And in my hair, and—”
“I wonder if it can soak in through skin?” She was pacing now.
“It’s likely on you, too.” Yes, there—a dark stain dripping down the low neckline of her white gown. Apparently, her shoulders were noteworthy, too, pale and straight. Likely having her body imprinted up on his during the fall had made him more aware of her.
“How much is not enough?” she demanded.
“A few miniscule drops. Shouldn’t you be apologizing for knocking me over and spilling good whisky all over me?”
She stopped pacing. “I should be apologizing for something else entirely.” She pulled a small, round, amber glass bottle from a skirt pocket. “The whisky was laced with love elixir. And you ingested it.”
He laughed. What else was he supposed to do? That’s why he’d thought her shoulders lovely, then. And her lips and bosom. She’d love-drugged him. To make a fool of him or worse. “Was I your target? Were you planning to tease the king’s lapdog?”
“N-no.” Her brow furrowed as she slipped the bottle back into her pocket. “King’s lapdog?” She shook her head. “You must leave. Now.”
He picked up the decanter, twisted it in the firelight so the crystal and amber caught the light. “Love potions are… well they aren’t illegal, but without a man’s consent, you’ll catch the attention of those good at putting nooses about necks.”
“I’m aware.” She was also desperate, that much clear.
“But is he aware? Your paramour. That’s the question.” He raised his brows. “The man you’re waiting to drug.”
She ran to the closed door and threw herself across it like a barricade, and he couldn’t stop the chuckle rumbling in his chest from escaping. Funny little thing. Useless little barricade.
“You cannot leave,” she said, “until you promise not to tell.”
“Little mouse”—he prowled toward her—“I don’t care what you toffs get up to with your glamours and your potions, with your rotting houses and your empty coffers.
” He stopped, his toes several inches from hers, and leaned in so close he could smell her.
So close his lips almost brushed the delicate whorl of her ear partially hidden behind carefully placed curls.
Champagne and rose and the tang of something metal.
There at her neck, sloping toward her small bosom, expertly framed by a low bodice, hung the thin wire of a necklace.
Copper wires twined together with blue beads and set so they could not be manipulated by alchemy.
He traced the length of it around her neck, felt the buzz of the copper, knew the setting would keep him from doing a damn thing with it. “What are they? The beads?”
“Lapis lazuli. Coral is in fashion, but I—” She cursed, her breath soft and warm near his cheek. “You cannot be near me. Not with the elixir in you.”
“Likely not. I had no idea how potent the stuff was. I ingested so little, yet I’m tilted off center entirely.
” If he dipped his thumb away from the wire and lapis sitting warm against her skin, he could discover the hot crevice of her cleavage.
He should be enraged she’d drugged him. He could manage only a chuckle, every other bit of his attention settled on the lithe outline of her body in the dark. He’d been looking for a wife.
It could be… a wife had found him.
“Who are you?” she breathed, the words catching in her throat, struggling to make it into the air.
“A shiny new baron. What do you think? Do I make a good one?”
“You make an indecent one. Curse the elixir.”
He had her caged, leaning into her, one forearm braced against the door next to her head. “It’s an interesting concoction.” His lips next to her ear again, his thumb now tracing up the length of her neck. God but her skin was soft.
“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.”