To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,32

a delicate nose.

Emmy finally found her voice. “Of course. If you’ll just excuse me, I’ll ask Sally to go and get a bottle of my perfume from my room.”

Camille shot her a wicked, laughing look. “Oh, Sally’s far too busy in the kitchen. You go, Emmy dear.”

Emmy and Luc shot her identical incredulous stares. Surely Camille wasn’t matchmaking at a time like this? But one glance at her grandmother’s wide smile and sparkling eyes confirmed it. The woman was meddling.

“Well, we can’t let Lord Melton go, can we?” Camille said with mock innocence. “That would be most unseemly, to have a gentleman poking around in your drawers.”

Emmy glared at her for the deliberate innuendo.

Wolff, Harland’s companion, smiled broadly, and Emmy had a sudden vision of Harland searching through her very French, very lacy underthings. The thought of those big hands touching the delicate silk of her negligees made her feel molten inside. She stood with a decisive motion. “All right, then.”

Harland watched her every move as she rounded the end of the table. He and Wolff stepped aside so she could pass through the door.

She’d already dressed for the opera. Her gown was a watered silk, royal blue with black velvet trim and black-dyed lace at the half-sleeves. It made a lovely satisfying swish when she walked.

Harland’s gaze bored into her back as she ascended the stairs. For a panicked moment, she considered giving him a bottle of Camille’s perfume instead.

No, she couldn’t do that. He’d already managed to identify her scent from hundreds of others. The thought was disturbing. How was that even possible? It was akin to finding a needle in a haystack. The man must have an almost supernatural gift. Had his sense of smell somehow become more acute since he’d lost some vision, in compensation?

Emmy glanced around her bedroom with new eyes, imagining she were Harland. Would he think it strange? Decadent? She adored the hand-painted wallpaper she’d chosen. The flowering branches, blossoms, and birds were lush and exotic; she always felt as if she were sleeping in a jungle, instead of a town house in Mayfair. Flecks of real silver leaf had been added to the panels and reflected the candlelight to give a magical feel.

She’d imagined him in here. Would the real man sit on her bed? Touch her sheets? Leave the scent of his cologne hanging in the air?

Stupid.

There was an almost-finished bottle of scent on her dressing table. Emmy snatched it up and hurried out, keen to have him out of the house.

He was waiting in the hall. She thrust the bottle at him with a jerky movement.

“Here. Not that it will be of much use. The ingredients aren’t listed on the label. It’s made for me by Floris. They keep the precise recipe at their shop.”

Harland’s gloved fingers touched hers as he took the small glass bottle. It looked ridiculously delicate in his hands. “Thank you, Miss Danvers.”

To her amazement he un-stoppered it and lifted it to his nose. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and her heart turned over in her chest. It seemed so intimate, somehow. He was breathing in her essence, drawing it down into his lungs, inside himself. She felt a little light-headed, as if she were the one inhaling so deeply. When he opened his eyes, they seemed all pupil, almost entirely black. Emmy couldn’t look away.

Camille’s voice floated in from the dining room. “Won’t you stay for dinner, my lords?”

Harland’s gaze dropped to her lips, as if he were contemplating taking a bite of her. “Thank you, but I’m afraid we must decline. I have what I came for.”

“Perhaps we’ll see you at Lady Carrington’s annual ball next week?” Camille called.

His dark gaze bored into hers. “Perhaps.” It was a promise and a threat.

Wolff stepped into the hallway, breaking the charged moment, and Harland executed a neat bow. “Good evening.” He turned on his heel and left her standing in the hall.

As soon the front door closed, Emmy let out a relieved whoosh of breath and stalked back into the dining room. She glared at Camille, the septuagenarian matchmaker. “What was all that about? Are you trying to get us arrested?”

Camille chuckled and fished the diamond out of her soup with her spoon. “We could hardly refuse his request, could we?” she said reasonably. “And the man can’t arrest you for owning a bottle of perfume.”

“He knows,” Emmy said. “He’s just biding his time, gathering evidence before he pounces.”

Camille dried the diamond on