Cocky Earl - Annabelle Anders Page 0,25

smoke.” This time, it was she who leaned closer. “But the other notes are difficult. Something sweet. Vanilla? Cherries? Not wine…” She frowned.

“Leather from the saddle, I imagine, and Chaswick’s pipe this afternoon, no doubt.” His gaze caught hers with that quizzical expression again.

But something else. “Bergamot in your soap. And an aroma that is distinctly from your person. You, my lord, are your own particular brand of earl.”

He was still holding her arm, and she’d drawn closer than she’d initially intended. “Your next line of whiskey. Distinctly Earl,” he joked.

Good heavens but he was intoxicating. His scent, his voice, and most of all something far too elusive to be identified.

She stepped back, needing to clear her senses. “Or we could go with something more straight forward: Westerley.” And then she wanted to kick herself for even joking about naming one of her blends after him. As if this English nobleman needed any more accolades to add to his confidence. She’d name them after his ancestral cat first.

“Almost anything would be an improvement on that, Miss Jackson.” He opened a door and drew her into a room she hadn’t seen yet. “Perhaps Westy, or Miss Perkins.”

Was he reading her mind?

His hand at her back gently urged her to step into a room of such grandeur that her brain stumbled to process it.

“The ballroom?” She counted nine chandeliers that had been lowered to the floor where they rested on large tarps. By the scent of lemon polish in the air, each one of them had just undergone a thorough cleaning and also been loaded up with tapers that had never been burned.

“They are on pulleys and will be lit and then lifted to the ceiling just before the musicale planned for this evening.”

It was beautiful but… “Do you not consider any of this wasteful?” She knew families back home who rationed the burning of their candles so that they wouldn’t go without when absolutely necessary.

And all of this opulence… Only a small number of individuals would ever benefit from it. At least she could appreciate the practical usefulness of the orangery.

“Must everything have an industrial purpose, Miss Jackson?”

Before she could answer with a resounding yes, she caught herself. Lined up on one long table, the arrangements they’d created earlier that day were placed on different levels and at various angles, making for a surprisingly delightful display.

His stare followed the same direction and then moved around her to approach them. “You made one of these?”

Sitting amongst the others, hers didn’t look nearly as impressive as it had been in her own mind and she hated that it reminded her of how she felt while standing beside other ladies her age.

He studied them carefully as he walked around the table. Many of the ladies had incorporated large and beautiful roses. They were pretty but would be cloying. Lord Westerley moved along, pausing at some, passed hers, and then stepped back to it again.

After somewhat of a pregnant pause, he pointed at it. “You made this one.”

“Is my name on it?”

He laughed and met her eyes. “Who else could create something so perfectly balanced and delicate? I knew right away yours wouldn’t be ostentatious. You are far too subtle for that.”

Charley felt her face flush because her hair was more ostentatious than all of the arrangements put together.

But for that moment, she allowed the warmth of his words to wash over her.

It was as though he’d known the perfect complement to use on her. He liked her whiskey and now he liked her flower arrangement. If he’d called her beautiful, or even pretty, she would have known he was playing her false. But to compliment something that she’d created…

Even her father often resisted tasting her blends, only considering them after she’d pestered him endlessly. Her ideas weren’t practical, he’d insist. And in her mother’s eyes, she’d never been frivolous enough. As independent as she tried to be, she hated that she craved even her grandparents’ approval—which of course, she’d never have.

She blinked and turned away, catching sight of an orchestra dais. “I’m relieved that there won’t be any dancing.” She forced a smile into her voice.

“Surely, you enjoy dancing, Miss Jackson.”

She grimaced. “I do not.”

“That’s because you have never danced with me.”

“No, even you couldn’t make a difference,” she said. “I don’t know how.”

He’d turned his back to the table now, his hands along the edge so that he was partly sitting on it as he watched her. “I have a proposal for you.”

“Another