t was the first time in Lillian’s life that a man had ever kissed her without asking for permission. She wriggled and strained until Westcliff secured her more firmly against his body. He smelled like dust and horses and sunlight…and there was something else …a sweet, dry essence that reminded her of freshly mown hay. The pressure of his mouth increased, searching ardently until her lips were coaxed apart. She had never imagined kisses like these, deep, tenderly impatient caresses that seemed to sap her of strength until she closed her eyes and leaned into the hard support of his chest. Westcliff took instant advantage of her weakness, molding her against him until not an inch separated them, and her legs were parted by the intrusion of his powerful thigh.

The tip of his tongue played inside her mouth in sweeps of warmth that explored the edges of her teeth and the silken dampness beyond. Shocked by the intimacy, Lillian shrank backward, but he followed her, both his hands sliding up to cradle her head. She didn’t know what to do with her tongue; she drew it back awkwardly as he played with her, harried and goaded and pleasured her until a shaking moan rose in her throat, and she pushed at him frantically.

His mouth broke from hers. Conscious of her father and his companions standing on the other side of the juniper, Lillian struggled to control her breathing, and watched their dark shapes through the heavy screen of verdant needles. The men proceeded along the pathway, oblivious to the embracing couple hidden at the garden entrance. Relieved that they were leaving, Lillian let out a shivering breath. Her heart hammered in her chest as she felt Westcliff’s mouth slide along the fragile arch of her throat, tracing a simmering pathway of nerves. She writhed against him, still helplessly riding his thigh, and a brilliant bloom of heat began inside her.

“My lord,” she whispered, “have you gone mad?”

“Yes. Yes.” A velvety drag of his lips back to her mouth… another deeply marauding kiss. “Give me your mouth… your tongue… yes. Yes. So sweet… sweet…” His lips were hot and restless, shifting over hers in sensuous coercion, while his breath rushed against her cheek. Her lips and chin tingled from the scratchy bristle of his unshaven skin.

“My lord,” she whispered again, jerking her mouth from his. “For God’s sake—let go of me!”

“Yes…I’m sorry… just one more…” He sought her lips again, and she shoved at him as hard as she could. His chest was as hard as granite.

“Let go, you oaf!” Twisting wildly, Lillian managed to pry herself free of him. Her entire body tingled from the exquisite friction with his, even after they were separated.

As they stared at each other, she saw the haze of lust begin to dissipate from his expression, and his dark eyes widened with the dawning realization of what had just happened. “Holy hell,” he whispered.

Lillian did not appreciate the way he stared at her, like a man beholding the fatal head of Medusa. She scowled at him. “I can find my own way to my room,” she said curtly. “And don’t try to follow me—I’ve had quite enough help from you today.” Turning, she sped across the walkway, while he stared after with his jaw sagging.

By some miracle of God, Lillian managed to reach her room before her mother appeared to wake her daughters from their nap. Slipping through the partially open door, she closed it and hurriedly unfastened the front buttons of her gown. Daisy, who had already stripped down to her undergarments, went to the door and inserted a crimped pin beneath the knob to trick the lever and relock it.

“What took you so long?” Daisy asked, intent on her task. “I hope you’re not angry that I didn’t wait for you—I thought I should get back here and freshen up as quickly as possible.”

“No,” Lillian said distractedly, stepping out of her filthy gown. She deposited it at the bottom of the armoire and closed it out of sight. A sharp click signaled Daisy’s success in relocking the door. Rapidly Lillian strode to the washstand, emptied the dirty water into the slop jar below, and poured fresh water into the bowl. Washing her face and arms hastily, she blotted her skin with a length of clean toweling.

Suddenly a key turned in the lock, and both girls glanced at each other in alarm. They headed for their separate beds with running leaps, landing on the mattresses just as their mother entered the room. Fortunately the curtains were closed, making the light too ineffectual for Mercedes to detect any evidence of their activities. “Girls?” she asked suspiciously. “It is time for you to awaken now.”

Daisy stretched and yawned loudly. “Mmmm… we’ve had a lovely nap. I feel so refreshed.”

“As do I,” Lillian said thickly, her head buried in her pillow, her heart pounding hard against the mattress.

“Now you must bathe and change into your evening gowns. I’ll ring for the maids to draw a bath. Daisy, you will wear your yellow silk. Lillian, you must wear the green with the gold clips at the shoulders.”

“Yes, Mother,” they both said.

As Mercedes went back to the room next door, Daisy sat upright and stared at Lillian curiously. “Why were you so long in returning?”

Lillian rolled over and looked up at the ceiling, considering what had happened in the garden. She couldn’t quite believe that Westcliff, who had always exhibited such disapproval of her, would have behaved in such a way. It made no sense. The earl had never displayed any hint of attraction to her before. In fact, this afternoon was the first occasion when they had actually managed to be civil to each other. “Westcliff and I were obliged to keep out of sight for a few minutes,” Lillian heard herself say, while thoughts continued to click through her mind. “Father was among the group that came along the walkway.”

“Oh Lord!” Daisy swung her legs over the side of her bed and stared at Lillian with an aghast grimace. “But Father didn’t see you?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Daisy frowned slightly, seeming to sense that there was a great deal being left unsaid. “It was quite sporting of Lord Westcliff not to give us away, wasn’t it?”

“Sporting, yes.”

A sudden smile curved Daisy’s lips. “I think it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen when he showed you how to swing the bat—I was certain that you were going to bash him with it!”

“I was tempted,” Lillian replied darkly, standing from her own bed and going to pull the curtains open. As she jerked the heavy folds of lined damask to the side, a burst of afternoon sunlight invaded the room, causing tiny floating dust motes to sparkle in the air. “Westcliff looks for any excuse to demonstrate his superiority, doesn’t he?”

“Was that what he was doing? It looked rather like he was trying to find an excuse to put his arms around you.”

Startled by the comment, Lillian looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Why would you say a thing like that?”

Daisy shrugged. “There was something in the way he looked at you…”

“What way?” Lillian demanded, while panic began to flutter through her body like a thousand tiny wings.

“Just a sort of, well… interested way.”

Lillian covered her turmoil with a scowl. “The earl and I despise each other,” she said tersely. “The only thing he is interested in is a potential business arrangement with Father.” She paused and approached the vanity table, where her vial of perfume glittered in the ample fall of sunlight. Closing her fingers around the pear-shaped crystal vessel, she picked it up and rubbed her thumb across the stopper repeatedly. “However,” she said hesitantly, “there is something I must tell you, Daisy. Something happened while Westcliff and I waited behind the hedgerow…”

“Yes?” Daisy’s expression was alive with curiosity.

Unfortunately their mother chose that moment to sweep back into the room, followed by a pair of maids who laboriously dragged a folding slipper tub into the room in preparation for the bath. With their mother hovering over them, there was no opportunity for Lillian to speak to Daisy privately. And that was likely a good thing, as it allowed Lillian more time to ponder the situation. Slipping the vial of perfume into the reticule that she intended to carry that evening, she wondered if West-cliff had really been affected by her perfume. Something had happened to make him behave so strangely. And judging from the expression on his face when he realized what he had done, Westcliff had been shocked by his own behavior.

The logical thing to do was test this perfume. Put it through its paces, so to speak. A wry grin worked its way up to her mouth as she thought of her friends, who would probably be quite willing to help her conduct an experiment or two.

The wallflowers had been acquainted for approximately a year, always sitting against the wall during the dances. In retrospect, Lillian couldn’t decide why it had taken so long for them to strike up a friendship. Perhaps one reason was that Annabelle was so beautiful, with hair the color of dark honey, and brilliant blue eyes, and a voluptuous, neatly turned figure. One couldn’t imagine that such a goddesslike creature would ever condescend to be friends with mere mortals. Evangeline Jenner, on the other hand, was appallingly shy and possessed a stutter that made conversation incredibly difficult.

However, when it had finally become obvious that none of them would ever transcend their wallflower status by themselves, they had banded together to help one another find husbands, starting with Annabelle. Their combined efforts had succeeded in winning a husband for Annabelle, even though Simon Hunt wasn’t the peer that she had originally set out to catch. Lillian had to admit that despite her initial misgivings over the match, Annabelle had made the right choice in marrying Hunt. Now, as the next oldest unmarried wallflower, it was Lillian’s turn.

The sisters bathed and washed their hair, and then occupied separate corners of the room as the pair of maids helped them to dress. Following her mother’s instructions, Lillian donned a gown of pale sea-green silk, with short, full sleeves and a bodice that was held together at the shoulders with gold clips. A detested corset had reduced her waist by two inches, while a bit of padding at the top enhanced her breasts until they formed a shallow cleavage. She was guided to the vanity table, where she sat wincing and flinching, her scalp smarting as a maid brushed the snarls from her hair and pinned it into an elaborate coiffure. Daisy, meanwhile, was subjected to similar torture as she was laced and padded and but-toned into a butter-colored gown with ruffles at the bodice.

Their mother hovered over them, anxiously muttering a stream of instructions about proper behavior. “…remember, English gentlemen do not like to hear a girl talk excessively, and they have no interest in your opinions. Therefore, I want the both of you to be as docile and quiet as possible. And do not mention any kind of sport! A gentleman may appear to find it amusing to hear you go on about rounders or lawn games, but inwardly they disdain a girl who discusses masculine subjects. And if a gentleman asks a question of you, find a way to turn it back to him, so that he will have the opportunity to tell you about his own experiences…”

“Another thrilling evening at Stony Cross Manor,” Lillian muttered. Daisy must have heard her, for a muffled snort of amusement came from the other side of the room.

“What was that noise?” Mercedes asked crisply. “Are you paying attention to my advice, Daisy?”

“Yes, Mother. I couldn’t breathe properly for a moment. I think my corset is too tight.”

“Then don’t breathe so deeply.”

“Can’t we loosen my stays?”

“No. British gentlemen prefer girls with very narrow waists. Now, where was I—oh yes, during dinner, if there is a lull in the conversation…”

Grimly enduring the lecture, which would undoubtedly be repeated in various forms during their stay at Westcliff’s estate, Lillian stared into the looking glass. She felt agitated at the thought of facing Westcliff this evening. An image flashed through her mind, of his dark face lowering over hers, and she closed her eyes.

“Sorry, miss,” the maid murmured, assuming that she had pinned a lock of hair too tightly.

“It’s all right,” Lillian replied with a rueful smile. “Tug away—I’ve got a hard head.”

“That is a monumental understatement,” came Daisy’s rejoinder from the other side of the room.

As the maid continued to twist and pin her hair, Lillian’s thoughts returned to Westcliff. Would he try to pretend that the kiss behind the hedgerow had never occurred? Or would he decide to discuss it with her? Mortified at the prospect, she realized that she needed to talk to Annabelle, who had come to know a great deal more about Westcliff since her marriage to his best friend, Simon Hunt.

Just as the last pin was being prodded into her coiffure, there came a tap on the door. Daisy, who was tugging on her elbow-length white gloves, hurried to answer it, ignoring Mercedes’s protest that one of the maids should see to the door. Flinging it open, Daisy let out a happy exclamation at the sight of Annabelle Hunt. Lillian stood from her seat at the vanity and rushed over to her, and the three of them embraced. It had been a few days since they had seen each other at the Rutledge, the London hotel where both families resided. Soon the Hunts would move into a new house that was being built in Mayfair, but in the meanwhile the girls visited each other’s suites at every opportunity. Mercedes objected occasionally, airing concerns about Annabelle’s bad influence on her daughters—an amusing assertion, as it was clearly the other way around.

As usual Annabelle looked ravishing, in a pale blue satin gown that was tightly fitted to her shapely figure, with matching silk cord that laced up the front. The color of the gown deepened the rich blue of her eyes and flattered her peaches-and-cream complexion.

Annabelle drew back to look at both of them with glowing eyes. “How was your journey from London? Have you had any adventures yet? No, you couldn’t possibly, you’ve been here less than a day—”

“We may have,” Lillian murmured cautiously, mindful of her mother’s keen ears. “I have to talk to you about something—”

“Daughters!” Mercedes interrupted, her tone strident with disapproval. “You haven’t yet finished preparing for the soiree.”

“I’m ready, Mother!” Daisy said quickly. “Look—all finished. I even have my gloves on.”

“All I need is my reticule,” Lillian added, darting to the vanity and snatching up the little cream-colored bag. “There—I’m ready too.”

Well aware of Mercedes’s dislike of her, Annabelle smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Mrs. Bowman. I was hoping that Lillian and Daisy would be allowed to come downstairs with me.”

“I’m afraid they will have to wait until I am ready,” Mercedes replied in a frosty tone. “My two innocent girls require the supervision of a proper chaperone.”

“Annabelle will be our chaperone,” Lillian said brightly. “She’s a respectable married matron now, remember?”

“I said a proper chaperone—” their mother argued, but her protests were abruptly cut off as the sisters left the room and closed the door.

“Dear me,” Annabelle said, laughing helplessly, “that’s the first time I’ve ever been called a ‘respectable married matron’—it makes me sound rather dull, doesn’t it?”

“If you were dull,” Lillian replied, locking arms with her as they strode along the hallway, “then Mother would approve of you—”

“—and we would want nothing to do with you,” Daisy added.

Annabelle smiled. “Still, if I’m to be the official chaperone of the wallflowers, I should set out some principal rules of conduct. First, if any handsome young gentleman suggests that you sneak out to the garden with him alone…”

“We should refuse?” Daisy asked.

“No, just make certain to tell me so that I can cover for you. And if you happen to overhear some scandalous piece of gossip that is not appropriate for your innocent ears…”

“We should ignore it?”

“No, you should listen to every word, and then come repeat it to me at once.”

Lillian grinned and paused at the intersection between two hallways. “Shall we try to find Evie? It won’t be an official wallflower meeting unless she’s with us.”

“Evie is already downstairs with her aunt Florence,” Annabelle replied.

Both sisters exclaimed eagerly at the news. “How is she? How does she look?”

“Oh, it’s been forever since we’ve seen her!”

“Evie seems quite well,” Annabelle said, sobering, “though she is a bit thinner. And perhaps a little dispirited.”

“Who wouldn’t be,” Lillian said grimly, “after the way she has been treated?”

It had been many weeks since any of them had seen Evie, who was kept in seclusion by her late mother’s family. She was frequently locked away in solitude as punishment for minor transgressions, and let out only under the strict supervision of her aunt. Her friends had speculated that living with such harsh and unloving relatives had contributed no small amount to Evie’s difficult speech. Ironically, of all of the wallflowers, Evie was the one who least deserved such stern regulation. She was timid by nature, and inherently respectful of authority. From what they could gather, Evie’s mother had been the rebel of the family, marrying a man well below her station. After she had died in childbirth, her daughter had been made to pay for her transgressions. And her father, whom Evie seldom had the opportunity to see, was in poor health and probably hadn’t much longer to live.

“Poor Evie,” Lillian continued moodily. “I’m strongly inclined to give her my turn as the next wallflower to marry—she needs the escape far more than I do.”

“Evie’s not ready yet,” Annabelle said with a certainty that betrayed previous thought on the matter. “She’s working on her shyness, but so far she can’t even bring herself to have a conversation with a gentleman. Besides…” Mischief glimmered in her lovely eyes, and she slipped her arm around Lillian’s narrow waist. “You’re too old to put it off any longer, dear.”

Lillian feigned a sour look in response, making her laugh.

“What was it that you wanted to tell me?” Annabelle asked.

Lillian shook her head. “Let’s wait until we join Evie, or I’ll end up having to repeat everything.”

They made their way to the circuit of public rooms downstairs, where guests were milling about in elegant groups. Color was fashionable this year, at least for ladies’ attire, and so the array of rich hues made the gathering appear like a flock of butterflies. The men were dressed in traditional black suits and white shirts, the only variation being the subtle differences in their soberly patterned vests and neckties.

“Where is Mr. Hunt?” Lillian asked Annabelle.

Annabelle smiled faintly at the mention of her husband. “I suspect he’s visiting with the earl and a few of their friends.” Her gaze sharpened as she caught sight of Evie. “There is Evie—and fortunately Aunt Florence doesn’t seem to be hovering over her as usual.”

Waiting alone, her absent gaze fixed on a gold-framed landscape painting, Evie seemed lost in private contemplation. Her shrinking posture was that of an apologetic cipher… it was clear that she did not feel herself to be part of the gathering, nor did she wish to be. Although no one ever seemed to look long enough at Evie to really notice her, she was actually quite beautiful—perhaps even more so than Annabelle—but in a completely unconventional way. She was freckled and red-haired, with large, round blue eyes and a mobile, full-lipped mouth that was utterly out of fashion. Her well-endowed figure was breathtaking, though the excessively modest gowns she was compelled to wear were distinctly unflattering. Moreover, her slump-shouldered posture did little to advertise her attractions.

Stealing forward, Lillian startled Evie by grasping her gloved hand and tugging her away. “Come,” she whispered.

Evie’s eyes lit with gladness at the sight of her. She hesitated and glanced uncertainly at her aunt, who was talking with some dowagers in the corner. Ascertaining that Florence was too absorbed in her conversation to notice, the four girls slipped from the parlor and hurried down the hallway like escaping prisoners. “Where are we going?” Evie whispered.

“The back terrace,” Annabelle replied.

They went to the rear of the house and exited through a row of French doors that opened onto a broad flagstoned terrace. Stretching the entire length of the house, the terrace overlooked the extensive gardens below. It looked like a scene from a painting, with orchards and beautifully kept walks and beds of rare flowers leading to the forest, while the Itchen River flowed below a nearby bluff that was defined by an ironstone wall.

Lillian turned toward Evie and hugged her. “Evie,” she exclaimed, “I’ve missed you so! If you only knew of all the ill-conceived rescue plans we thought of to steal you away from your family. Why won’t they let any of us come to visit you?”

“Th-they despise me,” Evie said in a muffled voice. “I never realized h-how much until recently. It started when I tried to see my father. After they caught me, they locked me in my room for days, with h-hardly any food or water. They said I was ungrateful, and disobedient, and that my bad blood had finally risen to the fore. To them I’m n-nothing but a dreadful mistake that my mother made. Aunt Florence says it is my fault that she’s dead.”

Shocked, Lillian drew back to look at her. “She told you that? In those words?”

Evie nodded.

Without thinking, Lillian let out a few curse words that caused Evie to blanch. One of Lillian’s more questionable accomplishments was the ability to swear as fluently as a sailor, acquired from much time spent with her grandmother, who had worked as a washwoman at the harbor docks.

“I know that it’s not tr-true,” Evie murmured. “I mean, m-my mother did die in labor, but I know that it wasn’t my fault.”

Keeping one arm around Evie’s shoulders, Lillian walked with her to a nearby table on the terrace, while Annabelle and Daisy followed. “Evie, what can be done to get you away from those people?”

The girl shrugged helplessly. “My father is s-so ill. I’ve asked him if I could come to live with him, but he refuses. And he is too weak to keep my mother’s family fr-from coming to take me back with them.”

All four girls were silent for a moment. The unpleasant reality was that even though Evie was of an age to leave her family’s custody voluntarily, an unmarried woman was in a precarious position. Evie would not inherit her fortune until her father’s death, and in the meantime, she had no means to support herself.

“You can come live with me and Mr. Hunt at the Rutledge,” Annabelle said suddenly, her voice filled with quiet determination. “My husband won’t let anyone take you away if you don’t wish it. He’s a powerful man, and—”

“No.” Evie was shaking her head before Annabelle had finished the sentence. “I would n-never do that to you…the imposition would be so… oh, never. And surely you must know how odd it w-would appear… the things that would be said…” She shook her head helplessly. “I’ve been considering something …my aunt Florence had an idea that I sh-should marry her son. Cousin Eustace. He’s not a bad man…and it would allow me to live away from my other relatives…”

Annabelle’s nose wrinkled. “Hmm. I know that’s still done nowadays, first cousins marrying, but it does seem a bit incestuous, doesn’t it? Any blood relation at all just seems so… ugh.”

“Wait a minute,” Daisy said suspiciously, coming to Lillian’s side. “We’ve met Evie’s cousin Eustace before. Lillian, do you remember the ball at Winterbourne House?” Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “He was the one who broke the chair, wasn’t he, Evie?”

Evie confirmed Daisy’s question with an inarticulate murmur.

“Good God!” Lillian exclaimed, “you are not considering marrying him, Evie!”

Annabelle wore a puzzled expression. “How did he break the chair? Does he have a foul temper? Did he throw it?”

“He broke it by sitting on it,” Lillian said with a scowl.

“Cousin Eustace is rather l-large boned,” Evie admitted.

“Cousin Eustace has more chins than I’ve got fingers,” Lillian said impatiently. “And he was so busy filling his face during the ball that he couldn’t be bothered to make conversation.”

“When I went to shake his hand,” Daisy added, “I came away with a half-eaten wing of roast chicken.”

“He forgot that he was holding it,” Evie said apologetically. “He did say he was sorry for ruining your glove, as I recall.”

Daisy frowned. “That didn’t bother me nearly as much as the question of where he was hiding the rest of the chicken.”

Receiving a desperately imploring glance from Evie, Annabelle sought to calm the sisters’ rising ferment. “We don’t have much time,” she counseled. “Let’s discuss cousin Eustace when there is more leisure to do so. Meanwhile, Lillian, dear, wasn’t there something you were going to tell us?”

It was an effective diversionary tactic. Relenting at the sight of Evie’s distressed expression, Lillian temporarily abandoned the subject of Eustace and motioned for all of them to sit at the table. “It began with a visit to a perfume shop in London…” Accompanied by Daisy’s occasional interjections, Lillian described the visit to Mr. Nettle’s perfumery, and the concoction she had purchased, and its purported magical properties.

“Interesting,” Annabelle commented with a skeptical smile. “Are you wearing it now? Let me smell it.”

“In a moment. I haven’t finished the story yet.” Withdrawing the vial of perfume from her reticule, Lillian set it in the center of the table, where it sparkled gently in the diffused torchlight on the terrace. “I have to tell you about what happened today.” She proceeded to relate the story of the impromptu rounders game that had taken place behind the stable yard, and Westcliff’s unexpected appearance. Annabelle and Evie listened incredulously, both of them wide-eyed at the revelation that the earl had actually taken part in the game.

“It’s no surprise that Lord Westcliff likes rounders,” Annabelle commented. “He’s a virtual fiend for outside activities. But the fact that he was willing to play with you…”

Lillian grinned suddenly. “Clearly his dislike was overridden by the overwhelming urge to explain everything that I was doing wrong. He started by telling me how I should correct my swing, and then he…” Her smile faded, and she was uncomfortably aware of a flush that spread rapidly over her skin.

“Then he put his arms around you,” Daisy prompted in the avid silence that had settled over the table.

“He what?” Annabelle asked, her lips parting in amazement.

“Only to show me how to hold the bat properly.” Lillian’s dark brows drew together until they nearly met over the bridge of her nose. “Anyway, what occurred during the game doesn’t matter—it was after the game that the surprise happened. Westcliff was guiding Daisy and me along the shortest route back to the house, but we were separated when Father and some of his friends came down the walkway. So Daisy sneaked on ahead, while the earl and I were obliged to wait behind the hedgerow. And while we were standing there together…”

The other three wallflowers leaned forward, all three gazes fastened on her without blinking.

“What happened?” Annabelle demanded.

Lillian felt the tips of her ears turn red, and it took surprising effort to force the words from her mouth. She stared hard at the little perfume bottle as she murmured, “He kissed me.”

“Good Lord,” Annabelle exclaimed, while Evie stared at her speechlessly.

“I knew it!” Daisy said. “I knew it!”

“How did you know—” Lillian began to argue, but Annabelle interrupted eagerly.

“Once? More than once?”

Thinking of the erotically linked chain of kisses, Lillian blushed even harder. “More than once,” she admitted.

“Wh-what was it like?” Evie asked.

For some reason it hadn’t occurred to Lillian that her friends would want a report on Lord Westcliff’s sexual prowess. Annoyed by the insistent heat that was now making her cheeks and neck and forehead prickle, she cast her mind about for something to pacify them. For a moment the impression of Westcliff came to her with startling vividness …the hardness of his body, his warm, searching mouth…Her insides shifted as if they had been turned into molten metal, and suddenly she could not bring herself to admit the truth.

“Dreadful,” she said, her feet fidgeting beneath the table. “Westcliff is the worst kisser I’ve ever encountered.”

“Ohhh…” Daisy and Evie both breathed in disappointment.

Annabelle, however, gave Lillian a frankly doubtful look. “That’s odd. Because I’ve heard quite a few rumors that Westcliff is very adept at pleasing a woman.”

Lillian responded with a noncommittal grunt.

“In fact,” Annabelle continued, “I attended a card party not a week ago, and one of the women at my table said that Westcliff was so superb in bed that he had ruined her for any other lover.”

“Who said that?” Lillian demanded.

“I can’t tell you,” Annabelle said. “The statement was made in confidence.”

“I don’t believe it,” Lillian replied grumpily. “Even in the circles that you move in, no one would be so brazen as to talk about such things in public.”

“I beg to differ.” Annabelle gave her a vaguely superior glance. “Married women get to hear much better gossip than unwed girls do.”

“Drat,” Daisy said enviously.

The table fell silent once again as Annabelle’s amused gaze locked with Lillian’s glowering one. To Lillian’s chagrin, she was the first to look away. “Out with it,” Annabelle commanded, with the tremor of a sudden laugh in her voice. “Tell the truth—is Westcliff really so terrible at kissing?”

“Oh, I suppose he’s tolerable,” Lillian admitted grudgingly. “But that’s not the point.”

Evie spoke then, her eyes round with curiosity. “What is the p-point?”

“That Westcliff was driven to it—to kiss a girl he detests, namely me—by the smell of that perfume.” Lillian pointed at the tiny glimmering bottle.

The four girls regarded the vial with awe.

“Not really,” Annabelle said disbelievingly.

“Really,” Lillian insisted.

Daisy and Evie remained raptly silent, looking back and forth between the two of them as if they were viewing a tennis match.

“Lillian, for you, the most practical girl I’ve ever known, to claim that you have a perfume that acts as an aphrodisiac, is the most astonishing—”

“Aphrowhat?”

“A love potion,” Annabelle said. “Lillian, if Lord Westcliff displayed any interest in you, it was not because of your perfume.”

“What makes you so certain?”

Annabelle’s brows lifted. “Has the perfume produced this effect in any other man of your acquaintance?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Lillian admitted reluctantly.

“How long have you worn it?”

“About a week, but I—”

“And the earl is the only man it seems to have worked on?”

“There are other men who will respond to it,” Lillian argued. “They just haven’t had the opportunity to smell it yet.” Seeing her friend’s disbelief, she sighed. “I know how it sounds. I didn’t believe a word that Mr. Nettle said about this perfume, until today. But I promise you, the moment that the earl got a whiff of it…”

Annabelle pinned her with a considering stare, clearly wondering if it could be true.

Evie spoke in the silence. “May I s-see it, Lillian?”

“Of course.”

Reaching for the perfume vial as if it were some highly combustible explosive, Evie unstoppered it, brought it to her whimsically freckled nose, and sniffed. “I don’t f-feel anything.”

“I wonder if it works only on men?” Daisy mused aloud.

“What I’m wondering is,” Lillian said slowly, “if any of you wore the perfume, would Westcliff be as attracted to you as he was to me?” She stared directly at Annabelle as she spoke.

Realizing what she was about to propose, Annabelle wore a look of comical dismay. “Oh no,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. “I’m a married woman, Lillian, and very much in love with my husband, and I haven’t the slightest interest in seducing his best friend!”

“You wouldn’t have to seduce him, of course,” Lillian said. “Just try some of the perfume and then go stand next to him, and see if he notices you.”

“I’ll do it,” Daisy said enthusiastically. “In fact, I propose that we all wear the perfume tonight, and investigate whether it makes us more attractive to men.”

Evie chortled at the idea, while Annabelle rolled her eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

Lillian gave her a reckless grin. “There’s no harm in trying it, is there? Consider it a scientific experiment. You’re merely collecting evidence to prove a theory.”

A groan escaped Annabelle’s lips as she watched the two younger girls shake out a few drops of the perfume to adorn themselves with. “This is the silliest thing I’ve ever done,” she commented. “It’s even more absurd than when we played rounders in our drawers.”

“Knickers,” Lillian said promptly, continuing their long-standing debate on the proper name for undergarments.

“Give me that.” With a long-suffering expression, Annabelle held out her hand to receive the vial, and dampened her fingertip with the fragrant elixir.

“Use a little more,” Lillian advised, watching in satisfaction as Annabelle dabbed the perfume behind her ears. “And put some on your neck too.”

“I don’t usually wear perfume,” Annabelle said. “Mr. Hunt likes the smell of clean skin.”

“He may prefer Lady of the Night.”

Annabelle looked appalled. “Is that what this is called?”

“It’s named after a night-blooming orchid,” Lillian explained.

“Oh, good,” Annabelle said sardonically. “I was afraid that it was named after a harlot.”

Ignoring the remark, Lillian took the vial from her. After applying a few drops of the scent to her own throat and wrists, she tucked the vessel back into her reticule and stood from the table. “Now,” she said in satisfaction, glancing at the wallflowers, “let’s go find Westcliff.”