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Johnathan’s heated gaze roved over Lady Susanna, taking in the dark, shiny curls gathered into an elegant knot at the back of her head, several long locks of which had been left loose to caress what looked like acres of smooth, white bosom, presented to great advantage by a tight bodice of dark pink silk.

Cross had been right all along. Johnathan was too deep in his cups, and it would have been best if they’d avoided this ball entirely, but it was difficult to care, now he had Lady Susanna in his sights.

Besides, Lady Christine’s dance card was likely full for the evening. Yes, of course it would be. She was the belle. Mystifying, that, in much the same way cricket being one of England’s most beloved sports was mystifying.

Johnathan prowled through the crowd, his gaze on those dark curls, that white bosom, but he was sluggish from drink, and everywhere he turned he found a wall of bodies blocking his way.

By the time he made it to Lady Susanna’s corner, she’d vanished.

Damnation . Where could she have gone in the time it took him to cross a ballroom?

He turned this way and that, frowning at the faces swimming around him, but the silky curls and generous bosom were nowhere to be seen.

He huffed out a breath, and was about to return to Cross, admit defeat, and allow his friend to take him home when he spied a darkened hallway adjacent to the alcove where Lady Susanna had been standing.

He stepped closer and peered into the gloom. Perhaps she’d gone…ah, yes! Just there, a fold of pink silk, whisking around the corner.

Later, Johnathan would pinpoint that fateful moment as the one in which his better angels abandoned him.

Emmeline tiptoed through the garden, the rich scent of soil and roses teasing her nose.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and…yes, just there!

At the very end of the very last row, where it might bathe in the full heat and light of the afternoon sun, was the Hambleden Glory, her father’s prized hybrid, the one she’d feared was lost forever.

She squeezed her eyes closed, but it was too late. Tears— tears , of all absurd things—were stinging her nose, threatening to spill down her cheeks. Emmeline swiped her hand across her eyes, impatient with herself.

This was no time for tears.

She was meant to be tucked safely inside her bedchamber, not running about the gardens at night with her hair in a wild tangle and nothing but a pair of flimsy silk slippers on her feet, but the roses were most fragrant at night, before their oils evaporated in the sun.

Not that it would matter to Lady Fosberry if she happened to wander onto one of the balconies off the drawing room and catch sight of Emmeline out here. She’d find herself in a carriage on her way back to Buckinghamshire before the sun rose tomorrow morning.

At any other time, an escape from London would be a reason to rejoice, but that was before Emmeline had found the Hambleden Glory.

It wasn’t in bloom yet. The buds were still tightly furled, protecting the delicate treasure inside.

Emmeline had only ever seen it in bloom once, in the walled garden at home, but she’d known it the moment she saw it tonight by its distinctive, glossy green leaves and the elongated shape of the rosebuds.

It was a big, extravagant rose with sprawling scarlet blooms, the dramatic color a perfect match for an exotic, complex scent that was difficult to describe, but that made Emmeline think of cloves, violets, and honeysuckle.

If ever a rose were destined to become a perfume, it was the Hambleden Glory.

Her father had known it, had recognized it at once, and begun distilling the scent in his workroom, his big, rough hands gentle on the delicate petals, careful of the oils in their dark glass bottles.

Emmeline reached into her pocket, pulled out a tiny bundle, and peeled back several layers of linen. Nestled inside was a violet ribbon, faded with time and too much handling, but a faint scent still clung to the limp silk.

It was all she had left of the scent he’d created. He’d fallen ill soon after he perfected the formula, and died soon afterwards, leaving only a tiny bottle behind with enough scent to fill the center of Emmeline’s palm, but no more.

He hadn’t written the formula down. He rarely did, and even if he had, Emmeline would never have been able to find it in the clutter of his workroom, but she had a nose for scent, just as her father had, and she’d managed to pinpoint the various scents in his formula.

For the most part.

The Hambleden Glory with a touch of coriander to temper the sweetness, orris root, the barest trace of plum, and…something else.

A second rose, certainly a damask, perhaps one of his rare hybrids, one with a delicate scent of ginger, but despite a frantic search through every inch of dirt in the walled garden, Emmeline hadn’t found it.

The elusive rose had likely fallen victim to the blight that had reduced her father’s beloved rose garden to ruins.

But Lady Fosberry’s garden was a different matter entirely.

Surely one of the twenty thriving roses in their tidy rows would prove to be the one she needed.

She’d dropped the last of the perfume left in the tiny glass bottle onto the silk ribbon to preserve the scent, and enough of it still lingered for her to identify the rose she sought in Lady Fosberry’s garden by its fragrance.

If it was here.

Once she found it, she’d know it, but there was one difficulty.

Only about half of the roses in Lady Fosberry’s garden were in bloom, and the rose she needed to complete the perfume wasn’t among them. So, she’d have to wait and hope one of the unopened roses was the one she was searching for.

If not…well it would be, that was all. Surely she hadn’t gotten this far for fate to cruelly disappoint her in the end?

If she could only find that rose, she could recreate the perfume, and persuade one of the shops in London to sell it, just as her father had intended.

It would be a fitting tribute to the father she’d adored and lost, and her final gift to him.

A single perfume wasn’t likely to eradicate her family’s financial difficulties, but if she could make enough to keep them all together, it would lift the great, crushing weight from her chest.

What was sneaking about a dark garden, compared to what she stood to gain? A midnight wander was harmless enough, surely? It wasn’t as if anyone was going to see?—

A rattling sound caught Emmeline’s attention, and she jerked her head toward the drive to see yet another carriage making its way toward the glowing entrance of Lady Fosberry’s estate.

She stuffed the ribbon and the linen into her pocket and ducked down just in time to elude the sweep of light from the carriage lantern.

Dear God, all of London must be at Lady Fosberry’s ball by now.

Emmeline couldn’t imagine a single ballroom could be large enough to contain them all.

An image of aristocrats crawling over every available surface of Lady Fosberry’s house like ants over a rotting bit of fruit rose to Emmeline’s mind, and an involuntary shudder skidded down her spine.

Perhaps it was time she retired to her bedchamber.

She peeked over the top edge of the rose bush she’d darted behind, and waited until the carriage disgorged this new group of revelers—ladies this time, in silks and flashing jewels—and they vanished into the house.

Emmeline glanced down the drive, but she didn’t see another carriage approaching, so she ventured forth, creeping from her hiding place among the roses to the south wing of the house.

She’d done a thorough search of it this afternoon, and found a narrow passageway from the music room that was connected to a back staircase that led to her bedchamber.

She could use that without having to go anywhere near the ballroom.

After all, she hadn’t made this cursed wager, and she certainly hadn’t agreed to actually talk to anyone. It wasn’t as if she intended to be betrothed by the end of the season.

There was, after all, only so much science could do.

She was here for the roses, nothing more.

Well, that and to keep an eye on Juliet.

She paused when she reached the door leading from the garden terrace to the corridor beyond. The last thing she wanted was to risk running into some simpering miss, gossiping matron or arrogant lord, but all was dark and quiet.

Nearly there…

Just a quick nip into the library first to fetch the copy of Thomas Whateley’s Observations on Modern Gardening she’d left there this afternoon, and she’d be back in her bedchamber without anyone being aware she’d ever left it.

The library door stood partially open, and the last embers of a fire were still burning in the grate.

Now, where had she left Mr. Whateley? Emmeline closed the library door behind her and hurried over to the bookshelf, pressing her nose close to the spines of the books on the third shelf from the top, squinting in the gloom.

Ah, yes, there it was, just where she’d left?—

Creak.

Emmeline froze at the sound of the library door opening slowly behind her.

For an instant, she had the ludicrous thought that she might duck behind the heavy silk draperies framing the window beside her before she could be seen, but that hope was shattered when a deep, disturbingly male voice murmured, “Ah, at last. I thought you’d vanished.

You weren’t running away from me, were you? ”

A thousand different responses crowded into Emmeline’s head at once—that she didn’t know him, that she hadn’t been running away from him , but from all of them—and nearly fell from her dazed lips before she realized he wasn’t talking to her , but to another lady.

The one he’d mistaken her for.

It should have been simple enough then to turn around and tell him the lady he’d followed into the library had indeed run away from him, but as soon as she spoke, he’d demand to know her name, and all it would take was a single word— Templeton —before the gossips would gleefully pick up where they’d left off three years earlier, and she’d be caught in the midst of another nightmare.

…Templetons back in London… lured the poor man into a dark library… the daughter just like her mother…

So, Emmeline remained as she was, silent and paralyzed by indecision, her heart thrashing about like a fish on a hook, and wished with everything inside her that this gentleman would realize his mistake and be on his way.

There was a pause in which it felt as if the entire world hung suspended in a single, tense moment, followed by the soft tread of footsteps against the thick carpet, and then he was behind her, so close his warmth heated her chilled skin, his breath drifting over the back of her neck, a hint of sweet, rich brandy teasing her nose.

She sensed he would touch her before he did, felt the subtle shift in the air behind her, but his caress, when it came, wasn’t anything like she’d imagined a man’s touch would be.

Fingertips curled against her waist, his large hands so gentle she might have believed she’d imagined the caress if she hadn’t felt the brush of his coat sleeves against her wrists and looked down to find long, gloved fingers resting on her hips.

Then, before she could move or say a word, he buried his face in her hair.

It was so unexpected, so unbearably sweet, Emmeline’s limbs went heavy and liquid, and a sound fell from her lips, a sound she couldn’t recall ever having made before, or could even have imagined making before this man touched her.

She swayed against him, instinctively seeking more of his gentle caress. A low, pleased sound rumbled in his chest, and firm, soft lips pressed against the sensitive skin of her neck, behind her ear, and then his teeth— his teeth —were nibbling at her earlobe.

Dear God, how could anything feel as good as that?

He took his time, exploring every inch of the untouched terrain of her neck before his parted lips drifted lower to taste the top of her spine, the light rasp of an emerging beard on his cheeks and jaw making her shiver.

Emmeline reached out to grip the windowsill, to anchor herself against the strange, hot ache unfurling inside her.

In some distant, hazy part of her mind she was aware it was madness, utter madness to permit an unknown gentleman to touch her so intimately, but his wandering lips scattered her wits, and stole her reason.

He urged her closer, one hand flattening against her hip while the other ventured higher, pausing to stroke the slight swell of her belly before gliding over her ribs, and then his warm palm curved loosely around her throat, the gentle pressure of his fingertips against her jaw easing her head to one side and baring the curve where her neck met her shoulder to his kiss, the damp tease of his tongue.

Emmeline’s eyes slid closed, and whatever vague thoughts she’d had of escaping him fluttered away on a breathless sigh, like clouds on a summer breeze.