Mr. Nicholas Pringle came to an abrupt halt inside the doorway of an enormous ballroom. He had no choice. The extravagant, high-vaulted chamber was packed elbow-to-elbow with what appeared to be every resident—and guest—of the small mountaintop village known as Christmas.
Ladies in fine frocks and gentlemen in tailored waistcoats. Ordinary men and women who looked as though they’d strolled into the castle straight from their farm, shop, or garden. A fair number of children not yet old enough to be presented at court squeezed through the bustling crowd to pilfer treats from an extensive buffet that an army of cooks would struggle to keep replenished.
Nicholas turned to his brother in disbelief. “This is your idea of a small, intimate gathering to get to know our temporary neighbors?”
Chris tossed him an unrepentant grin. “It’s even better than I had hoped.”
“What did you hope?” Nicholas asked suspiciously.
“The posted bills invited townsfolk to celebrate the success of a local perfumer,” his brother admitted. “I didn’t mention the details because it sounded…”
“Boring?” Nicholas put in dryly.
“As you can see, it is not! We are in luck.” Chris’s brow creased. “That is, if we can edge ourselves inside the ballroom.”
“Allow me,” Nicholas said magnanimously and rose to his full height in order to cast a practiced smile at the ladies most likely to recognize him.
His brother reached for his arm. “No! Don’t—”
It was too late. The curve of Nicholas’s “sensuous mouth” (as reported by the scandal columns) and the glint of wicked promise in his “sapphire irises” (never described as mere cerulean) had already wrought their magic.
A river of breathless gasps rippled through the female portion of the crowd, in many cases accompanied by the clutch of dainty hands to suddenly heaving breasts or the flurry of a painted fan aimed at an overheated décolletage.
“Six,” Chris said in disgust. “One half-smile from you and half a dozen perfectly healthy ladies swoon to their feet.”
“Nonsense. This crush is packed far too dense for anyone to fall down.” Nicholas yanked his brother forward. “You go first. They’re making way.”
After the briefest of baleful glares, his brother led the way deeper into the crowd.
Nicholas allowed himself a small grin. He and his brother were both here for the same reason: women. But there the similarity ended.
Chris sought a gentle young lady of good breeding and pretty manners with whom he could fall in love and marry. Together they would fill a large nursery with spoiled, happy children.
Nicholas could not imagine a worse fate. His tastes ran to women who preferred a quick tumble over boring talk. Those who measured their liaisons in hours, not lifetimes.
His recent fame in the caricatures had only deepened his rakish reputation. The women who chased him sought conquest, not courtship. Nicholas didn’t mind. The last thing he needed was to entangle himself with a marriageable woman. He would gladly hand all of those to his brother.
“Speech, speech!” came a shout from the other side of the ballroom.
The crowd roared its agreement.
“Are you certain this party is about perfume?” Nicholas asked. “What can possibly be said about toilet water that we don’t already know?”
“This is the birthplace of Duke,” his brother answered with reverence. “The inventor is somewhere in this room.”
A flood of irritation washed away Nicholas’s buoyant good humor.
“Where?” He curled his hands into fists. “I’ll throttle the cretin right now.”
“It’ll ruin your image,” Christopher chided him. “And mine. No throttling.”
“That horrid perfume is a plague upon London,” Nicholas growled. “It’s ruining my life.”
“I like how it smells.” Chris shrugged. “So does everyone else.”
Nicholas scowled at him. “That’s what’s horrid about it.”
“That it works?”
“Yes.” Nicholas said with feeling. “It shouldn’t exist. A rake is a noble calling—”
“What’s noble about it?” his brother cut in skeptically.
“—in which a man utilizes his mind—”
“His body, you mean.” Christopher smirked. “The primary criteria for ‘rakedom’ seems to be nothing more than a handsome face and a hard—”
“—in order to engage a willing female participant in a few hours of mutual satisfaction.” Nicholas narrowed his eyes. “This pox of a perfume has every dandy, greenhorn, and featherwit in London dousing himself in eau de toilette and believing himself a dashing conqueror of women.”
Chris lifted a shoulder. “The ladies do seem to like it.”
“It’s cheating,” Nicholas said firmly.
“So is having a handsome face,” his brother countered. “See how well you do with a flour sack wrapped about your head.”
Nicholas sent him a flat stare. “My face is real. This accursed perfume is false. It must be stopped.”
“Don’t wear it,” Chris suggested.
“I would never,” Nicholas said in outrage. “One shouldn’t need to smell like a duke in order to find a woman.”
“I wonder if it smells like any dukes we know,” his brother mused.
“It smells like all the dukes we know,” Nicholas gritted out. “And the earls and the viscounts and the footmen and the furriers and the bakers and the butchers and the—”
“Everyone’s wearing it. I know,” Chris interrupted with a grin. “That’s the point of this party. Duke works. I’ve heard no less than a dozen gentlemen swear it was their key to securing a bride.”
“No man should use a parlor trick to attract women,” Nicholas snapped. “Whether it’s to take them to bed or to the altar. Deception is dishonorable.”
“I concede the point,” his brother said after a moment’s thought. “I would never wed a woman whose interest in me was anything other than genuine. But we have different goals. You are not interested in marriage. Or have things changed?”
“Never.”
A chill slid down Nicholas’s spine at the very idea. It wasn’t just the thought of forever that gave him pause. Wives were alarmingly unpredictable. He preferred knowing exactly what each day would bring.
As a rake, the lines were clearly drawn. One night. One time. Nothing more. Everyone knew what to expect. The women he dallied with sought the same things. They lived in the same world, comported themselves by the same rules. Courtesans, widows, women of independent means who either did not have a reputation to protect or were well-practiced in secrecy.
Nicholas was here for a holiday. This northern village of eternal Christmastide had already given more gifts than anticipated. His brother was welcome to woo any doe-eyed virgin or proper young lady he might wish. The fallen women were the only ones Nicholas was interested in. They wanted a good time; he could provide it.
Chris glanced over his shoulder as if hearing his thoughts. “Aren’t you getting a little too old to pursue the life of a rake?”
“How old is too old for pleasure?” Nicholas countered. A preposterous notion. What else was the point of life?
“At least admit we are getting too old for debutantes,” his brother insisted.
“I’ve never wanted one,” Nicholas said with a shiver. Ghastly thought.
“What do you want?” his brother asked softly. “Do you know?”
Nicholas considered the question. At six-and-thirty, he much preferred ladies close to his age.
Over the years, he had been propositioned by every kind. Married, widowed, fallen. They weren’t after romance, but distraction. Nicholas was happy to provide it. None of them were looking for love. It wasn’t a service he provided, or even a concept he believed in.
His brother, on the other hand… Nicholas arched his brows. “I suppose you believe your future bride is elbowing her way through this crush, guided by Fate itself into your open, willing arms?”
“I hope so,” Chris said fervently. “Isn’t that what we all want?”
Nicholas stared at him. “I cannot imagine wanting to wake up to the same woman day after day.”
Nor would they wish that with him. For ladies seeking husbands, he was a terrible choice. For those seeking one night of pleasure, however… He was exactly the right man.
His brother leaned forward earnestly. “Haven’t you ever had an evening so perfect that you wished every day going forward would be just like it?”
“Not once.”
Nicholas didn’t even have to think it over. He had never even wished to spend a week with the same woman.
“There she is!” His brother tilted his head excitedly in the approximate direction of three hundred celebrating villagers.
“There who is?” Nicholas craned his neck. “Your future bride?”
“The inventor of Duke.” Chris explained, his eyes shining. “The reason everyone’s here.”
“Wait. The evil perfumer turning every idiot in London into a self-professed rake is a woman?” Nicholas said in disbelief.
Chris raised his brows. “Are you interested now?”
“Very interested,” Nicholas replied. But not for the reason his brother expected.
He wanted a private audience with the lady perfumer for something else entirely.