Page 11 of The Runaway Duchess

“What do you call it?” she asked.

“Varnham’s Ointment.”

“Dreadful. I wouldn’t buy it.” She made a moue of distaste. “It sounds like something you’d rub on a pig.”

Opinionated. That wasn’t a surprise. He cleared his throat. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

“Dozens I’m sure.” She considered, finger tapping her lower lip. “Varnham’s Natural Beauty Balm. Varnham’s Floral Face Cream. Varnham’s Bloom of Youth. Varnham’s Cool and Lasting Aloe Lotion.”

The cab began a broad turn and she broke off to look out the window. The hills had flattened as they’d approached the edge of the moor, and in the graying light, scattered trees, bent by wind, cast black shadows on the otherwise unbroken landscape.

“What are you doing?” she asked, glancing back at the sound of his pencil scratching the page.

“Making a note. Varnham’s Bloom of Youth, did you say?” He jotted it down inside the cover of his notebook. This was promising. A first, albeit minor, collaboration. He remembered sneaking out of his bed, sitting in the hallway, listening to the murmur of his parents’ voices. His father reading aloud from one of his papers in progress, his mother interrupting with comments, or vice versa.

Cool and Lasting Aloe Lotion. Another fine phrase. He jotted that one down as well. Interesting—she had shown more consideration for euphony, more verbal flair, in that brief recitation than she had in four hundred manuscript pages.

She was watching him write with undisguised satisfaction.

“You’ll need to perfume it,” she said when he lifted his pencil. “Gardenia. No! Azalea.”

“One of the varieties you brought back from China?” He grinned and dropped notebook and pencil into his pocket. No need to make a note. The Pendrakes had introduced an exquisite collection of azaleas to England. It was due to those azaleas that he’d first taken notice of the couple, wondered at the rarity and rightness of such a partnership, and begun to follow their career. Husband and wife—a plant-collecting team. And that was before they’d sent seeds and samples of Davidia involucrata, succeeding where Varnham’s plant collector had failed.

“The most fragrant one,” she said. She was suddenly lit up, radiant, her swollen nose pulled by her smile into that piquant, adorable slant. Maybe she was remembering halcyon days on the temperate island of Chusan, wandering azalea-covered hills.

“So,” he said, tilting his head, forming the phrase. “We’ll call it . . . Muriel’s All-Natural Aloe and Azalea Lotion for a Radiant Complexion?”

“Muriel’s?” She blinked at him. “Oh, I see. Muriel. Pendrake. Well.” She resettled herself on the seat, flustered. “You should keep the Varnham, if you want to become a household name.”

“Let’s decide over dinner.” The inn had come into view, rising from the moor, lonely and beautiful behind its low stone wall. It was exactly the sort of place that most appealed to the wayfaring botanist, almost a part of the countryside itself, the slate walls covered with mosses and liverworts.

He hid his grin, waiting to see her face reflect the pleasure he’d felt when he’d first discovered it.

Blue eyes swung toward him.

“We’re not staying there. It’s a pile of rocks!”

Multiple exceptions, then, were to prove the rule of their immense compatibility.

“Just for a night.” His grin strained. “Inside it’s rather cozy.” Cats prowled in and out of the kitchen, and last night he’d crunched a fish skeleton under his boot going up the stairs. The dark, rambling rooms wouldn’t have passed muster with a well-heeled holidaymaker accustomed to gas jets and Chippendale furniture. But for those with adventuresome spirits, those who knew how to take their rest on damp bedrolls under the stars, the charm of the place was bound to outweigh any minor discomfort. Wind howled all night on the moor, but the inn stood stoutly against it, impermeable, thanks to the spleenwort, yarrow, and rue vegetating in the crevices. Should he mention the yarrow? Which detail would beguile her?

“It’s warm and dry,” he said at last, deciding upon a more basic recommendation, because she’d begun to shiver slightly, and he realized that the light had dimmed dramatically, chilling the air. The clouds lay thickly atop the inn’s roof tiles, swallowing the chimney stacks. If you looked at it with the wrong eyes, well. A grimmer establishment didn’t exist on earth.

“There’s an enormous hearth,” he added hopefully. “Very cheerful. The turf fires do smoke a bit.”

The radiance had fled from her face. Whatever joy she’d found putting her imagination to work, improving upon Varnham’s Ointment—it had withered. Too brief a bloom. Her shivering grew more violent and she hugged herself, leaning her forehead against the window.

“Muriel?”

“It’s only . . .” Her voice wobbled. “Never mind. It’s only . . . It has been an exceedingly long day.”

As he watched in horror, his future wife began to cry.

Chapter Three

Neal stood the miners at the bar a drink as he waited for Muriel. It was still a novelty, having so much ready coin in his pocket. He’d tried to negotiate for a lower salary, but Charles Varnham wouldn’t even hear him out.

“Not a penny less, and you’re worth twice as much,” he’d said. Neal had wanted to speak from the fullness of his heart. I’d give anything for things to be different. But he’d only nodded and gripped Varnham’s arm. The older man knew what was in Neal’s heart. That was why he’d chosen him to run the company in the first place. Neal didn’t flatter himself that it was for his knowledge of the industry, or even for his skill as a plant collector. Varnham was a family business, had been headed by Varnhams for generations. Charles Varnham wanted a son for his successor, and Neal was the closest thing he had left.