Chemistry of Magic: Unexpected Magic Book Five (Unexpected Magic #5)(3)
“Open a drawer. There’s nothing in them but supplies, but the interior stays clean.” Dare propped an arm behind his head and admired her graceful sway as she opened the begrimed desk and found a suitable resting place for her prized confection. Somehow, she did not strike him as a woman who cared about her attire, but she was garbed in what he recognized as the highest fashion. Living in a household of females, he was forced to notice such things.
She found his cleaning wires and cotton and began cleaning the tubing she’d left soaking in the alcohol. By damn, she knew what she was about. “Your proposition?” he asked, consumed with curiosity now.
It took a great deal to distract him from his goals these days, but this tantalizing female had managed it. Studying her, he decided her bosom probably wasn’t large, but it was high and firm above a waist so slender he could probably snap her in two. And those impossibly violet eyes. . . Where had she been when he’d been stupidly swaggering through the ballrooms of society?
Her fair brow drew down in a thoughtful line as she posed a response to his question. “My maternal great-grandfather left me a substantial estate. We had much in common, and he wished me to continue his work.”
“Which is?” Dare asked, because he was suddenly consumed with a desire to know everything about this woman of lavender mystery.
She hesitated, then said reluctantly, “Developing a truly accurate pharmacopeia.”
His interest immediately waned. “Female potions and witchery belong to the last century,” he said in dismissal. “Grass does not cure anything. Modern medicine requires experimentation and will surely encompass elements of which we know nothing yet.”
She looked down her nose at him. Perhaps her nose was a little long. And a bit sharp. Her lush lips thinned considerably with her disapprobation. And those bold black eyebrows formed jagged points of censure, which perversely thrilled him—perhaps because those huge purple eyes focused on him and him alone.
“Botany is a well-respected science. The women of my family were botanists long before the term was coined. Just because men have the freedom to explore other countries for new specimens does not make them better botanists than women,” she said coldly. “We have been using curative herbs and salves for centuries.”
Ignoring his snort of dismissal, she continued her lecture. “I am always interested in other cures, of course, and I most certainly experiment to determine the effectiveness of my formulas. . . unlike most apothecaries, I trust you realize. We are what we ingest, and if we ingest foreign chemicals, we cannot expect our bodies to do anything but reject them, often in a disastrous manner. That is not the point and is neither here nor there, however.”
“You are wrong about the effectiveness of chemicals,” Dare argued. “My physician prescribes Fowler’s Solution, a chemical mixture that has cured disease, including malaria and asthma.” And syphilis, but Dare refrained from shocking the lady with his sordid research. “It’s still in the experimental stage for consumption, but otherwise, I believe its effectiveness has been proven.”
She heaved a sigh of exasperation and picked up the next piece of glass to be cleaned. “I did not come here to argue over medicine. This is a business proposition. I have been reliably informed that your family will be thrown from their home upon your demise, a situation which you seem unwilling to rectify.”
Dare closed his aching eyes and rubbed his pounding temple. This was the reason he’d given up his private quarters—to save money. “My funds are all invested. They will pay off eventually, but they are not liquid enough yet to buy houses. I regret that, but short of finding a cure for consumption, I don’t see how you can help. Perhaps you could shoot my heir?” he asked hopefully, with an element of sarcasm, to be sure.
“An interesting solution,” she retorted in the same tone. “I suppose the lawyers could then consume your estate searching for a new heir. My solution might be a trifle archaic, but more apt to succeed for both of us. You see, my great-grandfather was an old-fashioned sort of gentleman. He believed women should be married. So I cannot take charge of my inheritance until I am wedded.”
Dare pried open one eye. She seemed serious. She frowned as she polished a graduated cylinder. She wasn’t even looking at him. He ought to be insulted. Most women flattered, flirted, and fawned all over him. Instead, he was fascinated by her lack of feminine wile, reflecting the perversity of his mind, he fully acknowledged.
A maid rapped at the door, and the lady called for her to enter. Once the tea tray was settled, the maid scampered out. Dare watched as Miss McDowell poured tea in the genteel manner instilled in all ladies of quality. She was everything society expected her to be. . . but unless the disease had eaten his brains, he was quite certain she was not at all what she seemed.
She offered the cup to him, and Dare shook his head. He’d have to sit up to drink, and he thought his head might roll off his shoulders if he tried. Despite what the poets said, there wasn’t a damned thing romantic about this damnable disease. The body he’d taken for granted for thirty-one years was deteriorating faster with each passing day.
“How sizable is your great-grandfather’s estate?” he asked after she’d sipped her tea, because his brain wasn’t completely gone yet, and he thought he knew where this discussion was headed.
She almost stopped his heart when her wide lips curled upward and her lustrous-lashed eyes sparkled in approval.