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anxious. And when I am anxious I always use the perfume with notes of bergamot, citrus, frankincense, and nutmeg.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Her forefinger tapped the side of the crystal. “That’s the perfume that calms me down, I suppose. It’s very soothing.”
    â€œMay I smell it?”
    She blinked. No one had ever asked her that before. Hardly a proper question, though there was no one here to judge them. Nevertheless, if not for the champagne, she’d never consider complying. Before she had second thoughts, she lifted her wrist. “I don’t know how much of the scent lingers, since it’s the end of the day.”
    He set his flute on the table and then reached for her arm. His hands were warm and confident as he held her. Bending, he brought her wrist to his nose, the tip ever-so-slightly brushing her skin. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then gave a soft exhale that fluttered across the sensitive flesh. She shivered, her limbs trembling imperceptibly.
    What in God’s name was happening to her?

Chapter Three
    She smelled like heaven, Ted thought. Sweet and crisp with a hint of spice, and something that could only be her underlying skin. . . . He could grow drunk on that scent.
    The finer qualities of perfume had always eluded him, one aroma no different from any other. At least, he’d believed as much before smelling Clara’s skin. He could understand how a particular scent could “stir the emotions,” as she’d said. Consider his emotions well stirred, indeed—though his condition likely had more to do with the woman than the scented oil on her wrist.
    She amazed him. Had he ever encountered a woman so vivacious, so sure of herself? If she were pretending to be a shop girl hiding out from someone dangerous, she was doing a damn fine job of it. Clara spoke her mind with a confidence that intrigued him. All the energy that coursed through her body . . .
    What would taking her to bed be like? Undoubtedly an experience as spirited as the woman herself, and the mental picture sparked an ache low in his belly. He couldn’t take his eyes from her. If he did, he might very well miss something fascinating.
    â€œYou’re staring at me.”
    â€œI can’t seem to stop. I would apologize, but I’m not sure I’d mean it.”
    â€œWell, is it the good type of staring?”
    He fought the smile tugging his lips. “Is there a bad type?”
    â€œOf course. I’m more accustomed to the bad type of staring, when a man doesn’t quite know what to make of me and may possibly catch the next streetcar home. But the good type of staring . . . that’s the one girls dream about. Where he watches because he’s mesmerized, as if he’s trying to count your every heartbeat.”
    Any man who bolted from Clara was a complete fool, Ted thought. Regardless, he wasn’t ready to admit his infatuation aloud. “The good news is that there’s no streetcar available.”
    She settled deeper into the sofa. “Why do you care so much about the Webbers’ brewery?”
    â€œHave you ever tried their beer?”
    â€œNo. I never drink alcohol. I’ve had more champagne tonight than in my whole life.”
    Now that she mentioned the champagne, he thought her eyes did appear a bit glassy. He hadn’t meant to corrupt her with drink. “Do not continue on my account. I hadn’t realized . . .” He could have kicked himself. If she was indeed a shop girl from Hoyt’s, her wages would be only three or four dollars a week. Hardly a champagne and caviar budget.
    â€œI’m fine,” she said with an exaggerated wave of her hand that belied her words. “So tell me about the Webbers’ beer.”
    â€œThe Webber lager is rich and hearty, and quite different from the weak, watery brew we Americans produce. Beer halls are already becoming popular in the city with bohemians and other