“Yes.”

She took another breath of the exquisite essence. “What is the orchid’s name?”

“Lady of the Night.”

That elicited a delighted chuckle from Daisy. “That sounds like the title of one of the novels my mother has forbidden me to read.”

“I would suggest using the orchid’s scent in place of the lavender in your formula,” Nettle said. “More costly, perhaps, but in my opinion it would be the perfect base note, especially if you want amber as a fixative.”

“How much more expensive?” Lillian asked, and when he named the price, her eyes widened. “Good Lord, that’s more than its weight in gold.”

Nettle made a show of holding the little bottle up to the light, where the liquid glittered and shimmered like a diamond. “Magic is not inexpensive, I’m afraid.”

Lillian laughed, even as her gaze followed the bottle with hypnotic fascination. “Magic,” she scoffed.

“This perfume will make magic happen,” he insisted, smiling at her. “In fact, I will add a secret ingredient to enhance its effects.”

Charmed but clearly disbelieving, Lillian made plans with Nettle to return later in the day to collect the perfume. She paid for Daisy’s tin of pastilles as well as the promised fragrance, and walked outside with her younger sister. One glance at Daisy’s face revealed that her younger sister’s imagination, always easily stirred, was running rampant with thoughts of magic formulas and secret ingredients.

“Lillian…you are going to let me try some of that magic perfume, aren’t you?”

“Don’t I always share?”

“No.”

Lillian grinned. Despite the sisters’ pretend rivalry and occasional squabbles, they were each other’s staunchest ally and closest friend. Few people in Lillian’s life had ever loved her except for Daisy, who adored the ugliest stray dogs, the most annoying children, and things that needed to be repaired or thrown out altogether.

And yet for all their closeness, they were quite different. Daisy was an idealist, a dreamer, a mercurial creature who alternated between childlike whimsy and shrewd intelligence. Lillian knew herself to be a sharp-tongued girl with a fortress of defenses between herself and the rest of the world—a girl with well-maintained cynicism and a biting sense of humor. She was intensely loyal to the small circle of people in her sphere, especially the wallflowers, the self-named group of girls who had met while sitting at the side of every ball and soiree last season. Lillian, Daisy, and their friends Annabelle Peyton and Evangeline Jenner had all sworn to help one another find husbands. Their efforts had resulted in Annabelle’s successful match with Mr. Simon Hunt just two months ago. Now Lillian was next in line. As of yet, they had no clear idea about whom they were going to catch, or a solid plan for how they were going to get him.

“Of course I’ll let you try the perfume,” Lillian said.

“Though heaven knows what you expect from it.”

“It’s going to make a handsome duke fall madly in love with me, naturally,” Daisy replied.

“Have you noticed how few men in the peerage are young and nice-looking?” Lillian asked wryly. “Most of them are dull-witted, ancient, or possess the kind of face that should have a hook in its mouth.”

Daisy snickered and slid an arm around her waist. “The right gentlemen are out there,” she said. “And we’re going to find them.”

“Why are you so certain?” Lillian asked wryly.

Daisy gave her an impish smile. “Because we’ve got magic on our side.”

CHAPTER 1

Stony Cross Park, Hampshire

“T he Bowmans have arrived,” Lady Olivia Shaw announced from the doorway of the study, where her older brother sat at his desk amid stacks of account books. The late afternoon sun streamed through the long, rectangular stained-glass windows, which were the only ornamentation in the austere, rosewood-paneled room.

Marcus, Lord Westcliff, glanced up from his work with a scowl that drew his dark brows together over his coffee-black eyes. “Let the mayhem begin,” he muttered.

Livia laughed. “I assume you’re referring to the daughters? They’re not as bad as all that, are they?”

“Worse,” Marcus said succinctly, his scowl deepening as he saw that the temporarily forgotten pen in his fingers had left a large blot of ink on the otherwise immaculate row of figures. “Two more ill-mannered young women I have yet to meet. The older one, particularly.”

“Well, they are Americans,” Livia pointed out. “It’s only fair that one should give them a certain latitude, isn’t it? One can hardly expect them to know every elaborate detail of our endless list of social rules—”

“I can allow them latitude on details,” Marcus interrupted curtly. “As you know, I am not the kind to fault the angle of Miss Bowman’s pinkie finger as she holds her teacup. What I do take exception to are certain behaviors that would be found objectionable in every corner of the civilized world.”

Behaviors? thought Livia. Now, this was getting interesting. Livia advanced farther into the study, a room that she usually disliked, because it reminded her so strongly of their deceased father.

Any recollection of the eighth Earl of Westcliff was not a happy one. Their father had been an unloving and cruel man, who had seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room when he entered it. Everything and everyone in his life had disappointed the earl. Of his three offspring, only Marcus had come close to meeting his exacting standards, for no matter what punishments the earl had meted out, no matter how impossible his requirements or unfair his judgments, Marcus had never complained.