Hugh gave her a disparaging look, and she fought a smile or a laugh as she carelessly, and forcibly, moved his arm over his head to the most awkward angle humanly possible.

He shook his head, keeping his attention on her rather than on any of the children.

Elinor Asheley was a lovely looking woman, no matter how much of a termagant she made herself to be in nature. The way she looked now, full of laughter and amusement, though it was all at his suffering, gave a greater light to her countenance and a rosier hue to her cheeks. Her eyes were impossibly blue, he could see them clearly when she was this close, and he was positive he had never seen anything to equal them in life or art.

His mind took him back to the night before when she and her sisters had sung for the gathering. Elinor had looked no less lovely then, even when she had been filled with indignation against him. And when she had sung…

He had yet to understand or explain it, but although the four Asheley sisters had remarkably similar voices whether singing or speaking, he had been able to single out Elinor’s voice with ease. More than that, he could hear it more than the rest. Above the rest.

In retrospect, he knew that had to have been impossible. The others had spoken of the lovely blend the sisters’ voices had been, what a pristine arrangement it was, and that, while none of the Asheley girls had what they would have called impressive voices, together they were incomparable musically. There was no way that one voice ought to have been distinguishable from the rest.

Yet he had heard Elinor.

More than that, he had been struck by Elinor. Her voice had moved him, stunned him, captivated him, beyond anything he had ever known. He had been in the highest circles of Society, had heard voices that had brought others to tears of joy, been privy to performances by the greatest musical talents recognized. Nothing had made him feel as the night before had.

Hers was not the most talented voice his ears had known, but it made no difference.

It was her voice he had heard, and hers that had brought to his heart something he had not known in several months, if not years.

If ever.

Elinor Asheley, of all people.

He refused to really consider what that meant, what significance that might have held, or anything of the sort. Not yet, not in depth, and possibly not ever.

He may not have to.

The warm, sweet scent of orange blossom captured his senses then, and with it a hint of cinnamon and sandalwood, all of which suddenly distracted him from concise thought and sense. What a perfect blend, both enticing and comforting, and it sent ripples of pleasure and alertness across his skin. Where had it come from, and why should it now swamp him so?

Elinor was leaning close, he realized, assisting her young cousin in pretend-patting of snow across his abdomen. He inhaled as faintly as possible, and the scent intensified, magnified if he turned his face more towards her. Instinctively, he did so, suddenly desperate for that fragrance to enfold him as completely as possible.