Chapter Two

L ola rifled through the stack of recently delivered letters but found not a single one from her brother. His words were her lifeline, her solace. But now, two interminable months had crawled by, each void of his familiar script. And with each passing day, the weight of that silence became heavier. She brushed some hairs out of her face, tugged at her white apron—an unfashionable but effective way to hide the holes she'd mended in the only dress she had left—and stepped outside.

Lola had been working as hard as she could to save money to buy back their parents' old cottage. It was just her and her brother these days, so she wasn't merely lonely—she felt deserted. This was not what they'd planned when he'd purchased a commission to enlist. Neither had they planned to run out of funds. Or for him to be injured. Or for him to be gone past Lola's twentieth birthday—but he had, and she was alone.

Luckily, the landlady, Mrs. Kitty, only cared about Lola's rent for the room in the attic and not for her use of the flat roof in the back of the house facing the Wimpole Mews where Lola had planted her medicinal herbs and flowering teas. She understood plants. Even Green Park and Pall Mall were full of lush elder berries for cough syrups, red clover for rashes, St. John's Wort for a general remedy for unease, and wild chamomile. One just had to know where to search—preferably before sunrise. Summer was the best time to harvest because the plants were more potent, and Lola could carry them to the apothecary before the sun's heat wilted them.

If not for the generous apothecary, Mister Alfie Collins, Lola wouldn't have a livelihood, the cot in Mrs. Kitty's attic, or an address where her brother could send letters. She sighed, switched her basket to the other side, rested it on her hip, and entered the foyer at 87 Harley Street, a building occupied by the apothecary and his doctor friends. Lovely people. Good customers.

*

Edmund burst into the apothecary. "I need something stronger."

Collins looked up from grinding a beige-yellow powder with his mortar and pestle. He'd already set up the parchment to transfer the mixture and the vial to preserve it.

"Good morning, Your Grace." The wall behind him was lined with many tiny drawers, a grid of at least ten by ten. He could reach for any of them and pick the right herb or powder to create his concoctions, but Edmund's case was challenging even to him, the most talented apothecary in the British Empire.

Edmund took his top hat off and rubbed his head. Lack of sleep had tensed his scalp.

"What can I do for you, Your Grace?" Collins scooped the powder he'd ground onto a square piece of paper and set it on his delicate brass scale. He made a note, then curled the paper, forming a funnel, and the powder drizzled into the glass vial sitting on the counter next to the scale like sand falling in a glass timer.

"The tea didn't help." Edmund sighed. "I tried the lavender oil on the pulse points, the valerian root in the tea, the chamomile baths. Give me something stronger, please. Anything!"

The apothecary squared his shoulders and eyed Edmund with an intelligent gaze. He paid attention to the man behind the name, something most people didn't. At the House of Lords, he was just his title; at the club, he was his father's heir; and at Almack's, he was an appetizing piece of man meat. Only Collins saw Edmund for the exhausted person he truly was.

"Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been up reading?" Collins asked.

"Of sorts, yes. Balancing the accounts."

"And did you have a light meal before bedtime, as I recommended?"

Edmund nodded. "Dinner is at one o'clock now. I just had an apple and walnuts at eight."

"What about walking?"

"I walk everywhere. Came here from Cockspur Street on foot."

"You walked to Harley Street? It's a mile and a half at almost eighty-six degrees!"

"I know how hot it is, Collins." Edmund placed his hat on the counter and unbuttoned his coat.

"You don't need my medicines, Your Grace. There's nothing physically wrong with you."

"There is! I told you my symptoms. I don't sleep. I can't breathe. And I feel hollow." He tugged at his cravat and piled it on the counter, relieved to be just in his linen shirt. The apothecary was like a doctor, so Edmund thought it all right to relieve himself of a few layers.

Collins produced a brass funnel from a drawer and stepped around the counter to listen to his chest. Just as Edmund unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the fabric aside, the door sprang open.

A waft of summer blossoms reached Edmund's nose before he lifted his gaze to the beauty holding a curved wicker basket loaded with an array of blooms. Fiery red and gold petals, layered like a thousand sunsets, nestled against star-shaped buds of delicate lilac with tiny sun-kissed centers. Feather-like leaves cradled clusters of stark white flowers, their sharp, green scent crisp like a newly mown meadow.

Edmund reached for the bunch of sunny yellow marigolds, which splashed cheer into the bouquet like a hearty child's laugh. Lacy umbels of tiny snowflakes lent a touch of elegance, their earthy sweetness mingling with headier fragrances. Astonished that he could breathe deeply, he caught the musky, balsamic scent while frothy clusters of tiny yellow flowers enveloped him in a sweet, hay-like aroma. Closing his eyes, Edmund inhaled again, the basket's contents a testament to nature's bounty, an intoxicating essence of summer captured within each bloom.

At a clang of metal on wood, he opened his eyes, to see Collins had set aside the stethoscope and hoisted the basket of blooms onto his counter.

"Thank you so much, Miss Viola." Collins separated the different bouquets and with a knife he produced from a drawer, slit the coarse hay she'd used to tie them together.

"It was a pleasure, as always. Two shillings, please."

Edmund reverted to his tedious task in accounting. "Two shillings for flowers?"

"These are the finest medicinal plants in bloom this side of the equator, mister." Her gaze took him in, from the top of his hair to his boots. Edmund could have sworn she lingered on his exposed chest as if her gaze could see the truth in his heart.

"Edmund Brandon, the Duke of Northumberland." He reached for her hand, but she hesitated. How absolutely adorable. Women usually accepted his hand and expected his kiss on their knuckles in return, yet she wasn't prepared to accept it at all.

Intriguing.

*

Edmund Brandon, the Duke of Northumberland.

Lola sucked in her upper lip and stared at the fine specimen of manhood before her. She'd seen her share of well-built men working in the fields, carrying logs, swinging axes in the sun, but never had she seen such harmony of a sculpted chest and chiseled stomach. His breeches rode low on his hips, and she saw the ridges above his hip bones.

Her eyes trailed back up, past his navel to his pectorals. His Adam's apple gave a slight bob when he swallowed, and he licked his lips. She blinked her stupor away aware; she probably seemed like a dimwit, batting her lashes for the duke.

He reached for her hand.

Heat rose to her cheeks as she laid her palm on his index finger. He secured her fingers with his thumb and lifted them to his mouth. His lips touched her skin, unleashing a jolt of tingles in her stomach like a spray of magnolia blossoms blowing in the wind.

When he released her hand, a heartbeat later than she'd expected, his deep gray-green eyes met hers and his forehead furrowed. His shock of deliciously disheveled dark chestnut waves bristled as if he'd been a stallion sprinting through the forest up north. How could such a young man have such wise eyes, and be so unkempt, yet ooze refinement?

Lola's thoughts scattered. She could not think of anything to say, especially to a duke. Especially to this duke. She'd never met one, but she had a feeling that he—with his bared chest and deep dark eyes—was different than most.

The apothecary handed her the money. "Thank you. See you on Wednesday."

Oh yes, the flowers. Every bit of coin would help her brother recover once he'd returned. Lola turned to the door toward the foyer.

"As I said, Your Grace. It's not the valerian, lavender, or chamomile that will aid your insomnia. You have to find out what's keeping you awake."

"Collins, just give me something to put me to sleep, a sedative." She paused to listen, even though she knew it was rude to eavesdrop. She couldn't help herself. The duke's balmy voice had a hint of arrogance and a pinch of determination that warmed Lola's insides. He knew what he wanted and gave clear orders. Not many aristocrats had a reputation for steadfastness. So she stood just inside the door and pretended to fiddle with something in the basket.

"You're restless, but it's not medicine you need."

The duke took his black top hat from the counter and put it on, then hooked his fingers into the collar of his coat and swung it over his shoulder. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket, and Lola noticed how the fabric stretched over the length of his crotch.

She blinked.

She shouldn't stare.

Having a brother approximately the duke's age, she knew exactly what she was looking at.

Another peek?

"I have to be at the House of Lords in twenty minutes," the duke said.

"That's more than an hour's walk, Your Grace," the apothecary protested. "If you continue to put yourself in such stressful situations, your body will never come to rest."

"My body will rest when I'm dead. It's sleep I need. For now, I need to make it to Parliament on time. Good day!" The duke headed for the door, passing close by her elbow.

Lola cleared her throat. "Forgive me, Your Grace, for overhearing, but I could take you there in under a quarter of an hour." She couldn't believe she'd dared to offer a duke a ride in her brother's carriage.

He cocked his head. "On a broomstick?"

She followed him through the foyer and down the white steps. Outside, where the bright white Marylebone houses with their black wrought iron fences all looked the same, he towered in all his glory. He tilted his head to hold the coat with his chin as he buttoned his shirt and pushed it back into those stretched breeches. As he did so, the coat got loose and began to slide toward the ground. Lola caught it.

She laid it over her arm like the servant she was and offered it to him. "I don't have a broomstick, Your Grace."

"That's not what I meant. You're so pretty you'd likely float to a crystal palace in nothing but sparkles atop a cloud, but I need to leave now unless the dandy who owns this phaeton will let me borrow it."

So he'd seen it. Her brother's prized possession, a black lacquered phaeton with a lightly sprung body atop four large wheels. Mrs. Kitty's mare with her long white tail neighed an invitation for a ride.

The duke stood agog, eyes darting from the phaeton to her and back again.

Lola moved to place her basket on the seat, then climbed into the driver's seat and untied the reins. "Are you coming?"