Chapter Ten

T he next morning, Bea sat alone in her bedchamber at Cloverdale House. The soft glow of a single candle cast flickering shadows across the room. In her solitude, she noticed how profound the silence around her was now that Pippa was busy with Nick and preparing to move to another house with him. Only the occasional rustle of leaves outside her window and the distant creak of the house settling interrupted her thoughts.

She rested her hands on the small escritoire, its mahogany surface polished to hide the scratches that betrayed its age. Before her lay the journal Alfie had given her, its pages filled with her neat, precise entries of everything she’d consumed and what she’d applied to her skin, exactly as he’d instructed.

Breakfast: Toast with butter and a cup of tea, with a bit of sugar.

Luncheon: Cold chicken, bread, and a glass of milk.

Afternoon tea: Raisin scone, halved, with clotted cream. Tea.

Dinner: Roast lamb, peas, and potatoes, a slice of apple tart. Tea. Sherry.

She rifled through the pages, evaluating how much she’d eaten and wondering what Alfie might think. For some inexplicable reason, it mattered more to her what he thought than all of her mother’s friends of the Ton combined.

Next to those entries, she had recorded her skincare routine in meticulous detail. Morning: Rosewater tonic, followed by a light application of almond oil and the medicinal ointment.

Evening: Lavender-scented soap and a touch of chamomile balm. Then more ointment.

Soon the journal was no longer just a ledger of meals and lotions. She’d thought of Alfie so much that the journal had transformed into something more personal, an intimate conversation with Alfie. Bea dipped her quill into the inkwell and began to write, the words flowing freely from her heart.

There was a boy, once, in India. A young man. He was very kind and my only friend during those days. We never spoke a word, not one, but he reacted to everything that happened around us as if he understood every nuance of my situation. I often thought he could comprehend English, though I never dared to ask.

For an entire year, he brought me tea and honey every morning, along with salves and other remedies. Sometimes, he would leave a flower—bright and vivid like the land beyond the walls I wasn’t permitted to visit.

She remembered the first time he laid a blossom on the table next to a small copper container with dry tea leaves, his eyes meeting hers for a brief moment. It was a simple flower, yet it felt like the most precious gift she had ever received.

Bea paused, her heart aching with the chance she’d lost to speak to the young man in the headscarf. Out of fear of disappointing her mother before her first season, she’d obeyed her mother, never uttered a word to him. She’d never even thanked him for the honey or the flower.

Bea put the quill down and brought a hand to her chest. She’d vowed herself never to allow an opportunity like that to go by again.

She reached for her old atlas, the one with the Indian Ocean map. Opening its worn cover, she turned to the back where she had hidden the pressed flower—a Nagapushpa, rare and delicate. The petals were still remarkably intact, their pale beauty a testament to the passage of time.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she touched the fragile blossom, memories of her travels with her parents flooding back: the scent of spices hanging in the air, the vibrant colors of the market stalls, and the warmth of the young man’s presence beside her. Pippa didn’t even know of this secret keepsake or its significance.

She wrote again, her quill scratching softly against the paper.

Even now, I can see his silhouette so clearly, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—shyly—whenever our eyes met. He never needed words; his actions spoke for him. That year offered me a respite from the loneliness, a quiet companionship that I cherished deeply even though I was locked away at the mansion all that time. Would he remember me if we met again?

Bea closed her eyes, letting the memories wash over her. The young man’s half-visible face seemed to meld with Alfie’s in her mind, two figures from different times and places, yet both holding a piece of her heart. The young man’s eye color had been the same.

The weight of unspoken words and unrealized possibilities settled around her like a heavy cloak.

She carefully placed the pressed flower back into the atlas, closing it with a reverent finality. The journal, now imbued with her innermost thoughts, found its place in her reticule. The act felt symbolic, a merging of past and present, a step toward a future where she could embrace her experiences and the emotions they stirred.

As Bea stood and made her way to the window, she looked out at the moonlit garden below. The night air was cool, and the stars glittered like diamonds scattered across the velvet sky. She felt a sense of peace, a quiet resolution. Whatever path her life would take, she carried with her the strength of her memories and the knowledge that friendship from this young man had touched her deeply. And she had a feeling she’d have to free herself from the shackles of her station before her parents returned if she wanted to ever experience it again.

The next morning, Bea received a note from Pippa. The butler presented it to her after she’d had her breakfast. Bea had been summoned to 87 Harley Street.

Wedding preparations. Be at Nick’s at four o’clock, please.

Pippa’s notes had grown shorter, and she’d been spending less time at Cloverdale House, giving Bea ample privacy and time: to rub Alfie’s ointments on her face and chest, and to record everything she’d eaten and been in contact with in a journal per his recommendation. She brought the small journal with her, which was less than ten centimeters in length, and it fit in her reticule as she left to meet Pippa. On the way out, Bea examined her reflection and flashed a mirror image of the curt smile that her mother had trained her to produce at the ready. But then she stuck her tongue out, laughed open-mouthed, crinkled her nose, and raised her chin at the beast within. Alfie’s ointment had made it bearable to overcome the hives and return to normal life—whatever that meant among Pippa’s wedding preparations and Bea’s mission to capture the prince to gain her freedom. Bea was ready to act. The bumps had gone, and she covered the remaining redness with powder. He was correct; there was treatment, and the beast had been tamed. She was healing.

What else could Alfie be right about?

Less than half an hour later, Bea stepped from the carriage and entered the front door at 87 Harley Street feeling more alive than she’d ever been. The bustle in the hall and the energetic voices coming from the back kitchen reminded Bea that she was young, that life brought excitement. That there was more to life than dull balls where she was expected to suppress every emotion, opinion, and her soul. After all this time in near-seclusion, she was ready to burst with energy and was excited to see Nick, his colleagues, and—yes, admittedly—Alfie.

“Do you know what this is about?” Andre asked when Nick had called everyone together as the grandfather clock in the waiting room chimed four times.

Bea shook her head as Andre opened the door to the kitchen for her, and she entered ahead of him. “Pippa asked me to meet her here and made a great fuss about punctuality.” Bea cast Pippa a look as soon as she saw her standing solemnly in front of something that looked like a cart. Bea couldn’t be sure; it was draped with a white cloth.

“Alfie, it’s time!” Nick’s voice resonated from the hall. “Wen-de-e-e!”

Wendy appeared within the minute, and Nick looked smug and proud—just like a groom ought to. Although Bea was happy for her cousin—it was a rare treasure to marry for love—Bea worried that she herself may never have such luck. Even if she managed to woo the prince, she didn’t fool herself into believing that a love potion could make him actually love her. Lust her, perhaps, but love was rare and special.

A blur of memories of the young man from India, Alfie’s kindness and his expertise in crafting the potion for her, and the breathtaking dexterity with which he’d made the potion nearly made Bea sway. Alfie, Alfie, Alfie, her mind thrummed. He’d captured her essence and seen her in a way that nobody else ever had. Was that what Pippa had meant when she said that Nick had seen into her heart? But before Bea could sort her thoughts, he appeared in the doorway. Her heart skipped a few beats.

“I’m here!” Alfie entered behind Nick, wiping his hands on a white towel, and looking just the right amount of disheveled. Bea could imagine him standing over the complicated distilling contraption with the little round glass containers and doing whatever it was with the small gas flame. The combination of danger, intrigue, and intelligence had stirred Bea’s insides. Correction: the mere thought of Alfie had her stomach fluttering most unusually. It couldn’t be healthy, and Bea wanted to speak to Pippa about it.

“Is this an impromptu wedding?” Andre jested, but Nick shot him a look with daggers around his head like a knife thrower at the circus.

“In preparation for the wedding, Andre.” Pippa smiled just as proudly as Nick. “We need your opinions.”

“Where’s Felix?” Wendy asked.

“On a house call. We will save him one of each,” Pippa said as she picked up the corner of the white cloth that hung over the cart. Nick picked up the other end, and they lifted it off together to reveal an intricately decorated selection of small French cakes.

“Oh my!” Wendy clasped her hands together in glee. “How very unusual to have anything but fruit cake!”

Even Bea couldn’t help but marvel. “I think it’s completely unique and a lovely idea!”

“These are some of our favorite selections,” Pippa stated with such severity in her tone that it was as if she were choosing a boarding school for her firstborn son. “We’ve already ruled out two flavors.”

“And the Patisserie de La Loire has combined some of our most favorites since they played such a special role in our union,” Nick added. It was where Pippa and Nick had met by accident, but they were fond of calling it fate .

“We need to decide on the wedding cake by tomorrow. The pastry chef needs two days to gather the ingredients and ensure it is ready,” Pippa said.

“He can assemble it at Silvercrest Manor,” Wendy added.

“The wedding is not in London? Are you sure you want everyone to travel to Silvercrest?” Alfie asked. Pippa’s and Bea’s grandfather had left the manor to Pippa, but Bea had spent nearly as much time there as her cousin had. It was more of a castle than a manor, but they’d only ever used it for short periods.

“It’s our grandparents’ estate,” Bea replied to his inquiry then turned to Pippa. “Grandfather would be so proud if you got married there.”

“Oh, I see,” Alfie blurted out, looking at her with an intensity that made her insides jump again, but then, as if he’d chastised himself for being so overt, he looked away.

“So this first one is strawberry and vanilla custard—a classic,” Pippa said.

“Boring,” Andre added.

Bea frowned. “It’s one of their best tarts.”

“But it’s not special enough for a wedding,” Wendy added.

“Well, that was easy.” Pippa opened her eyes wide, and Bea understood. The wedding wasn’t merely about Pippa and Nick; it involved them all. Plus, enlisting her friends’ assistance in the decision-making process allowed Pippa to focus on some of the changes that would soon convert Cloverdale House into a rehabilitation center.

“Here we have almond torte,” Nick said as he picked up a plate with a square cake entirely covered in meringue and sugar-glazed almond slices. He set it down, and cut a few pieces to serve everyone.

The nutty aroma of marzipan enveloped Bea’s senses, and she liked the combination of the brittle meringue and the crunchy bite of the burned almond slivers. “This is delicious,” she said.

“Yes, but look at the decoration on this one,” Pippa said with sparkling eyes as she lifted a narrow but tall cylindrical cake. “He used a little of my last pineapple and has enough for another larger layer of cake if we choose this.” Pippa cast Alfie a warm smile. “He sent his compliments for your rose oil and said it was a lovely balance to the tang of the fruit.”

“Rose and pineapple?” Andre licked his fork clean and held out his empty plate. “I’m ready to form an educated opinion on the combination.”

“Certainly you are,” Nick chuckled.

“It does look rather pretty.” Bea admired the rippled creamy edge and the piped rosettes around the perimeter of the cake. Miniature pink marzipan flowers were set between the rosettes, and chocolate leaves stuck out from the sides. The top was a shiny layer of a bright yellow mousse, likely the pineapple.

Sliced, the cylindrical creation revealed about twenty thin layers of cake and alternating yellow and pale beige custard. It was a work of art.

When everyone had a piece on their plates, Bea set the edge of her fork onto the yellow cream. It sank through the layers effortlessly, and she lifted her fork to her mouth just as the faint scent of rose cream reached her nose. She tasted the tangy pineapple first. But what she felt most of all was a shiver down her back. Alfie was watching her.

*

There was no cake, not even the pretty ones with creamy rosettes and sculpted marzipan, that could rival the beauty standing no more than three feet from him. Bea had let out a moan and an elegant little sigh when she first tasted the almond torte. But when she licked her lips and opened her mouth for the pineapple cake, Alfie knew he’d lost his wits. It was the only logical explanation, since envying a piece of cake was stupid.

Nonsense really.

Yet Alfie couldn’t peel his eyes off her mouth.

At first, she touched her lower lip to the yellow mousse and darted her little pink tongue out just long enough for Alfie to turn rock-hard instantly.

He looked to Andre and Nick, hoping they’d be busy with the cakes as he shifted uncomfortably, restrained by his tight breeches.

But Andre gave him a knowing look.

Alfie turned away, but his gaze was drawn back to Bea’s mouth. He was a mess by now, ogling her like a starving man.

She took a tiny bite from one of the marzipan flowers on her fork, then she tilted her head and licked the bottom drop of the heavy cream off before it fell from her fork. Alfie observed the elegant curve of her neck, and with his eyes, he traced the wispy curl that lay so lightly on her skin as if it had landed there with the lightness of a down feather.

Alfie’s infatuation with her wasn’t going anywhere. He’d have to learn to manage it.

Andre elbowed him.

“Ouch!” Alfie mumbled but Andre shook his head in admonishment. It didn’t matter anymore, for Alfie was lost in the beauty of Bea’s sensuous mouth.

Her lips were moist and pink.

She chewed and closed her eyes. Even her fanned dark lashes were beautiful.

“Good cake?” Alfie croaked, trying to stop her from moaning lest he have to take an ice bath to cool himself off.

She blinked at him, her face flushing that adorable shade of pink. “Delicious.” Her voice came out raspy and a bit hoarse.

And even…seductive. Who knew that wedding cakes could be the thing that undid him?