Chapter Eleven

A fter the decision to choose the pineapple and rose cake for the wedding was made, Alfie informed Bea that her order was ready. She followed him to his apothecary shop while the others went back to their usual business. Alfie secretly cherished the opportunity to be alone with her again—before the prince swept her off her feet and whisked her away to a faraway country. This time, he knew, he wouldn’t be so lucky as to be the apprentice catering to her. His place in life was in their London practice, with his friends.

“This is what I promised.” Alfie slid a fluted vial with a light-rose golden glow from the liquid inside illuminating the delicate grooves running vertically along its form. The glass stopper fit snugly to preserve the precious contents. “I have warmed it, and the scents all come together quite harmoniously.”

Bea took the vial and pushed the stopper down with her thumb. Then she looked at the small bottle in her hand and at Alfie, then back at it. Of all the containers, flasks, and boxes in his apothecary shop, he thought sadly, the one in her hand had the power to alter her life. And his. “What if it works?” she whispered.

He wasn’t sure whether he should answer, but his heart lurched when her eyes searched his for something he mustn’t give. But he couldn’t stop himself.

“Then the prince will get the best bride in all of England,” Alfie said heavily. “He would not be able to stay away.”

“What do you mean?”

Where to begin?

“He will want to kiss, woo, and marry you. I don’t know in which order, though I can suspect.”

“Out of that order would be improper.” She blushed an adorable shade of pink. “Although…”

Her eyes moved as if she remembered something, but she remained silent. As much as he knew it was inappropriate to ask, that he was risking everything, he couldn’t stop himself from asking the thought that weighed on his every thought. “Bea, pardon my directness, but have you ever been—”

“Kissed?” She cut him off with vigor as if the word had exploded between them. Then she narrowed her gaze. “Did Pippa tell you about my reputation?”

“No.” Only you are the belle of every ball; your dance card is always filled, and suitors trip over each other in the mornings when they bring you flowers. She didn’t have to tell me the rest; you’re the sweetest, loneliest, and most intelligent woman I’ve ever met.

She cocked her head in disbelief. “I’ve been to many balls and danced with every eligible bachelor of the past three seasons.”

“Until the ball at the Langleys.”

“Indeed.” She said the word as if tasting something sour. “So if this works, if the prince wishes to kiss me, I’ll do what my mother taught me, and it will go by soon enough.”

Now, it was Alfie’s turn to blink incredulously. “It will ‘go by’ soon enough?”

“Yes, you know: Keep your lips pressed shut, count to twenty, and then push him away.”

“What is that exactly?”

“Well, it’s how to kiss. I thought you ought to know.”

“In fact I do. Know how to kiss. And what you have described is something else, something dreadfully awkward.”

“Kisses are intimate contacts with another person’s mouth; they are supposed to be dreadfully awkward.”

“But that is not… you see… it’s just that is not at all how it works.” Alfie was stunned to say the least.

She shifted her weight to the other leg and put a hand on her hip. “Are you jesting?”

It was too good to be true, wasn’t it?

Except, what if she’d recognized him from India? Was this a test?

He shook his head, trying hard not to stare at her lips. “Most certainly not. I can show you if you’d like,” Alfie said.

Loudmouth. It didn’t help to chastise himself, the words had been uttered.

“Are you suggesting that none of the peers of the realm who have kissed me did it correctly?”

“If it was how you described, they did rather poorly indeed.” He quirked a brow.

“And you are certain you can do better?”

“Yes.” Alfie’s heart was pounding, and he couldn’t catch his breath. What was he thinking?

She narrowed her eyes and gave him a once-over. “That’s very magnanimous of you.”

He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Prove it,” she said.

“You want me to kiss you?” Alfie couldn’t believe his luck. This had been too easy, and he needed to be absolutely sure that it was her wish—it was undoubtedly his.

“Mother says twenty seconds is enough. So, in twenty seconds of lip contact, show me that you can do better,” she said, her chin raised high, and her neck stretched in his direction.

Alfie took a steadying breath.

His pulse raced as he stood before her, the air thick with anticipation. He had a mere twenty seconds, a brief window to eclipse all her past kisses, to make them pale in comparison. He couldn’t merely take her with all the vigor shooting through his veins; it had to be for her. He’d gladly make everything about her. Confidence surged within him—he was more than capable.

The first step was simple yet intimate; he reached forward, his fingers deftly untying the ribbon that held her bonnet and veil in place. As they fluttered to the ground, a cascade of curly strawberry blonde locks tumbled around her shoulders, framing her face in a wild, natural beauty.

Carefully, he gathered those errant strands, tucking them behind her ears. The simple action drew a visible shiver from her, goosebumps blossoming across her skin in a silent affirmation of their effervescent connection. Her breath hitched, growing heavier with the anticipation that Alfie hoped matched the pounding of his own heart.

In her eyes, he found silent questions and whispered hopes. This was his moment, his singular opportunity to prove the depth of his desire. To prove the sincerity of his affection. Though he couldn’t say it to her lest he betray her trust as a client, and as Pippa’s cousin. What was worse was that he’d led her on a path that could assure her of her prince, while she was like a princess to him, and he wasn’t allowed to chase her. The daughter of an earl could be with a prince—not an apothecary.

Yet, he’d take a kiss. Nobody would be for the wiser if they never mentioned it to a soul, and Alfie could lock it deep in his heart to cherish forever.

He needed the perfect angle, the ideal proximity, to ensure that this kiss would be equally imprinted upon her memory, forever casting a shadow over any before it. Or after. But Alfie didn’t dare think of the same effect for the future, even though he wished he could lay a claim on Bea.

With a tenderness born of genuine care, Alfie placed his right hand upon her left cheek, his thumb softly tracing the delicate curve of her reddened cheekbone. Her skin was irritated and flushed from her condition and demanded a gentle touch. He obliged, applying enough pressure to stir her senses without causing discomfort.

At this moment, the world fell away, leaving only the two of them suspended in a bubble of their own making. The air between them crackled with an unspoken promise, a prelude to the passion and connection that hovered on the brink of realization. Alfie leaned in, guided by an instinctive knowledge of the contours of her face, the sweet anticipation of her lips.

This kiss was an admission, a declaration without words that spoke of nights spent longing, of days filled with hidden glances and unspoken yearnings. He was about to cross a threshold, to venture into the uncharted territory of her embrace, driven by a desire that had simmered beneath the surface far too strong and far too long, to remain contained.

*

Surprise. That was the first sensation that washed over Bea as Alfie leaned in, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. It was an immediate, tangible connection, a prelude to the contact that hadn’t yet happened. His proximity was an invasion of the space around her, yet not unwelcome. The freshness of him—his clean, crisp scent with the earthy undertones, reminiscent of a dense, ancient forest just after the rain, and mixed with a spicy edge that hinted at hidden strength and resilience—filled her senses, drawing her in, making her crave more.

In previous encounters such as this, she’d braced herself and started counting, eager to break it off. Not this time.

Not with him.

She pursed her lips in anticipation, a silent invitation, a readiness for the touch she assumed would follow.

But it didn’t come. Instead, Alfie held back, his lips a mere half an inch from hers, lingering in the space between promise and fulfillment. Her breath hitched at the audacity, the deliberate tease. It was a dance on the edge of desire, a test of patience she hadn’t known she possessed.

With his lips so tantalizingly close yet not touching, Bea became acutely aware of every detail—the heat radiating from his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faintest hint of stubble along his jawline. Time seemed to stretch, each second elongated by the intensity of her focus on these minute sensations.

The absence of contact, the deliberate pause, heightened her awareness to a level for which she hadn’t been prepared. Bea’s heart pounded, a rapid drumbeat echoing in her chest, reverberating throughout her body. The urge to close the distance, to initiate the contact he so purposefully denied, was almost overwhelming. Yet, she remained still, caught in the spell of anticipation he’d woven around them.

And then there was the realization, a dawning understanding that this moment—this deliberate withholding—was itself a form of intimacy. In his restraint, Alfie communicated trust, a willingness to let the moment unfold at its own pace, to savor the build-up as much as the culmination. It was an unexpected form of seduction that spoke to a depth of feeling Bea hadn’t dared to consider.

When should I begin counting if he hasn’t touched my lips yet?

Then he did, softly at first. His fleshy lips sank onto hers, and a jolt of heat shot through her.

One.

The sensation was unexpected, like the first ray of sun breaking through a persistent winter cloud. It was warmth and light, and it spoke of promises whispered in the dark, now brought to life in this single touch.

Two.

His lips moved against hers with a gentle insistence. This was an unfamiliar yet welcome territory. She kept her lips pursed but felt them growing hot against his. There was no rush, no demand, only an unhurried quest for connection. The sweetness of the moment unfolded slowly, like honey dripping from a spoon, thick and golden.

Three.

Her senses were alight, each one heightened to an exquisite degree. His taste was intoxicating, a blend of mint and something that made her feel like a fairy dancing from one mossy rock to the next in the sparkling dew of a forest after a summer rain. Their breaths, mingling and hesitant, became the only music she wished to hear.

Four.

The feeling of his hand, at first tentative on her waist, tightened, drawing her closer against his broad chest. His other hand cradled the back of her head and pulled her closer. This wasn’t merely a meeting of lips; it was a melding of souls that had longed for this reunion, even if they hadn’t known it until now.

Five.

And as they deepened the kiss, Bea felt herself unraveling, layers of reserve and caution melting away under his tender assault. There was a surrender in this, yielding not to defeat but to discovery, to the joy of finding and being found.

Six.

She exhaled through her mouth, and a moan escaped her.

Seven.

His tongue flicked over her lower lip.

This was where Bea usually skipped to twenty, but she wished to stop counting now.

Another gentle flick of his tongue and a pause followed, his warm lips nudging hers apart.

Eight.

Bea parted her mouth, unsure whether she needed to say something or stop him, but she let it happen. She let him conquer her in a way nobody else ever had.

Nine.

A wisp of cool air touched her mouth when she opened to him, and he inhaled just before he plunged his tongue into her mouth. Just a little bit. But enough for a sudden spark of delight to ignite inside her.

Ten.

Oh no, half of the kiss was already over. Bea’s heart sank when she realized it.

Then, she decided to make the most of the next ten seconds.

Unsure at first how she wanted to draw him in.

Hands, yes, good idea.

Eleven.

She brought one hand to his neck and then let her fingers crawl to his dense, curly hair. It was lush, soft, and yet thoroughly masculine.

Twelve.

He let out a deep but silent growl that spurred her on even more. So Bea opened her mouth wide and sucked his tongue in. He changed the angle, and then she changed it, too.

Thirteen.

Her tongue entered his mouth, and she felt his velvety warmth and then his slightly cooler teeth in a perfect row.

Fourteen.

The pleasure was intense and immediate, but she was beginning to learn. There was giving and taking in kissing, and then there was this. A oneness.

Fifteen.

Heat.

Sixteen.

Depth.

Seventeen.

Urgency.

Eighteen.

Bea felt light-headed and nearly forgot to count. His hands, firm on her waist, anchored her to the present, to him.

Nineteen.

Her senses were alight, and every touch and breath shared amplified the feeling of completeness that enveloped her. It was as if they were discovering a secret language, one spoken not through words but through the meeting of souls and the gentle exploration of hands.

Nineteen and a half?

Was he keeping count, too? She mustn’t ask for more than the twenty seconds he’d been willing to give.

But the pleasure was a wave so powerful it threatened to sweep her away; it drove her to cling to him, her fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as if he were the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

“Twenty,” she whispered. The time allotted was up.

He immediately let go of her waist, broke the kiss, and stepped back.

Bea swallowed hard, her lips swollen as if they’d doubled in size. She was dizzy.

The room went dark around the edges.

Alfie cocked his head and said something, but he sounded like an echo far away.

And then there was blackness.