Chapter One

London 1819.

T he night of the ball at the Earl and Countess of Langley’s, after the Duke of Sussex—effectively sobered from the drugs his sixth wife had administered, thanks to the purge provided by a hot, chocolatey drink full of an ipecac mixture Bea had given him—gave his blessings for Pippa and Nick’s marriage…

Bea was alone.

This was new, especially at a ball.

She’d never stood on the sidelines of a ballroom, much less on the sidelines of Society. Usually, Bea was the belle of the ball. Up until that moment, whenever she’d entered a room, all eyes had been on her, scrutinizing her every upswept curl, the stitching of her dress, and the manner of her stride.

And she’d reveled in it as long as there was no sign of the mysterious “beast”, the unpredictable and unsightly rashes that sometimes plagued her skin and made her hide in her room. But when Bea could, she owned the attention as much as her cousin didn’t. They’d grown up like that, Bea taking the attention and Pippa withdrawing. Over the years, Bea had become accustomed to it.

Not that night, however.

For her cousin Pippa had blossomed.

She’d arrived with several friends to support her and had landed a coup unlike any Society had seen since the winter ball at St. James—when a family who’d hidden that they were Jewish won the competition for official jeweler for the Crown.

Bea touched the diamond collar on her neck and thought about the kind jeweler who’d designed it for her to match the diadem she wore in her hair. He’d been jeweler for the Crown ever since stepping into the light, but threats of losing their livelihoods loomed for anyone who didn’t fit in but depended on the Ton. And though Bea fit in—in every conceivable way—she didn’t feel terribly welcome. It seemed that fitting in and actually belonging were poles apart.

Earlier, in the golden light of the ballroom, Bea had watched as Pippa floated across the floor, ensconced in Nick’s assured presence. It had been a sight to behold, rendering even the most cynical hearts hopeful that there was love for everyone.

Violet, the Duchess of Langley, and the hostess of the evening’s soiree, sidled up to Bea in the hall, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “It seems our Pippa has finally managed to do more than just trip over her own feet,” she whispered, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Bea smiled with pride. “She didn’t stumble into love. They were destined for each other.”

Bea’s cheeks warmed under Violet’s scrutinizing look, the heat akin to the rush she received the moment she saw a certain figure emerge from the ballroom. He was about twenty feet away in the hall, seemingly unaware that she’d seen him.

“And with an oculist, no less. Who would have thought?” Violet chuckled, her gaze following the couple as they twirled. “Only Pippa could turn a mishap into a romance. And to think, it was sealed with the poison you administered from the apothecary’s concoction.” Violet looked over her shoulder and gave a nod.

Bea felt a flutter in her heart at the thought of the apothecary. Alfie Collins—the man who had unwittingly played Cupid to ensure Bea’s cousin’s happiness with Nick.

Violet turned her keen gaze onto Bea. “I will leave you to him.” Her voice was laced with intrigue.

“Perhaps I ought to thank him?” Bea’s question hung between them like a delicate scent, a confession of her fascination with the man that was impossible to ignore.

But after Violet returned to the ballroom, Bea felt the atmosphere changing around her.

She withdrew further into the hall. What else do you do at a ball when your dance card isn’t full?

There was a shadow in the hall. The lively string quartet music seemed to fade into a distant echo as she moved toward the shadow that flickered at the edge of her vision.

Three doors down the hall from the main festivities, the corridor was dim, lit only by the occasional sconce whose flame danced in the draft. Here, the air held a hush, a pause in the breath of the night when Bea saw him—Alfie.

Turn away, don’t be caught in the hall with a man. Particularly not this man.

From behind, he stood like a column of calm amidst the storm of the night’s tumultuous celebrations. His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, outlined against the sparse light. He was a silhouette of masculinity, strength, and grace. Even his rich velvet evening frock, less ostentatious than the sea of brocades and silks in the ballroom, spoke of a man who valued substance over show. And yet, there was a certain allure in the natural fit of his breeches, hinting at a vitality that spoke of both discipline and a life far removed from the sedentary pursuits of the typical gentleman.

Well, he was an apothecary and not a gentleman at all. For Bea, he was as much out of reach as a royal prince.

As if sensing her nearby, Alfie turned and his face came into view, featuring a strong jaw and muscles that twitched before his full lips curved into a smile. His perfect teeth gleamed just moments before the same sparkle appeared in his eyes. Then, he blinked and nodded his head in greeting to her. A flush of warmth climbed her cheeks, an involuntary response to the sudden intensity of eye contact with this dashing man.

Bea looked over her shoulder, checking that they were indeed alone in the hall. A shiver ran down her back, her neck prickled, and she burst into motion, heading toward him to do as she’d been taught: greet politely, and then pardon herself and leave.

Except she didn’t want to leave.

With each step she took toward him, Bea felt like she was blooming under his intense gaze, as he watched her approach. As if she were stepping out of her skin, leaving behind the young woman who had entered the ball with no greater expectation than to fulfill her social obligations. Instead, she approached Alfie as one might approach a long-anticipated revelation, dutiful yet tinged with an embarrassment, more about the sudden depth of her feelings than any impropriety.

He seemed like one of those dangerous rakes her mother had warned her about, making women like Bea teeter at the edge of ruination—or at least he was handsome enough to fuel rumors if any existed. However, in the short time that Bea had come to know Alfie Collins, he had the admiration of his colleagues, the respect of his customers, and some sort of effect on her that made her breath hitch.

He was fascinating.

“Lady Beatrice.” His voice had a rich timbre that resonated in the air around them. “I did not anticipate the pleasure of your company in such a secluded spot.” He cocked his head as if to confirm that nobody overheard their conversation.

His words were simple yet laden with an unspoken understanding. They wrapped around her like a shawl, offering both comfort and a thrilling sense of being bound to him.

Bea barely found her voice but eventually replied with a grace she scarcely felt, “It seems we are both rather isolated this evening.” The heat in Bea’s cheeks subsided as she remembered the days before. He’d created a mixture from one of Pippa’s plants in the orangery, ipecac, to purge her uncle’s poison so that he’d be sober enough to consent to Nick’s request for Pippa’s hand tonight. It had been a deliciously clandestine affair, and now that it was over, Bea feared it would mean giving up something, or someone… Alfie.

*

Alfie’s demeanor changed immediately. The music from the ball was in full swing but lightly muted, and Alfie had little interest in dancing in a room full of patients or potential patients. He could keep their secrets but not forget the rashes men hid from their wives nor the tricks the wives used to get their husbands to… well, that was their problem, and he was here now with the most exquisite beauty in an emerald-green silk gown—the kind he wished to trail his fingers over when exploring her delicate curves.

Absolutely not!

Alfie shifted as if he could switch his thoughts to something more chaste.

But Bea was breathtaking, she didn’t need the frills; she had the title, the beauty, and the intelligence to sparkle of her own accord. In the amber light of the hall, Alfie could see her lovely alabaster skin glowing with coveted rosiness. The crystal wall sconces softened the light so that Bea appeared as if she were lit from the inside.

And Alfie was hard with a force that he thought could smash granite.

She was a bit shorter than him, an advantage that allowed him quite the view. He could see the sheer muslin layer sticking out just enough to draw his eyes to the low cut of her bodice. It wasn’t her first season, and Alfie knew she could take certain liberties, such as stronger colors and lower necklines. But he had no explanation for why she would be there alone with him in the hall rather than dancing with the aristocrats in the ballroom.

“You did it,” Alfie said, in awe.

“My cousin is going to be a bride,” Bea sighed, fingering the simple strand of pearls that cast the slightest of shadows on her collarbone.

“They are very much in love, and I am happy that my dear friend has found the love of his life,” Alfie said. It was genuine, and he didn’t dare deny Nick the splendor of true love.

So why did he feel pity for the beauty before him? Or was pity not the right word?

“How romantic of you, Mr. Collins.” She blinked at him for an instant and then looked away. Even in the dim light, Alfie’s expert eyes caught the blush rising to her cheeks.

“You were instrumental in ensuring the match, Lady Beatrice.” He bowed, considering retreat, lest he cross a line with Pippa’s cousin that a commoner like him must not. But he was just a man of flesh and blood, and she was a veritable angel of beauty, licking her lips and twirling the pearl strand around her finger in a way that stirred Alfie’s most basic urges. No level of education from the finest faculties of alchemy and medicine could prepare him to cure what he was experiencing.

“I couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t created the ipecac mixture,” Bea said.

“But you administered it, so it would have been worthless without you.” The world is worthless without you. “Thanks to you, Pippa and Nick can marry. Without your intelligence, none of this would have worked.”

She waved her hand in the air, and the pearls fell into the hollow of her neck. Alfie’s brow twitched as he looked at the breathtaking interplay of iridescent sheen and the dew of her décolleté. Her beauty was genuinely disarming, even for a man who knew how to live out his urges.

“Will you be back at the orangery for more plants, Mr. Collins?”

He didn’t like her calling him by his surname, using Mister Collins . So polite. So formal. So distant. He wished she’d consider him just a man, nothing special like an apothecary with the knowledge to mix and dispense medicine.

“If Pippa wishes it, I will be there.”

“Why is it you call me Lady Beatrice, yet you call her Pippa?”

Alfie narrowed his brows. Had she read his mind?

“Only if you’ll call me Alfie.”

“Alfie, I’d very much like to show you the orange blossoms at the orangery. Do you think you could find any use for them?”

“Let them ripen into oranges,” Alfie said with a nod as curt as he could muster, hoping she wouldn’t know how strongly she affected him.

“And if you were to harvest the petals?”

Oh no, she couldn’t possibly ask that. A beauty like her mustn’t speak of aphrodisiacs like neroli oil derived from orange blossoms.

“For what purpose, Bea?” That rolled off his tongue far too quickly, bringing the sweetest pink to her cheeks.

“They smell lovely, and I thought you could take a few minutes to craft perfume.”

“Neroli oil?”

“Is that orange blossom oil?”

“Yes. And it’s an aphrodisiac.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You mean it makes people fall in love?”

She was too sweet for her own good—the most dangerous and tantalizing combination of beautiful, smart, and curious.

Alfie surveyed the hall, still devoid of people. Why wasn’t there a chaperone around?

He rubbed his neck, trying to remind himself that he was speaking to a member of the Ton. Pippa’s cousin, the lovely Bea, had his stomach twisted in a knot, and thinking of her as he did was not acceptable.

Seducing a virgin noblewoman could have devastating repercussions for him. She was the daughter of the Earl of Dunmore, after all, and her parents were away on a diplomatic mission. The suspicion alone would scare his best customers away, and he’d lose the apothecary he’d built for years.

Alfie swallowed. Was there a bowl of ice water in which he could stick his head for a moment?

She blinked at him, still waiting for an answer.

“Aphrodisiacs don’t make people fall in love. They tip the balance of desire in a certain direction.”

“Toward lust?”

Alfie suppressed a groan. This was not a conversation he ought to have with her. Not here. Not ever.

“Yes. Passion even. Plus, orange blossoms are best picked when the dew is forming—around five in the morning—to capture the most fragrant moments.”

She jerked her head back and focused on him so intently that he nearly felt naked. Then she dropped her chin, and her eyes focused on his. “Perhaps then, you can harvest the orange blossoms for neroli oil tomorrow? As a favor to me?”