Chapter Twenty-Four

L ater that night, no matter how hard Bea tried, she couldn’t banish the image of Alfie’s chiseled abdomen from her mind. She turned restlessly in bed, wishing she had found the courage to kiss him more. The idea to wrap herself around him and hold him close became the central point of her thoughts and the image of Alfie reaching for the myrtle—his arms stretched high, muscles taut under his shirt—made her heart race. She longed to comb her hands through his hair, take his mouth with hers, and feel his body’s strength against her. Again and again.

Bea’s desire for Alfie was an itch she couldn’t scratch, an insistent desire that left her skin tingling. His ointment wasn’t enough to soothe the burn within her—she needed not the apothecary, rather the man behind the counter. She sat up and reached for her journal, scribbling feverishly about how much she wanted to touch him, to kiss him. Each line was more fervent than the last, her private musings pouring onto the pages in a flurry of longing.

My heart trembles with desires too bold to be spoken aloud for I must not ask to satisfy the cravings deep within. Tonight, I find myself overwhelmed by thoughts of Alfie. His mere presence stirs within me a yearning so profound that I scarcely recognize myself for I cannot be whole without his touch. I was too timid to reach for him at the orangery when he left with the myrtle leaves, and now I regret the chance that I let pass.

Would he have allowed me to caress the taut skin on his stomach?

How I long to feel the warmth of his embrace, to trace my fingers along the firm lines of his body, and lose myself in the depths of his eyes. The thought of pressing my lips to his, tasting the sweetness of his breath, sends shivers through my soul. I imagine the strength of his arms around me, holding me close, our bodies entwined in a tender dance of passion and affection.

To run my hands through his dark hair, to feel each silken strand slip through my fingers, and to whisper my love into his ear—these are the dreams that haunt my waking hours. Oh, to lay beside him, the world fading away, leaving only the two of us in a cocoon of shared warmth and whispered promises. The flame of my desire burns bright, and I wonder if I shall ever have the courage to ignite it into a blaze of reality.

How cruel the paradox of my existence as a lady! I know well that I must not ask for what my heart so ardently desires; propriety and decorum demand my restraint. Yet, it is precisely because I am a lady, with all the passions and yearnings that accompany such a station, that I long to follow my heart’s true desire. The societal expectations that bind me feel like chains, forcing me into silence while every fiber of my being cries out for the freedom to love openly and without reservation.

Bea sighed. She was being ridiculous, she could never have that sort of connection. Leaving her journal as usual on her desk, she clambered into bed and tried not to dream of Alfie Collins. She had to think about how best to help Prince Stan with his plan and her role in it. Step one was to attend the card game at Violet’s and Henry’s townhouse the next evening, and impress Prince Stan to… what did she want? Bea’s head was spinning; she needed to impress the prince and work with him, and yet her stomach churned with longing for Alfie. She let out a mournful murmur, resonating from the depths of her being, as if her very soul had decided to speak its truths through the language of breath.

But she had her own plan and knew what step two would be: Marry and move away from the stifling rules of the Ton, the hypocrisy, the ever-looming threat of scandal.

But she couldn’t say goodbye to Alfie and leave after Pippa’s wedding as she’d originally planned. Sometimes in life, plans had to change.

Bea’s eyes grew heavy, and she put her head down on the pillow.

“Alfie,” she sighed and drifted off to sleep.

*

When the first light of dawn crept through her window, Bea woke up with the journal lying beside her pillow.

She knew she had to see him. Determined, she took her carriage to 87 Harley Street, asked the coachman not to wait for her, and made her way to the apothecary.

Bea knocked. It was Saturday and the front door was locked. She used the knocker and cleared her throat. Her neck had begun to itch. Everything itched, actually. Could it be because she was overstepping every boundary of propriety? She stopped speculating as the door opened.

“Alfie!” She exclaimed, as if she didn’t expect him to open the door of the building in which he lived. Yet, the warmth of his smile sent a flutter through her heart. His presence seemed to fill the space with a quiet strength and gentleness that made her feel better just by virtue of being near him.

“Pippa’s just left, everyone’s on the way to Kent,” he said as he stepped aside and gestured to invite her in as if Bea’s only reason to visit 87 Harley Street were to meet with Pippa and Nick for wedding planning. Well, that was not an excuse she could use this time.

Except for Chromius barking and jumping on his hind legs to greet her, the practice was eerily quiet indeed.

“Why didn’t you go with them?”

“I have an important meeting tonight,” he said eyeing her intently and then he looked out the door. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.” Bea knew she shouldn’t have come unchaperoned, especially knowing that Pippa had already left for Kent. But she didn’t want a chaperone, and Violet would cover for her if needed. She could let her know later that evening, as Bea had planned to attend with Prince Stan. When Bea’s parents had left for their trip, and Pippa’s father remarried, they’d changed the instructions of their lady’s maids, and both avoided being chaperoned whenever possible. It had been an enormous risk to their reputations but also an exciting and liberating sense of control over their own lives. And that’s how Bea viewed what she’d done that morning—taken control.

Plus, since her uncle had suffered sobering at Violet’s ball, there wasn’t much heed paid to propriety. Good! Perhaps Bea didn’t know how to ask for what she wanted but she was certainly not going to ask for what she didn’t want.

Alfie glanced up, his eyes warm and questioning as he noticed her scratching her arm.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked, his gaze flicking to the journal while he turned his back to the door and shut it.

“I’ve been itchy all night,” Bea admitted, hoping her voice didn’t betray the true cause of her restlessness. “I can’t seem to… soothe the burn… inside of me.”

*

The burn inside of her…

Alfie suppressed a groan. It was Saturday morning and he’d just drawn a hot bath for himself, trying to ready himself for the task of the evening of helping Prince Stan. Oh, who was he fooling? He was going to soak in the hot water and think of Bea.

Who was here.

Now.

Standing before him.

Then he noticed Bea scratch at her arm again, and concern etched his features. “You really have irritated skin? Perhaps an oat bath would help soothe it,” he suggested gently, trying not to think about the itch in his breeches that must not be scratched.

Bea hesitated, biting her lip. “Pippa’s maid has gone with her and most of the house has been packed already. I appreciate the suggestion, but drawing a bath seems like such trouble with the move to the country estate and the wedding preparations.”

“Nonsense,” Alfie replied, a reassuring smile spreading across his face. “Let me prepare one for you here. It won’t take long, and with everyone else already off to the country, there’s no need to rush. Only Chromius and I are here.”

Her eyes widened slightly, a mixture of surprise and something more flickering within them “If it’s truly not too much trouble…”

“It’s not,” he assured her, his voice steady and warm. “Come, follow me.”

As they walked upstairs toward the large water closet next to his bed chamber, Alfie couldn’t ignore the way his heart quickened. The moment’s intimacy was undeniable, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this simple act of kindness held far more significance than either dared to acknowledge.

He’d gone too far and offered a service that was far beyond his apothecary shop. In fact, he was taking Bea upstairs. If anyone found them, it would be scandalous. But a bath had been drawn and Bea could benefit from it more than he would.

“I promised to soothe your skin, so let me.” Alfie’s voice failed him when Bea’s mouth fell open, and she glanced up the staircase.

It was exactly as bad as it sounded, and yet, an oat bath would soothe her skin.

And it would aggravate the burning desire inside of him, Alfie thought, but he didn’t dare speak anymore.

Bea let out a puff of air as if she’d had an entire conversation with herself in her mind. She placed a hand on the railing and took the first step. “This way?”

Alfie nodded and followed her.

This was different from how the day was supposed to go. Alfie had prepared to assist the prince that evening—a mission that could elevate the prince to heroic stature—yet he felt a pang of inner conflict. The prince’s daring actions tonight could change their lives, solidifying his place on a pedestal of royal virtue unattainable for an apothecary. Alfie knew well that he must not compete with the prince, for his role was one of service and loyalty and Bea was destined to make a noble match. However, as he watched her hips swaying gently as she walked upstairs ahead of him, her allure so intoxicatingly close, he couldn’t quell the burgeoning sense of rivalry that stirred within him. He knew she was interested in the Prince, he’d overheard her speak about him.

But Alfie was not going to let her get out without putting up a little fight at least. Although he knew he could never have her, she ought to know what she’d miss. An aromatic herbal bath seemed like the perfect battleground if she allowed it.

Determined to focus on the moment at hand, Alfie turned his attention to preparing the hot bath for Bea. The water steamed invitingly, and the scent of oats mingled with the air, creating a soothing sanctuary. He added a few essential oils to mask the nuttiness of the oat scent.

“What is this for?” she asked, her arms crossed, hugging herself and eyeing the tin tub she’d step into. Naked. Soon. Alfie suppressed a groan.

“This is rose water, it’s a hydrophilic moisturizer and balances irritations of the skin because it mixes with the warm water.” With every word, his head throbbed even more, and he corked the bottle and retrieved a smaller vial with walnut oil. “The walnut oil here is an oil-based moisturizer, so it makes a film on the water’s surface and coats—” he swallowed hard, “your sin… skin… ahem…” He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate but the thought of anything coating her bare skin besides his touch blurred his vision and cut off his breathing. Alfie never thought he’d be jealous of a half cup of walnut oil floating on hot water, but he’d stooped that low in that moment.

“Why do you have these in your bathroom cabinet?” she asked.

“We share this bathing room. Nick, Wendy, and I.” Alfie avoided her gaze. She was a lady and probably had five bath chambers to choose from every day.

And she chose yours today, he told himself as his breeches grew too tight and he tried to turn away from her.

“I should disrobe before the water cools,” she said as she tugged at each finger of her gloves and set them on the stool next to the tub.

Alfie should have nodded and taken his leave politely. He would have if his feet hadn’t been heavy as anvils and his mind throbbing in the same rhythm as his middle.

Bea removed some pins from her hair and put them in her reticule, where Alfie still saw the journal peeking out. His eyes went to the hook on the wall behind her and she followed his gaze, leaving him frozen like a besotted green boy as she hung her reticule on the hook.

His mouth was dry despite the steam in the room, which Alfie hoped came from the tub and not his breeches.

“It’s getting cold,” she said, pulling the string that tied her pelisse open.

He’d seen her décolleté at the Langley’s ball, then why couldn’t he stop watching as she removed her pelisse?

“Here’s a stack of towels,” Alfie croaked as if he were no more than fifteen again and he left the towel cabinet open for her. With all the power in his body, he dragged his heavy feet, and himself, to the door. It was tortuous to leave Bea undressing in his bathroom—as if he’d been climbing a mountain in the Himalayans on a hot summer day.

“If you were not a lady, Bea, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d—” but he knew better than to finish the sentence. Her mouth fell open, and her eyes grew wide. She was a lady, a virgin, and not anyone else.

“Would what?” She whispered, seemingly holding her breath as a pink flush spread on her sweet cheeks.

He couldn’t say.

And he couldn’t stay. Lest he do something irrevocable.

Bea watched him leave with a curiosity that mirrored his own unspoken thoughts, and when he stood in the door, she didn’t protest. Of course not. He was a commoner, and she was a lady—a virgin lady with her cap set on a prince.

Alfie’s heart sank. “Take as much time as you wish.” He tightened his grip on the doorknob. She simply nodded, gratitude and something deeper swimming in her eyes. The intimacy of the act, performed in the quiet solitude of the small room, spoke of the unvoiced sentiments that lingered between them.

As Alfie shut the door behind him, leaving Bea alone, a rush of heat surged through him. His heart pounded with an intensity that surprised even him, each beat echoing the forbidden nature of his thoughts. He imagined Bea undressing, the delicate fabric of her gown slipping from her shoulders to reveal the soft curves of her body. The thought of her standing there, vulnerable and trusting, sent a thrill coursing through him that was both exhilarating and disquieting.

His mind raced, torn between his duty to suppress his need and his burgeoning desire for Bea. It was all so private and charged with emotions that it left him feeling both honored and tormented. He knew he should focus on the mission ahead and ready himself to help the prince later that night—his priority should be the practice and saving Felix and his friends. But the image of Bea, bathed in the milky foam of his bath, lingered in his thoughts, a tantalizing distraction that he couldn’t easily dismiss. It was even stronger now than all those years ago in India. He knew how it felt when she kissed and how she felt in his arms. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Was this his chance to show Bea how he felt, or would he abuse her trust beyond repair if he did?