Chapter Eight

F ollowing yet another sleepless night, Alfie stood behind his counter and dutifully dispensed the medicines his client needed. He wrapped the bottle in parchment and tied it with string.

“Apply the tincture with a piece of clean cotton twice daily for ten days,” Alfie advised a young man with a simple candle burn that would probably heal on its own, when his eyes caught a veiled lady with a narrow waist entering his apothecary.

“And you say that’ll heal this, sir?” his patient asked. Alfie had provided him with witch hazel in a carrier oil that would soothe the injured skin until it returned to its original healthy texture. He assured the young man that it would and accepted the shilling he paid, but in truth, Alfie couldn’t hear him anymore. His entire focus was on the veiled lady at the far end of his counter. She had turned her back to him and had begun to peruse his display of Parisian cosmetics, and he couldn’t take his eyes from her.

She wore a fashionable but subdued travel dress and a thin pelisse with a sash that accentuated her waist. They were of a matching color, though the sash was made of a shiny fabric, while the pelisse was woven. Or knitted. He couldn’t be too sure about women’s fashions, but he was absolutely certain about women’s bodies. And he’d seen this one in his imagination all night.

Unfortunately, she was draped in far too many layers of indiscernible fabric and beyond his reach. Lady Beatrice .

His business with the young man concluded, and Alfie walked around his counter and to the window where Bea was smelling the rose pomade and mica powder rouge. Alfie wasn’t much of a connoisseur, but it was easy for him to import these creams and powders with matching little brushes from a merchant Felix knew. Beyond displaying these items and leaving one open for his female customers to test, he didn’t need to do much. The maquillage almost sold itself. All he had to do was bag it and collect the coin.

“What can I do for you?” he asked when Bea looked over her shoulder, the veil draping loosely over her head and shoulders. She was refinement impersonated like a cultured English rose sparkling with dew drops. Oh, he’d lick every single one of those drops off her if she’d ever let him.

Rein yourself in, Collins. This is Pippa’s cousin. She’s a lady. No touching a member of the Ton.

He rubbed his temples to wake up his head, considering that all of his blood had traveled elsewhere.

“I heard you speak to the young man about an ointment for his rash. I’ll take some of that.”

“Why do you need an ointment?”

“Me?” She lifted her head and blinked at him through the veil. True, for the untrained eye, she was fairly well disguised. However, Alfie knew women’s bodies and their unique mannerisms in moving and the gentle rocking of their hips when they walked. He appreciated every nuance of their femininity like a wine steward distinguished the high and low notes of good wine. But this was no wine before him. Lady Beatrice Wetherby was more of a prized cognac, a type of brandy made from distilled white wine, and so powerful in its ripeness it could even be used in small doses as a medicinal remedy.

She braced herself, as if she were itchy and yet wouldn’t allow herself to scratch. Alfie recognized the symptoms.

“You know who I am?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.” I’d recognize you if you were hiding behind a brick wall, Lady Beatrice. A beauty like you is not easily overlooked. “I recognize your voice.” There was no point in admitting he also recognized her shape and had spent the night fighting thoughts of what it would be like to grasp that waist—or cup those breasts!

“Oh.”

“Why have you inquired about witch hazel ointment?” Alfie asked.

“Oh, no reason.”

There was always one.

“It is my profession, you know. Patients tell me their symptoms, and I find a cure.” He cleared his throat. “At least, I try.”

“And are you often successful?”

“Usually.”

“What happens when you’re not?”

“It may not be a matter medicines alone can cure. Sometimes surgery may be required.”

“Surgery?” Alarm pierced her voice.

“Rarely.” He fought the urge to lay a hand on her shoulder and comfort her.

Well, truth be told, he fought the urge to lay her over his shoulder and carry her to his bed chamber.

Whoa, Alfie, slow down.

“I’ll take one of the beige powders, please. The rose-scented one. That’ll be all.” Her voice trembled and betrayed her withdrawal. Fortunately for her, she wasn’t the first lady to work up the courage to seek him out for a medical question and then falter at the last minute.

“Lady Beatrice, if there is anything I may help with, it would be my privilege to offer my assistance. Rest assured that I am in the habit of maintaining the utmost discretion.”

She swallowed and blew the air out, so that the veil draping over her face moved as if a light summer breeze brushed the curtains aside. “Even among your colleagues in the practice?”

“Even among them, if you wish.”

He heard her inhale deeply now as if she tried to draw the courage from the room to speak; the lace covering wafted in toward her lips, this time. Then she brought both lace-gloved hands to the edge of the veil and lifted it.

Time slowed at the moment her lashes fluttered a delicate dance that caught Alfie’s gaze and held it captive. With each graceful bat of her long, enchanting eyelashes, it was as though she struck directly at Alfie’s resolve, sending waves of turmoil through his very core. He fought to maintain his composure, to resist the overwhelming urge to pull her into an embrace, to shower her with adoration. Yet, Alfie couldn’t help but think that this stirring of the heart, this sweet torment she unknowingly inflicted upon him, was but a minor quandary for a man as well-versed in the art of love as he was.

A constellation of crimson marks had emerged upon her skin, no doubt the silent heralds of some unseen reaction. The blotches were fresh and unmarred yet around them, the skin began to pull taut, mimicking the parched earth’s cry for rain.

“I have the pox,” she spoke as if she’d taken her last breath. “I get them sometimes.”

Alfie tried to stifle a laugh because she was absolutely adorable. “You most certainly do not have the pox.” His voice came out darker than he’d intended.

“Leprosy?”

“No.” He shook his head in suppressed mirth. He didn’t mean to sound condescending, but she was just too sweet and seemingly unable to understand how easily her condition could be healed.

“But I’m disfigured.”

“Not at all.” Alfie squeezed his lips together to suppress the slew of compliments bubbling within him for the unmatched beauty despite the red blotchiness. A true beauty held more in store than impeccable skin. Didn’t she know that her condition was manageable even though it seemed terribly uncomfortable? It was harmless. But she was so vexed by the rash, as if she’d had a terminal diagnosis, that he wanted to smile and wrap his arms around her and lift her onto his counter.

She inhaled and eyed him curiously. “My mother keeps me locked up when I break out like this. I usually work on my watercolors and needlepoint to forget that I’m hungry. I mean, so that I keep my shape when I’m waiting for the skin to return to normal. Mother says I’m a blooming nightmare.”

Dream. Not nightmare.

He shut his eyes for a moment. He imagined her sprawled naked on dark-purple satin covers with her red-golden hair framing her face as he climbed over her.

Stop! Is this the third way you’ve thought of taking her in less than five minutes? This is not self-control. Not even a little bit.

“Come to the light, please.” He pointed his open palm to the window to get a good look and confirm his suspicion. She followed him and stood facing the pane that led to Harley Street. Alfie made it a habit to keep his apothecary darker than the light outside so that nobody would be able to see his customers. The glass was milky, and even if anyone saw their silhouettes, they wouldn’t make out their faces from the outside. Discretion was almost more important to his clientele than the accuracy of a diagnosis or a fair price for the medicines, and Alfie respected that.

She blinked at him, inclining her head so that he could see the redness on her cheeks and forehead.

“It’s not too bad,” he said, hoping she’d jerk back and not notice that his hand had come to cup her face, and he was almost leaning in. “Is your affliction limited to these red, inflamed patches here?”

She nodded.

“Accompanied at times by itching or even blisters?”

“Itching but no blisters.”

“It’s what we commonly refer to as tetter , or in more severe instances, salt rheum .”

“You know what it is? You mean… it happens to other people?” A wondering, even relieved, expression crossed her face. Poor beauty, he thought. She’d thought she was alone in an untreatable affliction. “Why does this happen to me?” she asked.

“It is a manifestation of the body’s internal imbalance, possibly exacerbated by an external irritant that has come into contact with your body. It is a condition of the skin where it becomes irritated and can flake, weep, or even crust over.”

She listened intently, the corners of her mouth curling into a frown. “Is there a cure?”

“There is treatment.”

“Isn’t that the same?”

“Unfortunately, not. A cure would prevent this from ever happening again. But there are treatments that can speed up the healing process and relieve the discomfort.” He opened one of the small drawers and handed her a small glass jar with a metal lid. This was one of the few remedies he always had handy. “Try this ointment. And keep a journal.”

“For what purpose?”

“With your observations. There must be a trigger for the condition. Perhaps keeping a record will give us the opportunity to see a pattern or find what affects you and causes your hives to occur. Writing down what you touch or use, what fabrics you wear, and what foods you consume will help us to learn.” He paused. “It’s like making a map, step by step, to bring us to your ‘beast’.”

She seemed to ponder the idea for a moment. Her lovely face was bathed in the soft light of Alfie’s apothecary, as the potent aroma of herbs and tinctures wove around them, and Alfie’s muscles tensed. This was his realm, and he should feel in control, yet it took all of his strength to steady his nerves alone with Bea.

The beauty stood directly across from him, separated by his counter and the cleft of Society; she was virtually untouchable and irresistible at the same time. If she were anyone else but a high-born lady, he’d lay her on the counter and kiss her senseless, pleasure her until she screamed, then carry her into his bed and kiss her until she’d be ready for another round. But he had to suppress any instinct, steady his nerves, and remain calm. She’d come to him as a customer, and he was a professional catering to her needs—whims— argh! He’d give her what she asked for. No matter what the nature of her request.

“I happen to be under time constraints and thought myself defeated because of my beast… ahem … condition. But if you say it can heal in a matter of days, there may be a way for me to meet my deadline.”

“Is this an upcoming ball or something scheduled for a special date?” Alfie asked.

“No,” she snapped as if he’d insulted her intelligence. “My parents are returning from Singapore soon.”

“How lovely. You must be looking forward to the reunion.”

“I dread it more than the plague. Marriage without affection makes me itch even worse.”

Now, she had his attention. “And why is that?”

“They expect me to be wed by the time they return, or else my father will make the match for me. I need to make someone fall in love with me first.”

Alfie bit his cheek to stop himself from growling in frustration. What he wanted even less than to keep his hands off her was to watch another man get his hands on her. And then she continued, “There’s a foreign delegate in London this week. Violet, I mean, the Countess of Langley, introduced us. I need him to fall in love with me and take me to Transylvania.”

Alfie was convinced he hadn’t heard right. Not only was she intent on marrying some delegate but she also expected to leave England? His chest constricted.

“You’d miss Pippa’s wedding?”

Sadness washed over her eyes, and something flickered within her that eclipsed the beautiful exterior, hives or not, with a deep pain that Alfie wished to cure even more than he wanted to soothe her skin.

“I will be there for Pippa. But after the wedding, I might leave,” she said. “There’s no solution for my ailment.”

“I could give you an ointment—”

“Not that ailment, Mr. Collins. I’m trapped. And my key to escape is going to leave this country when the prince’s diplomatic mission is over. If I don’t go with him, my parents will marry me to a man I don’t even like—”

“Do you like the prince?” Alfie couldn’t stop the words even though he heard how pathetic they sounded.

“Well, he’s handsome and healthy.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Alfie couldn’t take his eyes off hers. He was locked in an internal struggle. He wanted her for himself, but couldn’t have her. And now she was proposing to run off with the first suitable man she could find?

She placed both hands on the counter and leaned forward. So close and yet so far, Alfie felt his insides churning. “Mr. Collins, I’m the belle of each ball, believe me or not. When I don’t look like a beast, everyone expects me to make a stellar match, but I’ve been dragging my feet for too long. It’s diminishing my chances. I’m to be a doll, an accessory with as much say as a shiny pocket watch. The irony isn’t lost on me. This golden watch is running out of time.”

Alfie felt as if she’d punched him in the stomach and cut off his breath. She wasn’t a beast, nor was she merely passable. A woman with her spirit didn’t qualify as an accessory but as the main spectacle of a lifetime. But he ought not to tell her how much he’d like to prove her wrong.

Yet, his intellect surfaced long enough to dissect the situation: Bea was lonely, caught between her duty as a lady and daughter versus the fire inside her. Her station prevented her from acting on her impulses.

Alfie bit his cheek and considered the matter. There was something familiar about her, a familiarity he’d recognized the day Pippa first introduced her, but now there was something else, too. His stomach twisted at the thought… it couldn’t be her , could it?

When she was alone with him, she seemed to act more impulsively than at the ball at the Langleys. Even when she’d been at the orangery with him, she seemed freer.

“I’m sorry that nobody sees your true spirit.”

She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her. “Will you help me then?”

“I don’t know how I could help you. It’s not like I can concoct a love potion.”

She growled like a cat about to pounce, and Alfie’s cock twitched. This woman had spirit, fire, and zest that he wanted to fuel, not stifle. She needed to be cherished, pleasured, and loved, not locked up like a fury lest she implode into complacency—what a waste.

“How can you help me then, Mr. Collins?”

Against his better judgement, a thought occurred to him, a way to perhaps help this beautiful lady. “I can heighten your natural scents.”

“I already have perfume, thank you.”

Alfie inhaled deeply, unable to fathom what he was about to do. “A love potion is not what fairy tales say it might be. There’s no magic to falling in love. It’s purely physical, and that means enhancing the body’s natural features that bring about lust so strong, desire so potent, that the heart might follow a person’s natural impulses.”

“It’s too bad you’re an apothecary and not a magician. I wish love potions existed.” She blinked as if something occurred to her then. “You can’t, can you? Is it possible to mix something that induces love rather than lust?”

Not exactly. Alfie wondered how much he should tell this innocent lady. “No. But there are things—herbs, essential oils.”

She wrinkled her nose with distaste.

“And things which will stimulate…” he paused. “Certain passions. Not out of love, you understand, but from blood rushing to…places. Irritations that will be eased only from…actions.” He took a deep breath. This was awkward and definitely inappropriate. “Things that simulate desire and lust that are mistaken for passion and desire.” He couldn’t stop himself from talking even though he knew he should. But this was the only way he could see to make her stay near him.

Her eyes widened.

“And there are other ways. Things that are said to heighten one’s scent in a way that will attract others.”

*

Bea blinked when Alfie spoke of love, desire, and lust. His teal-green eyes were even brighter in reality than in her embroidery. Framed by the slight dark line around the green and then offset by the white of his eyes, there was depth and mystery as there would be in the solar eclipses she’d read about. There was so much to see and such joy from looking in his eyes that Bea was momentarily thrown off guard.

“How would you heighten my features then?” she asked.

Alfie rubbed his eyes with the bases of his palms and mumbled something inaudible.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’d underline your natural beauty, stimulate the imagination of the suitor—”

“He’s a prince.”

“Yes,” he growled. “And then intensify the best features of your natural scent.”

“My natural scent?” The hairs on her neck pricked up, and something deep inside her quivered with a blend of glee and curiosity. The notion was scandalous—discussing one’s scent with a man was as improper as it was intriguing. She struggled to maintain her composure, but her cheeks betrayed her with a slight flush.

A flurry of emotions danced within her. Nervousness, yes, for she knew the breach of decorum this conversation represented. Yet, in equal measure, there was a fascination that she could not quell. It wasn’t merely the subject matter that held her captive, but the intensity in his eyes, the way his voice dipped into a low, almost intimate tone. He spoke as if he were unveiling a secret just for her ears, making her pulse quicken in response.

She glanced away briefly, her fingers brushing against the delicate fabric of her dress, seeking an anchor to steady herself. How did he perceive her? Did he find her as fascinating as she found him? The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. This was no ordinary exchange; it felt charged with an energy that transcended mere words.

When she met his gaze again, there was a new resolve in her eyes. She would not shy away from this unexpected turn. Nervous though she was, she would allow herself to be drawn into this unconventional dance of words and meanings. For beneath the propriety and the societal expectations lay a truth that neither could ignore: something profound and stirring was unfolding between them, and it felt distinctly like possibility.

She watched as the apothecary closed his eyes and seemed to inhale deeply. “Right now, you use soap with rose oil, but it clashes with the spark of vivacity and energy in your nature. Rose is subdued. I’d use sandalwood and cinnamon to heighten this aspect.” He opened his eyes and squinted. “The copper tones in your blond hair give a richness that only the darkest of berries can emphasize. Sherry would be a suitable base, and it would also invite a lingering kiss wherever you applied the mixture. I won’t use anything that aggravates your ailment. The oils must first soothe your skin, then heighten your natural scents.”

Bea’s face heated and she wanted to fan herself but was too mesmerized by him to move as much as blink her lashes. His words painted her in scent, and he looked at her like an artist with a trained eye—or rather nose.

“You have a bounce in your step when you’re happy, like when you come to meet up with your cousin, but when you’re sad, like today, you drag your feet. I’d mimic this with the rare note of fir, uplifting at best, or intrusively clearing the sinus when not properly welcomed.”

Oh my!

“The richness and depth of your eyes would best be captured by the closed blossoms of lily of the valley, maintaining the grassy and grounding undertones of the petals that shroud the fragrance within.”

“And what about the neroli oil? I wanted to apologize in case you came to harvest some orange blossoms, and I missed you.”

“I’d be happy to make the neroli for you but it’s not the citrus notes that would capture your essence and heighten it, but rather, apple blossoms.”

Bea felt light-headed and needed to sit. The description and nuances with which Alfie saw her made the room spin. Something told her—intuition perhaps—that he saw her. All of her.

And she wished nothing more than to fall into his arms. “Can I watch you make it?”