Page 19 of The Scent of Intuition
“Rarely.” He fought the urge to lay a hand on her shoulder and comfort her.
Well, truth be told, he fought the urge to layherover 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 donothave 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 andseemingly 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 astetter, 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?”
