Page 18 of The Scent of Intuition
Bea pushed the door open; she’d been there a few times to collect Pippa when she visited Nick, so she knew it was unlockedduring business hours. She entered the foyer. On the left was Nick’s office. Directly across, however, was her destination:
Alfie Collins
Apothecary
She opened the door and stepped inside the room. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and dried flowers, an aromatic combination that soothed her frayed nerves. And there he was, the dashing apothecary, his presence in the dimly lit room both the balm and the catalyst to her anxiety-ridden state.
Chapter Eight
Following yet anothersleepless 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.
