Page 1 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter One

August 1805

The Isle of Portland, England

Miss Flora Hartington rarely had the chance to admire a handsome man openly, so she was making the most of it. Her position at the back of the crowd on East Town’s village green gave her an excellent view of Dr. L. E. Campaign, an itinerant physician touting his remedies from his portable wooden stage.

Campaign—who some of the locals unkindly called a ‘quack doctor’—was no stranger to her. The previous year, Flora had purchased bottles of his Universal Remedy, his Revitalizing Tonic, and his Certain Cure for the Tertian Ague, amongst many others. She was so certain his cures worked that she’d even corresponded with the man, ordering items via the local carrier. Typically, this had earned her a sharp rebuke from her shrewish older sister, Lucinda.

Flora was ashamed to admit she wasn’t missing Lucinda at all. When Flora’s niece Charlotte married the Earl of Beckport, Lucinda had moved into the dower house at Beckport Park so she could keep an eye on her daughter. This meant Flora had her small cottage to herself again.

Alas! The longed-for freedom from disapproval had not materialized. Apparently, the aunt-in-law of an earl was expected to behave with even greater propriety than the aunt-in-law of a commoner. Thus Flora’s sister had set the Reverend Daniell and his family as spies to watch over her lest she do something terrible. Which was somewhat ironic, considering Lucinda’s own shady past—a past so shady, in fact, that Lucinda and Charlotte had had to change their surname.

Luckily, the least able of said spies, the reverend’s daughter Thea, was on duty today. The girl had lingered to listen to a ballad singer at the crossroads, giving Flora a few welcome moments to herself.

What would Society say if they knew how Flora’s heart beat faster at the sight of Dr. Campaign’s covered wagon, with its gaily painted magical symbols and Evil Eyes? She’d fallen ever-so-slightly in love with him last year when he’d helped the family—and the Earl of Beckport—out of some awkward situations.

But then, as the autumn leaves began to fall, the self-proclaimed healer had vanished. Not just from Portland, but from the entire region. Some said it was to avoid moneylenders, others that he’d been involved with various women on his travels and had become a person of interest to some powerful aristocratic husbands.

Flora could see how quickly such entanglements might happen. A sigh escaped her as she gazed in mute admiration at the prime specimen of manhood on the stage. The quack doctor had always reminded her a little of Frank.

Frank Mullen, the only man she’d ever truly loved, whose ship had gone down four years ago, with all hands.

Her dead fiancé had sported the same dark eyes, eyebrows, and sun-browned skin as Campaign. The doctor, however, wore no officer’s powdered wig, as Frank had. He wore what God had given him—his own thick, glossy hair, black as a raven’s wing, tied at the nape of his neck. His deep, resonant voice was perfect for the stage. Maybe he’d once been an actor—such skills would be useful in convincing his audience of the power of his remedies.

Despite the agonizing reminder of Frank, Flora couldn’t look away. Nor could she help speculating on how such a young, good-looking, and well-spoken man had come to be an itinerant healer. He couldn’t be more than eight-and-twenty, surely, barely older than herself. His astonishingly white teeth showed to good effect when he grinned.

“Now this, ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, “is as efficacious a remedy for nervousness as you’ll find in all of Europe. Those great lords and ladies on the other side of the Channel swore by it in their time of trouble. Indeed, ’tis well known that Queen Marie Antoinette herself sipped it from a silver teaspoon on her way to meet with Madame Guillotine!”

Flora smiled knowingly. Campaign would have been a mere youth at the time, hardly likely to be supplying the French royal family with nostrums. She looked around, enjoying the crowd’s reactions to this ludicrous claim, but when her gaze returned to the stage, she found the man was looking straight at her.

Her equanimity tottered. Then collapsed.

Did he remember her from last year? Presumably, as she’d been one of his best customers. But ever since Frank’s death four years ago, she’d disappeared into a twilit world, neither craving, nor expecting, the attention of any man. The likelihood of some gentleman seeing her as a potential wife and mother at the age of seven-and-twenty was slim. Not even her slight connection to an earl could make up for her unexceptional looks and mouse-colored hair.

Even so, no gentlewoman like herself should welcome an enticing glance from an itinerant. Even if he did have a reputation as a superlative lover…

Her cheeks pinked. Lucinda had told her time and again not to listen to gossip, and not to involve herself in the affairs of lesser folk—except when bringing them charity, of course. Dr. L. E. Campaign didn’t look like a man in need of charity.

“Do you feel fatigued?” he asked his listeners. “Do you feel as if the sky is made of lead and weighing you down? Does every conversation feel like a battlefield?”

Yes, every conversation did feel like a battlefield. She just couldn’t shake off her spies, and knew that if she put a foot wrong, her misdemeanor would be reported back to her sister posthaste. Flora still felt just as stifled as she had when Lucinda and Charlotte had invaded her tiny cottage in the neighboring village of Fortuneswell and taken over her life.

There was just one hope of escape, which was to move away altogether. She could set up a hat shop. Designing and trimming bonnets was the only skill she had to offer the world, and she loved doing it. Not even her stodgy sister’s disapproval could dent her enthusiasm for millinery. Flora had secretly saved up enough to go into partnership so she could learn how to actually make bonnets, and she had her eye on a milliner’s right here in East Town.

A partnership wasn’t her ultimate ambition. But it would be a step in the right direction. And, surely, millinery was a respectable enough profession for someone whose niece had married an earl.

There was another advantage to this plan. East Town was a bracing distance from Fortuneswell and would severely reduce the ability of the Daniell family to spy on her. Admittedly, they had a carriage, but it was a bother, and expensive, so they rarely used it. Only young Thea would have the energy to walk regularly to East Town, but Flora was fairly certain she’d soon tire of the task of shadowing a respectable spinster.

Which reminded her…

Flora looked around, but Thea was still entranced by the balladeer. Good. And now that Campaign had cast his mesmeric gaze elsewhere, Flora could allow herself the deliciously wicked treat of admiring him once more. What a square, determined jaw he had, and such firm but generous lips. His slim, muscular figure exhibited the steely strength of a man living an active life on the open road.

Life on the open road. How terrifying that sounded! Such an existence would be full of troubles and worries—moving from town to town, running the gauntlet of footpads and highwaymen, meeting and trying to impress strangers every day to make one’s living. It must be exhausting.

Glory be!He was looking directly at her again, the dark slashes of his eyebrows raised in inquiry. She quivered and swallowed hard, then nodded—though totally unaware of what he’d asked. For a brief moment she feared it might have been something utterly improper.

What foolishness. How could she imagine he had any particular interest in her? He’d styled himself to appeal to all the females in the audience, cultivating a wild look and an air of danger to tickle their fancy and fire their imaginations. By making eye contact and flirting with every woman in the crowd, he’d make more sales.