Page 28 of A Potion for Passion

When he finally gained control of his tongue, he said, “You’ll do no such thing. You look quite astonishing. In the best possible way.”

The prim expression was replaced by uncertainty. “Er… Thank you. But I fear the fabric will spoil in the rain.”

“Then let’s get you out of the rain,” he said, diving back under the shelter and spreading his oilcloth on the ground. “Have a dish of tea. Not quite as elegant as you’re used to, Miss Hartington, but it’s hot.”

“If I’m to call you Lawrence, then you must call me Flora.”

“I’d be honored to.”

The next half hour was spent happily tucked up in the dry beneath the stage roof, sipping strong tea and chatting about Dorchester, the fair, and about his travels, just as though they were bosom friends. But when the fire turned to ash, she began to shiver, so he sent her back into the wagon to warm up.

Having kicked over the last embers of the fire, he pocketed his breakfast eggshells to grind into powder for pills and joined her inside.

She sat on the bench, looking anxious, swathed in a blanket. “I should have thought to bring a shawl,” she said. “But what if someone recognizes the shawl and knows it’s me? I’ll have to think of something else. I’d like to try those spectacles you mentioned and see what I look like in the mirror. If you can find them.” She glanced around with a frown.

“Oh, I will. I’m very strict about where things go in the limited space of the caravan, or I’d never find them again,” he said, smiling. “I beg you not to move anything without asking me.”

There. Now she wouldn’t poke about and find the silk and lace. He hoped.

He unearthed the spectacles for her, then sat back to see the effect.

They looked terrible.

A shortsighted Juliet? Shakespeare would not have approved.

“Hmm. Maybe we’ll ask the players if they’ve a mask you can borrow. A black or white half-mask shaped to the nose but leaving lips and chin clear would be perfect. You’ll look tantalizingly mysterious. Now, what’s my new assistant going to call herself?”

Her brow furrowed, then cleared. “Why not just Juliet? It’s apt.”

“Too dull for a showman’s assistant. How about… Madame Julietta from Paris, a displaced aristocratic emigrée with a troubled past and a poor grasp of the English language. How does that sound? Play the character with enough gusto, and no one will ever imagine you’re shy Miss Hartington, future bonnet trimmer of Fortuneswell.”

“Speaking of bonnets,” she said, with an edge to her voice, “you’ve ruined my chances of going into business with Sally Matthews, you know. She saw you kissing me. As I’m sure you meant her to.”

He winced. “I’m sorry about that. Her loss,” he said firmly. “She’s a cursed nuisance, but I should have thought before I acted.”

Not that he regretted kissing Flora. He’d happily do it again, but he would choose a moment when he could take his time, with no audience.

“Couldn’t you just have spoken to her? You upset us both terribly.”

He felt a sharp stab of guilt. It was, as always, unwelcome. Even more so since he knew he was in the wrong. “I’ve tried, but she doesn’t listen,” he said, moving to sit beside her on the bench. “If you like, we can look around Dorchester for milliners you can approach. When we move on after the fair, we’ll go to other large towns and visit as many bonnet trimmers and haberdashers as you like. I’ll see you right. That’s a promise.”

“Thank you, Lawrence.” She shivered again, so he squeezed up closer and threw an arm around her shoulders. At first, she stiffened, but then relaxed and leaned into him.

His pulse sped up, and the intemperate urge to kiss her again flashed through him. Just in time, his good sense warned him it would spoil everything. One kiss, used as a ruse, was fair game. But a second, born of desire, would arouse expectations in a woman. Flora was not the kind of woman to take such things lightly. She’d want more from him, would become as demanding as Sally Matthews. But he was leaving for America soon, and could make no promises or commitments. Not to any woman.

But those lips were so tempting. A coral shade of pink, perfectly suiting the pallor of her skin and her flaming hair.

He reached out and tucked a wayward tress behind her ear.

“Lawrence—”

With a rueful grin, he withdrew his hand, saying, “Forgive me. I’m taking liberties, aren’t I? But if I want to touch a woman, I normally don’t hesitate—so long as I know she likes me. I hate the foolish games men and women usually torment each other with.”

Why was he telling her this? Did he want to make her despise him?

She snagged his gaze, and said bluntly, “I don’t like hypocrisy or games, either. This time, though, I’ll make an exception. I want to play a game of not being myself. I want to throw off the shackles of my upbringing and my education. Madame Julietta is nothing like Miss Flora Hartington—she’s a hot-blooded Frenchwoman with a taste for dark-haired men.”

As he gaped at her in surprise, she wrenched off the spectacles, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the lips.