Dreams of Desire by Cheryl Holt Read Free Book Online

glean enormous satisfaction from telling him she’d wed, and thus could no longer work for him.
    “My husband won’t allow it,” she said aloud, testing how the word husband rolled off her tongue, but she snorted with disgust.
    As if some man would ever marry her . She was fetching enough, but without a dowry, she couldn’t entice anyone worth having. A kindly, competent fellow who was gain-fully employed would expect a wife to add wealth to the family coffers.
    Lily had nothing, so the sorts who noticed her were cads like Penworth who didn’t need riches from her, but were happy to take what she wasn’t inclined to give. She couldn’t believe he’d already sneaked into her bedchamber. On her first night in the house!
    He hadn’t exhibited any dastardly conduct, but it was only a matter of time before he would. If he grew amorous, what would she do? Especially once they were in Scotland?
    With how her luck was running, she’d deflect an advance, then be tossed out without her wages being paid. She’d be marooned in the foreign country and unable to get back to London.
    Why couldn’t she alter her fate? It was so unfair that she struggled so hard but none of her plans came to fruition.
    She rounded a corner and stumbled on a colorfully painted peddler’s wagon. The rear doors were open, the bottles and jars artfully arranged.
    She stopped to read the placard on the side, chuckling to see that he claimed to sell everything: medicines, love potions, invigorating tonics. She wouldn’t mind being invigorated for the remainder of the galling trek to Penworth Hall.
    The peddler approached, and he wasn’t at all what she’d anticipated. Tall and handsome, he had long, dark hair tied with a strip of leather. His delicious brown eyes drew her in and made her want to dawdle and chat.
    His skin was bronzed, whether from the sun or ancestry she couldn’t decide, but it had her supposing he was a Gypsy or an Italian.
    “Bonjour, bonjour, Mademoiselle,” he greeted in perfect French, and she was captivated as he swept up her hand and gallantly kissed it.
    “Hello,” she replied. She smiled and he smiled, too.
    “I am Philippe Dubois. Your name, chérie ?”
    “Miss Lily Lambert.”
    “Welcome to my humble wagon, Miss Lambert.”
    “I’m delighted to be here.”
    “Why are you alone? It is not safe for you to be walking by yourself.”
    “Let’s just say I had a ride, but my carriage driver forgot me.”
    “ Mais non! C’est terrible! You are too pretty. Who could forget you?”
    “Just about anyone,” she grumbled, feeling surly and ill-used by the twins.
    “Perhaps it is time to hire a new driver, oui ?”
    If only it were that simple. “Yes, perhaps.”
    He gazed at her, his expression compassionate and concerned. He had an interesting way of looking at a woman—as if she was unique and exotic. She felt more at ease, her troubles less vital and imposing.
    “You are having a very bad day,” he correctly deduced. “How can I make it better?”
    “You can’t.”
    “Ha! I am Philippe Dubois. I can see your problem as clear as the nose on your face. You need a love potion.”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “But every woman should be loved. Why not you?”
    Yes, why not me? she fumed.
    Why was she so unlovable? Why did she attract men like flies, but always the wrong kind with the wrong motives?
    Should she buy a potion? She didn’t believe in superstition or charms, but so far, she hadn’t had any luck in her personal affairs. It would take a miracle for her to find a husband, and a bit of magic might be just the ticket.
    She explored his rows of merchandise, handling the odd-shaped bottles, pausing to sniff the contents. He stood off to the side, letting her survey his wares, and he was quiet, seeming distracted, but it was a companionable silence.
    “What is this?” she asked.
    “It is my famous elixir, Woman’s Daily Remedy. It calms body and soul, being especially beneficial when you are