Page 21 of The Scent of Intuition
She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her. “Will you help me then?”
“I don’t know how I could help you. It’s not like I can concoct a love potion.”
She growled like a cat about to pounce, and Alfie’s cock twitched. This woman had spirit, fire, and zest that he wanted to fuel, not stifle. She needed to be cherished, pleasured, and loved, not locked up like a fury lest she implode into complacency—what a waste.
“How can you help me then, Mr. Collins?”
Against his better judgement, a thought occurred to him, a way to perhaps help this beautiful lady. “I can heighten your natural scents.”
“I already have perfume, thank you.”
Alfie inhaled deeply, unable to fathom what he was about to do. “A love potion is not what fairy tales say it might be. There’s no magic to falling in love. It’s purely physical, and that means enhancing the body’s natural features that bring about lust so strong, desire so potent, that the heart might follow a person’s natural impulses.”
“It’s too bad you’re an apothecary and not a magician. I wish love potions existed.” She blinked as if something occurred to her then. “You can’t, can you? Is it possible to mix something that induces love rather than lust?”
Not exactly. Alfie wondered how much he should tell this innocent lady. “No. But there are things—herbs, essential oils.”
She wrinkled her nose with distaste.
“And things which will stimulate…” he paused. “Certain passions. Not out of love, you understand, but from blood rushing to…places. Irritations that will be eased only from…actions.” He took a deep breath. This was awkward and definitely inappropriate. “Things that simulate desire and lust that are mistaken for passion and desire.” He couldn’t stop himself from talking even though he knew he should. But this was the only way he could see to make her stay near him.
Her eyes widened.
“And there are other ways. Things that are said to heighten one’s scent in a way that will attract others.”
*
Bea blinked whenAlfie spoke of love, desire, and lust. His teal-green eyes were even brighter in reality than in her embroidery. Framed by the slight dark line around the green and then offset by the white of his eyes, there was depth and mystery as there would be in the solar eclipses she’d read about. There was so much to see and such joy from looking in his eyes that Bea was momentarily thrown off guard.
“How would you heighten my features then?” she asked.
Alfie rubbed his eyes with the bases of his palms and mumbled something inaudible.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’d underline your natural beauty, stimulate the imagination of the suitor—”
“He’s a prince.”
“Yes,” he growled. “And then intensify the best features of your natural scent.”
“My natural scent?” The hairs on her neck pricked up, and something deep inside her quivered with a blend of glee and curiosity. The notion was scandalous—discussing one’s scent with a man was as improper as it was intriguing. She struggled to maintain her composure, but her cheeks betrayed her with a slight flush.
A flurry of emotions danced within her. Nervousness, yes, for she knew the breach of decorum this conversation represented. Yet, in equal measure, there was a fascination that she could not quell. It wasn’t merely the subject matter that held her captive, but the intensity in his eyes, the way his voice dipped into a low, almost intimate tone. He spoke as if he were unveiling a secret just for her ears, making her pulse quicken in response.
She glanced away briefly, her fingers brushing against the delicate fabric of her dress, seeking an anchor to steady herself. How did he perceive her? Did he find her as fascinating as she found him? The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.This was no ordinary exchange; it felt charged with an energy that transcended mere words.
When she met his gaze again, there was a new resolve in her eyes. She would not shy away from this unexpected turn. Nervous though she was, she would allow herself to be drawn into this unconventional dance of words and meanings. For beneath the propriety and the societal expectations lay a truth that neither could ignore: something profound and stirring was unfolding between them, and it felt distinctly like possibility.
She watched as the apothecary closed his eyes and seemed to inhale deeply. “Right now, you use soap with rose oil, but it clashes with the spark of vivacity and energy in your nature. Rose is subdued. I’d use sandalwood and cinnamon to heighten this aspect.” He opened his eyes and squinted. “The copper tones in your blond hair give a richness that only the darkest of berries can emphasize. Sherry would be a suitable base, and it would also invite a lingering kiss wherever you applied the mixture. I won’t use anything that aggravates your ailment. The oils must first soothe your skin, then heighten your natural scents.”
Bea’s face heated and she wanted to fan herself but was too mesmerized by him to move as much as blink her lashes. His words painted her in scent, and he looked at her like an artist with a trained eye—or rather nose.
“You have a bounce in your step when you’re happy, like when you come to meet up with your cousin, but when you’re sad, like today, you drag your feet. I’d mimic this with the rare note of fir, uplifting at best, or intrusively clearing the sinus when not properly welcomed.”
Oh my!
“The richness and depth of your eyes would best be captured by the closed blossoms of lily of the valley, maintaining the grassy and grounding undertones of the petals that shroud the fragrance within.”
