Page 43 of The Scent of Intuition
“Perhaps you need glasses,” Pippa said.
“My eyes are fine.”
“Figuratively speaking, cousin. You must look at life through another lens and sharpen your senses.”
“Why should I?” Bea mocked Pippa’s idealistic response. “It’s a husband I’m looking for. Quickly, before my parents return. The duller my senses the better, because it’s not love I’ll have.”
“You’re on a hunt for love, not merely a husband.”
Bea sighed. “Pray tell, dear cousin, how am I supposed to sharpen my senses in this quest then?”
“Use your intuition,” Pippa said, giving her a sisterly hug and an added squeeze. “Why did you run away from the orangery if Alfie already knew about the hives?”
Bea withdrew from the hug and folded her hands in her lap. It was a good question. “I was lightheaded and suddenly felt the urge to run away.”
Pippa pursed her lips and gave Bea the same grave look Violet had given her at the breakfast with Stan. Except that Pippa’s intention seemed driven in another direction. “What made you feel that way?”
“I’m not certain,” Bea said but then the scent came back as if she could still smell it. A combination of sweetness, something like musk, the flowers, and the freshness.
“Think,” Pippa leaned forward and nudged her. “I know you know, deep down, and just don’t want to admit it to yourself.” Then she gave Bea a gentle pat and left.
Befuddled by her own feelings, Bea sat on the edge of her bed, her pulse echoing in her ears. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in around her as she struggled to understand the tumult within. She clutched the embroidered pillow, tracing the delicate patterns with trembling fingers. Her thoughts drifted back to Alfie. His smile, always so genuine, played at the corners of her mind.
She shut her eyes and could almost feel his presence beside her, the warmth of his hand just inches away. The memory of their kiss and then the way he’d looked at her just minutes ago in the orangery, his eyes lingering on hers a moment longer than necessary. A shiver ran through her, not from the cold but from the realization that had been dawning slowly, like the morning sun breaking through the mist.
The scent of the orange blossoms and the early morning crispness in the orangery filled her senses, intertwining with the memory of Alfie’s cologne—woody and refreshing. It was the same scent that had enveloped her when he leaned in close before their kiss, making her shiver and forget the world around them. Bea’s heart raced faster. She could see now what Pippa had tried to reveal.
A pang of longing swept through her. She remembered the way Alfie had looked at her in the hallway outside the ballroom, his eyes full of a softness she hadn’t dared to interpret until now. Every shared glance, every fleeting touch—they all painted a picture she had been too blind to see.
Bea stood, crossing to the window. Daybreak stretched out before her, serene and unchanging, yet everything felt different.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her breath fogging up a small circle. The realization settled over her like a warm blanket on a chilly evening.
I fell in love with Alfie.
The truth settled in her chest, both terrifying and exhilarating as the thought of him brought a smile to her lips, and for the first time, she allowed herself to imagine a future where there were more than stolen moments.
How had she missed it? The way his presence made her heart flutter, or the comfort she found in his laughter. There was no denying it. She was in love, undeniably, irrevocably in love with Alfie. And now, she had to find the courage to act on it.
Chapter Eighteen
Meanwhile, Alfie stoodagog in the orangery, fingers curling tightly around the jar of orange blossoms. The fragrance that once promised serenity now suffocated him. The memory of Bea’s sudden departure played over and over in his mind, like a cruel jest he couldn’t escape. The woman who had swooned in his arms, her breath mingling with his in a moment that felt as inevitable as the sunrise had fled, as if from a specter. A leaden weight settled in his chest, and self-recrimination gnawed at him. What had he done to frighten her? The thought that he might have caused her discomfort twisted his stomach. He was a cad, an idiot. Every rational bone in his body told him he should apologize, set things right. Yet, the words seemed impossible, blocked by a wall of societal expectation and personal doubt.
His mind churned with a torrent of conflicting emotions. If only he could explain how he truly felt, lay bare the storm raging in his heart. But he was a commoner, tethered to a world where such declarations were discouraged. Bea was a lady of standing; their worlds were not meant to intersect in such intimate ways. The kiss, the desperate need to make her understand—it was not acceptable for a man of his class and a woman—a true lady—like her. Yet, inaction felt like a dagger twisting inside him.
The impossibility of it all left him aching, each breath a reminder of what could never be. He needed to act, to speak, to bridge the divide between them, but how does one defy the very fabric of society? The ache in his chest persisted, a constantreminder that some emotions, once awakened, could not simply be forgotten.
Alfie methodically placed the jar of orange blossoms into the leather bag he had brought, his movements slow and deliberate. He was bracing himself to leave Cloverdale House and never return. He should stay away from Bea. And his retreat would do her a favor.
Alfie sighed.
The orangery felt oppressive now. He tightened the straps on his bag, each pull echoing the tension in his chest. With a heavy heart, he moved toward the door, his thoughts still tangled with Bea and the kiss and the question of what he’d done since to send her fleeing.
The creak of the door broke the heavy silence as Alfie grasped the handle to leave. Just as he swung it open, Pippa stepped through, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. She paused, seemingly reading the turmoil in his eyes.
“Alfie,” she said gently, closing the door behind her. “What’s happened?”
“Oh, I gathered enough petals for about two ounces of neroli oil. It’s very potent, truly, this shall suffice—”
