Page 89 of The Scent of Intuition
“And List is smuggling the gold that the Austrians think should be sent to them?” Bea asked.
“I suspect that Nagy doesn’t know where List is keeping the gold.”
“And the Russians want it, too?” Bea asked.
“Perhaps.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Alfie’s breath hitched,the grandiosity of the ballroom suddenly oppressive, squeezing the very air from his lungs. Directly ahead, as the prince led Bea off the dance floor, Bea’s parents fluttered about him and their daughter with the eagerness of bees around the season’s first bloom. With hands that bespoke of a life untouched by toil, her mother fussed over Bea’s hair, attempting to tame what was never meant to be restrained. Each time a curl escaped its confines, it seemed to Alfie as though a piece of her soul was asserting its freedom, the soft tendrils kissing her skin in silent rebellion.
And he wanted that spirit wild and untamed in his arms, moaning with pleasure, and screaming his name. She was never one to bow to others and Alfie hated that her spirit stifled under her parents’ watchful gazes. Wasn’t it the responsibility of parents to help their children blossom with their full potential rather than prune them like a boxwood in a maze to cripple them into convalescence?
Bea stood resplendent amidst the chaos, a serene smile playing on her lips, unaware or perhaps uncaring of the commotion her mere presence caused. Alfie’s gaze lingered on the way a loose strand of hair brushed against her collarbone, trailing down the delicate expanse of her décolletage—a sight more enthralling than any play he’d witnessed at the theatre.
Then, with the formality reserved for transactions of great import, Bea’s father drew the prince aside. Though their words were lost in the cacophony of the gathering, Alfie’s heart sankwith imagined conversations of dowries and ancestral estates, of special licenses and family jewels that would pass if Bea married—Alfie convulsed at the thought—the prince. Such were the currencies of the aristocracy, bargaining chips in the game of matrimonial alliances and he was not factoring into this equation.
How ironic to think of since he failed to account for the carrier oils or alcohol in a dilution. Even when he labeled the vials of his concoctions, he mentioned the essential oils, powdered teas, or distilled essence of medicinal plants but he never mentioned the base of talcum powder, alcohol, or sunflower oil. Rose oil was five percent rose and ninety-five carrier, yet it was labeled as rose oil. That’s what he was, the carrier oil, or the diluting alcohol. And it stung. He’d taught Bea what a real kiss was, how to embrace the pleasure of a climax, and how to give pleasure to a man. Yet, he was never to reap the fruit of his passion—the prince was.
And even though Alfie wanted nothing more than to hate Stan, he couldn’t even accomplish that. Stan had a noble cause, an even nobler title, and he could offer Bea a far better life than an apothecary. Yet, it left a bitter taste in his mouth to think of it.
Alfie couldn’t bear the sight in the ballroom any more. Fleeing the stifling atmosphere for the cool reprieve of the gardens, he found himself among the imposing silhouettes of the orchard. Quince trees loomed large, their extended branches like trolls with long crooked fingers. The waxy sides of the leaves glistened in the moonlit night, and the farther Alfie got from the building, the silence that beckoned him was ripped apart, startling him as a twig snapped. He kicked it into the darkness, cursing under his breath, wishing his broken heart could be as easily dispatched. Heartache was a cruel contradiction, leading him out there among the quince trees and shadows, but the farther he went from the building, the less he could escape thethrobbing image of Bea swaying in the prince’s arms. He was a suitor everyone approved of, and Alfie was simply not.
“Alfie?” A man’s voice came from behind him. “Alfie, is that you?” It couldn’t possibly be any worse. Stan’s voice pierced the silence like a nightmare gripping him. “Alf-i-e!”
“What do you want from me,hm?” Alfie pivoted and walked back through the row of trees and found the stately prince, backlit from the yellow glow coming from the ballroom. Alfie took a wide stance and crossed his arms.
The prince quirked a brow. “What’s the matter? I came to tell you something.”
“Hmpf!”If you’re announcing your engagement to Bea, I’m not going to congratulate you.
It would be too cruel.
“Bea sent me,” the prince said, touching Alfie’s shoulder. He slammed him away, royal or not. Stan didn’t react to his action. Instead, he appeared calm—even understanding—as he said. “She has to tell her parents first, but she said it couldn’t wait and sent me to you.”
“I’m not happy for you, just so you know. I don’t think you’ll love her a fraction of how I do.”
“Who?”
Now Alfie stopped and blinked at the prince. It was dark but his eyes glistened in the moonlight and Alfie was seething. “How dare you ask me that?”
“Aaah.Bea? Yes, you love Bea! I know that. I’m happy foryou.”
Alfie balled his fists. If he knew, then how could he pursue her? Alfie might be below him in station, but he was a human being and had helped him. He deserved at least some respect. “That’s why she sent me to tell you right away. Her parents didn’t let her so I—”
“What?”
“She’ll receive an official secret mission.”
“That’s a contradiction in itself. If its official, it’s not secret.”
“No. Well, yes. She’ll work with me, as a spy. Didn’t you see us at the ball? She’s brilliant.”
Yes, she is. And she danced with you.Alfie swallowed hard but his insides churned with anger, jealousy, and the worst feelings he never knew he was capable of.
“I’m sorry I stole the dance from her, but we had to keep up the ruse for Nagy and List,” Stan explained.
Alfie narrowed his eyes. That was the problem with Stan; he wasn’t Alfie’s friend, but he had the same enemies. “Explain yourself.” But he kept his fists balled, ready to defend Bea’s honor and restore respect for himself if necessary. He’d never punched a prince before but there was a first time for anything…
