Page 22 of The Scent of Intuition
“And what about the neroli oil? I wanted to apologize in case you came to harvest some orange blossoms, and I missed you.”
“I’d be happy to make the neroli for you but it’s not the citrus notes that would capture your essence and heighten it, but rather, apple blossoms.”
Bea felt light-headed and needed to sit. The description and nuances with which Alfie saw her made the room spin. Something told her—intuition perhaps—that he saw her. All of her.
And she wished nothing more than to fall into his arms. “Can I watch you make it?”
Chapter Nine
Later that night,Alfie was at his usual place behind the counter of his apothecary shop, a sanctuary of bottles and botanicals, each with its own story and secret life. But all of this paled compared to the beauty standing opposite him, a distraction bigger than the Kanchenjunga mountain—which stood at twenty-eight thousand feet in the Himalayas.
“Thank you for helping me,” she murmured as she leaned over the counter to watch him at work. Bea needed his help, and if the purpose weren’t to drive her into another man’s arms, Alfie would have gladly helped. Yet here he was crafting the instrument to break his heart under her watchful gaze. Never had Alfie been defeated by his knowledge. He was no better than an artist sketching his tomb.
The dimly flickering light caressed the room, casting long shadows that danced on the walls as the gas lamp breathed life into the space. Alfie moved with a purpose, his every action deliberate, his hands reaching for the tools of his trade, but his heart sank lower with every motion.
He tried to convince himself that it was the best course of action: giving Bea what she wanted, the elixir to heighten her essence. But how could the prince be worthy of her if he failed to capture her essence? How dull the prince was to overlook her allure? A woman like her stood among others like a flowering magnolia amid bare trees in March—overlooking the blossoms was akin to ignoring life.
He looked at her for an instant. Their eyes locked and for a flicker of a moment he felt just like the apprentice he had been all those years ago when—but it just couldn’t be—or could it? She reminded him so much, somehow, of the young woman in the veil that he’d helped in India. Then she shifted and the fabric of her dress rustled in the quiet of the apothecary. She leaned on the counter on her elbows and tugged off her gloves, finger-by-finger. He’d never seen Bea’s hands ungloved.
Alfie’s heart stopped. He recognized her hands—those elegant, delicate fingers that had once brushed against his own in an almost accidental communication. The memory of those days in Delhi surged back, vivid, and unbidden, filling him with astonishment and longing. The girl under the veil, alone by the window all those years ago…
Itwasher!
His mind raced but his body remained frozen, caught in disbelief and an unexpected wave of emotion. It had been years since he last saw those delicate fingers, yet every small gesture and unspoken word they had shared came rushing back as if no time had passed. Her hands were exactly as he remembered, moving with a familiar and achingly beautiful grace.
A part of him wanted to speak, to bridge the years and the silence that had stretched between them. But another part held him back, fearing that words might shatter this fragile moment of recognition. He watched as she turned slightly, her veil fluttering with the movement, revealing just enough of her profile to confirm what his heart already knew.
She was older now, as was he, but the essence of her—the elegance, the quiet strength—remained unchanged. His throat tightened, the rush of long-buried feelings overwhelming him. He had never forgotten her, nor the way she had unknowingly captured his heart with her poise and presence.
As she glanced up, their eyes met again, and for a brief, effervescent moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. He saw a flicker of recognition in her gaze, a shared history that spoke louder than any words ever could. The connection between them, forged in silence and distance, felt as palpable as it did all those years ago.
Alfie felt a sense of completion in the quiet space between them, as if a missing piece of his soul had finally been restored.
If he had a chance to capture her essence, to feel the caress of her lips and drive his fingers through her hair, he’d never let her go. But it was forbidden to hold her as he wished; that could not only end his career but also risk the reputation of the practice.
He repeated to himself that the best course of action was to make the elixir for her and let her go. Perhaps he could forget the unforgettable woman; he certainly couldn’t touch the untouchable lady who was so removed in station that he shouldn’t even look, much less overreach his position.
She dropped her eyes to the bottles on the counter and the moment was over. “Sherry, cinnamon, and apple blossom essential oil?” Bea picked up several of the vials on his counter in turn and read their labels.
“These notes already exist within your natural scent.” He’d sensed it in India and noticed it the first time they’d met in London when he gave her the ipecac to help Pippa’s and Nick’s coup. But there was more to her now that he knew her a little better—rememberedher a little more strongly.
“I have to capture her scent and enhance it,” he mumbled when he retrieved a notebook from the shelf behind him that he’d started on a journey in Morocco. He glanced at his scribblings and the sketch he’d made of a glass beaker with three layers. Oriental perfume theory dictated a symphony of high, middle, and low notes to overpower the human defense to resist,like a knock on one’s memory, a push through the door, and then a step inside with no intention of leaving.
He closed his eyes and thought of the woman whose essence he had to capture, amplify, and highlight only the most seductive, tantalizing allure of her femininity. But when he looked at her, his entire body reacted. Thus, with his eyes closed, he tried to draw her essence out. Alfie tried to concentrate but a flurry of thoughts prevented him from focusing. The golden-red curls, silky skin… the dress she’d worn at the ball, and the sweet breath when she spoke to him. She exhaled and waited, and he wished the world would be different when he opened his eyes. If only she knew—but she couldn’t. He’d never spoken to her in India, and he’d always kept the head scarf on. Did she know it was him? Could she even remember him?
Alfie swallowed hard.
Back to the task.
He opened his eyes and looked at the sketch in his notes and the top layer in the picture of a beaker, a combination of essential oils floating to the top of the mixture. “The high notes greet first, light and fleeting, an initial whisper of an invitation,” he read aloud. If the potion worked, at least he’d make this last encounter with her last.
He reached for the second little drawer on the left in his wall and took out a bottle with a cork stopper. “Almond oil is a sweet carrier oil with a slightly nutty aroma, to welcome the vanilla and apple blossom oil as the high notes.”
“Oh!” Bea watched him as if he fascinated her, and he tried not to think about whether she’d recognized him, too. Alfie carefully selected the vanilla, choosing plump and glossy pods, their fragrance rich and inviting. “Are these Pippa’s vanilla pods from the orangery?”
“No, I have a supplier because I use them often to mask other scents. Vanilla usually adds a touch of sweetness, a hint ofwarmth that draws the other scents together.” However, it was still too pale for the woman he was trying to describe, not with the sketches of a brush but with the layers of scents. The apple was too tangy, and he needed something to round the highest notes off.
Peach.
