“Remember that you asked if you find yourself bored to tears by my waxing on about scents.”
“Nothing about you could bore me. The more time I spend in your company, the more interested I become. Tell me all about your perfume-making endeavors.”
And so she spent the next quarter of an hour telling him all about her hobby while they wandered the maze. He listened with rapt attention, asking questions and encouraging her to talk more about her passion. At his behest, she expounded about collecting flowers and herbs, grinding or macerating them,distilling, mixing, testing combinations. How frustrating it was when she couldn’t quite execute the aroma she had in her mind.
She had never talked so much about herself. No one had ever encouraged her to do so by listening with such rapt attention. He hung on her every word, as if genuinely fascinated by her trivial hobby. His interest in her person proved more potent than a love spell.
He was so easy to talk to. The realization was a shock. Usually, in social situations, she had to wear a mask. Be perfect. Analyze her comments. Measure her smiles. It was incredibly liberating to speak freely. To be herself, even while she was hiding her identity.
“Is the aroma you are wearing one of your making?” he asked, leaning into her. Not touching, but so close she could feel the heat of his body and perceive his own subtle scent.
“Yes. Do you like it?”
“I adore it. It is subtle and sweet, but with a hint of spice to make it interesting. It suits you.”
She felt her face heating at his frank description. “I’m glad you think so. My mother doesn’t agree.”
“Your mother doesn’t like your fragrances?”
“Gracious, no. When I was younger, I once remixed her perfume. She has a tendency to wear scents that are too heavy and cloying. I attempted to create something more suitable. However, she did not appreciate my efforts. When she found out, she had a fit, saying I had ruined her expensive perfume. To be honest, I probably did. I had no idea what I was doing back then.” She finished her tale with a self-conscious laugh.
“Having experienced those types of heavy and cloying perfumes, I’m sure that your creation would have been a vast improvement. They certainly cannot be made any worse,” he said with such feeling they both burst out laughing.
When their laughter faded, she chanced a sideways look at him and found him watching her. A shared look passed between them—more intimate, more daring. The playful conversation had subtly given way to something deeper, the lighthearted teasing now a backdrop to the growing tension between them.
She thought he might kiss her then. The intention was plain to see in his eyes as they dropped to her lips. And in that moment, she would have allowed it. Allowed it? She would have thrown herself at him. The desire almost made her lips throb. How had she lost her wits in such a short time in his company?
Fortunately, he cleared his throat and turned his head, resuming their leisurely walk. They reached the center of the maze, and he led her to a charming miniature gazebo in the middle of the clearing. It consisted of four Corinthian columns capped by a small dome. Stone benches were set between the columns, all around the perimeter of the gazebo. He led her to one of the benches and they sat. Silence stretched for a few heartbeats between them, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. They were not silent because they had run out of things to say, but because they were absorbing the moment.
“What sort of fragrance do you think would suit me best?” he asked casually, but the question was anything but. It was intimate. Inviting a closeness and private knowledge that should be impossible for someone she had met mere moments ago. And yet…
“For you, something earthy yet spirited, with a subtle hint of elegance and warmth. Bergamot. Combined with… pine?—no, crisp green cedar. Yes, fresh and lively, like a burst of laughter. But then it gives way to a deeper, warmer heart of spiced cardamom and wild sage. For the final notes, I would ground the base with sandalwood and a touch of leather.”
“You seem to know me very well.”
Her gaze had taken the faraway look it often did when she was dreaming of a fragrance, but his words brought her attention back to his face. And the expression in his eyes left no doubt as to his intentions. No more laughter. His eyes were devouring her. She had never experienced it in her life, but she knew this was desire. And something more.
She laughed softly, her cheeks warming under his gaze. “It is a passion of mine.”
“Passion. Such a great quality.”
The conversation had shifted, the words now laced with hidden meaning. She said nothing, acknowledging what was being said and also left unspoken. The flirtation veiled beneath the risqué words.
Did he know he was talking to his betrothed? Was he the kind of man who flirted—or more—with an unknown lady in a garden while betrothed to another? Maybe she shouldn’t be here, alone, with him.
His hand came up slowly. Showing his intention, giving her time to reject his advance if she so wished. But she didn’t wish to stop him. If anything, she craved his touch, his kiss, with frightening intensity. As if she might perish if he didn’t kiss her this time. She wasn’t sure who moved first. Maybe they both moved at the same time, and then their lips were fusing, sliding, softly clinging to each other.
She had been kissed before, one or two times, by earnest admirers in shadowy balconies. But nothing had prepared her for this kiss. It hit her differently. It awakened her entire body, curling her toes, making heat rise from her core, hitching her breath. She wanted more.
His hand cradled her cheek and he changed the angle of their kiss, his mouth slanting over hers, demanding entrance. Her lips parted of their own accord, as if they knew something she didn’t, and his tongue swept into her mouth, tangling and slidingsensually against hers. Igniting a need she had never known before.
Soon she was on his lap with no memory of how she got there but happy to find herself in that position. One of her hands grasped at his lapel while the other sifted through his hair, fisting his smooth locks, striving to find purchase in a world that had tilted. And still the kiss went on. The soft sounds of their mouths mingling with the cacophony of birds finding a place to perch for the impending night.
She twisted on his lap, trying to get closer, and he groaned as if in agony. The next moment, the kiss gentled and then ended slowly. She almost embarrassed herself by whimpering a protest when his lips left hers, mollified only by the caress of his hands on her cheeks.
“Sweet. So sweet,” he murmured, as if stunned. Maybe he found himself as surprised as she was.
He leaned his forehead against hers and ran his thumb over her lips which had been sensitized with his kisses. She would have leaned in for another, but he stopped her.
