Glen Baskerville always smelled the same: like some lush parlor room draped in velvet and gold, like something unearthly whispering in one's ear and like something wraithlike and inscrutably chilling, a far too appealing villain in a classic fairy tale.
That, at least, was the general consensus. But that same, inscrutable chill was pleasant on the right day; twisted just right beneath one's nose and it could be warm and of an ethereal, woody musk, scented like rosewood and oak and teak. Expensive but understated, with a tea of tea rose – no, a white rose, and vague osmanthus, an odd little evergreen flower, sharp and bittersweet.
Jack disliked the scent on anything that wasn't Glen. Put it on the duke's cloak and it still wasn't the same – not his chair, either, and definitely not on his own skin. On Glen it was perfect: powerful and masculine and Jack could only think of something damn near ambrosial when he buried his face into silky black hair where the scent clung the most, highlighted by sweat and exertion of their most recent tryst. Jack was inclined to swoon, wrapped up in black silk and surrounded by towers of pillows and Glen.
If Glen was the villain, did that make him the kidnapped princess? A sort of oddly appealing thought, that. Jack could only hope no one was interested in rescuing him, as he had no desire to leave his lover's thrall any time soon.