What are the secrets of the British aristocracy?
Are they as well behaved, courteous and polite as they seem to be? “Portraits” is a tribute to the English spirit; between establishment, humour and provocation.
In fact… by way of introduction - might I be permitted to familiarise you with our esteemed Portrait family?
Deceptively traditional, Lord George is a perfect reminder that one should be aware of appearances. He himself maintains that one should never be able to divine what a man is thinking. This ability being, of course, the key to a happy marriage.
Honourable, to a tee, his fidelity to King and Country is resolute. His penchant for muttering “the flesh is weak” over the breakfast kippers is entirely without explanation.
Masculine and elegant — with a hint of rum.
Powerful, rich and ever-so welcoming — “ do come in, I’m sure we’ve met before ”. For the well-to-do who are able, stable, reassuring — but also lots of fun. A solid shoulder to cry on (was that a protective hand I felt on my _ ?) This is a fragrance for the man whose reputation lives on.
Not quite Latin — but full of love nevertheless.
Lady Blanche is a picture of devotion, charm — and criminal intentions. A social butterfly with a dangerous bite one might say.
Shakespeare did try to warn us “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”.
Indeed, a woman does always know. Lady Blanche wishes, oh how she wishes! that she did not. The real crime you see is the inelegance of not having kept all of this where it belongs — in the dark, with the lights off! (Cross her at your peril.)
For those in-the-know.
Refined and delicate but without ever being bland. This is a fragrance with an impeccable education. A fragrance that announces only its discretion but that makes you sit up and take note. Noble ingredients, a tour de force of control, exquisite good taste. Sagacity. Wit. And just as you are lulled by life’s felicity into your afternoon-tea gentle reverie — it reminds you that there is a certain finesse — that only people Of Character can master.
Modestly uplifting. Timelessly present.
A fresh, sweet Rose — ready for the picking. Ever since her recent marriage (anything but a bed of roses) our demure Duchess is urgently desirous of desire. Her bosom is aching for release from the corsets of Victorian life, she dreams of nothing but Paradise Regained, again and again.
When one’s husband is at the theatre every evening, one does become terribly bored…
Oh heavenly joy!
As pure as the first rain. As crisp and sparkling as a chilled Rosé. The sweetest rose whose fresh innocence, and general constitution is without compare. But by golly… quelle surprise… these corporeal, woody notes seem to reveal indiscreetly something else. Something that French women might wear. At night. In the dark.
When delicacy takes on an Epicurean allure.
Who could say if it was the evenings spent at the theatre that gave the Duke his ravishing, ravished air. A slight perfume of intrigue engulfs him nevertheless. Exquisitely ubiquitous, a decadent dandy, an utterly charming chap, virulently ambivalent, a thoroughly ambiguous first son-in-law — hearts throb wherever he goes, but not the ones you might think.
His wife agrees that the theatre is no place for a Duchess. Sometimes she longs not to be a Duchess…
A rose is a rose is a rose.
Except when your assumptions are laid bare. Because expectations can only disappoint. When hot is cold and day is night. When florals are exclusively strong and invigorating.
When leather is only soft and smooth. And whilst head-turning, whilst decadent, whilst painfully chic we should remember that transgression, (like progress and modernity) is as old as the hills, as classic as Greek and as universal as Man.
Tender is the Night, and sometimes the afternoon, for Lord George and Clara his sweet thing, his paramour, his dancing delight, sugar-bee.
When Clara, Clandestine for obvious reasons, is not ‘purring’ she can be found behind the wheel of a car, or smoking, or in discussion, or with her colleagues — all of which are most terribly unsuitable past times for a woman.
Thank the heavens above she is not a Lady.
Nothing shy here!
A confident fragrance — novices need not apply — progresses in turns into the softest, most heavenly, enduring hug. A conflagration of cuddles, a symphony of skin, the comfort of a negligent warm leg in the night.
Voluptuous without being overbearing, feminine without being girly, emancipated but without a lack of discipline. A fragrance as life-enhancing as a sexy smile, extravert, likeable, lickable - and all at once.
What’s not to like?
A sensual oriental. Indeed.
Gloriously, decadently mischievous — some would say entitled, but they’d be wrong. All without the burden of a Title. Jeepers what fun.
Lord George’s secret son — some would say illegitimate (but that seems harsh) enjoys: Fun without responsibility. Freedom without a badge. Money without obligation. Fast cars, and even faster women, Rutherford has it all.
Until one day, when he will have nothing. Until then, anyone for a round of poker?
Extroverts can also be intriguing. Late nights have a perfume of their own. When freedom feels provocative and the party has a certain jive, a warm, soft aromatic — with honeyed tobacco — shoots a sexy breeze. This fragrance beckons pleasure and also has a mind of its own.
Living in the moment requires a certain endeavour — dedication is always a plus — and we are all, more or less willing students of that marvellous School called Life.