Puig + Penhaligon’s

The historical perfume house

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  The Tragedy of Lord George. With his apparently traditional air, Lord George is the perfect reminder of one should always be aware of appearances. He himself insists that nobody should 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."

  A masculine and elegant fragrance with amber and fern combined with wood, brady, shaving cream and Haba tonka. Warm, powerful and rich, “step inside I’m sure we’ve met somewhere before.” For wealthy people who are capable, stable, reassuring, but also very fun. A firm shoulder to cry on (has it been a protective hand what I have felt about myself?) A perfume for a man of immortal reputation. Not too Latin in character, but still overflowing with love.

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  The Revenge of Lady Blanche. Lady Blanche is the living image of dedication, charm and criminal intentions. A social butterfly with a dangerous sting, we might say. Shakespeare has already tried to warn us "there is no greater danger than that of a woman in contempt." And so it is, women know, but Lady Blanche wishes, of course, not to know. The real crime lies in the little elegance of not having kept all that where it belonged: in the dark, with the lights off. (One can take the opposite on your own responsibility).

  A refined and delicate scent, but without falling into the bland. A perfume with an impeccable education, which only announces its discretion, but that invites you to sit and take notice. Noble ingredients, a tour de force, exquisite taste. Sagacity. Insight. And just when, overcome by the joy of life, you abandon yourself to enjoy the sweet moment of afternoon tea, it reminds you that there is a certain subtlety that only people of character dominate. Subtly stimulating. Eternally present. Floral, green and tranquilizer. Root of lily powder, flower of daffodil and hyacinth.

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  The Coveted Duchess Rose. “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…”

  As pure as the driven rain. Pure heavenly joy! As fresh and bubbly as a chilled glass of rosé wine. The sweetest rose, whose fresh innocence and figure are unparalleled. But ... wow, what a surprise! Those woody, bodily notes seem to reveal something more indiscreet. Something that French women could wear. At night. In the dark. Mandarin, rose and musk wood for when the delicacy adopts an epicurean charm.

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  Much Ado About The Duke. 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.

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  Clandestine Clara. 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.

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  Roaring Radcliff. Roaring Radcliff is renowned and extravagant. The secret son of Lord George - some may say "illegitimate" (but that sounds so harsh) – certainly understands something about pleasure. Pleasure without responsibility, freedom without expectations, privileges without obiligations. Fast cars and even faster women, his raison d’être parties and provocation. Radcliff has it all. Until the day when nothing is left. But until then? Does anyone fancy a game of poker?

  Exquisite decadence.  Extroverts can also be fascinating. Long nights have their very own scent. If freedom possesses something provocative and the party is heading towards its climax, then the warm, gentle and aromatic smell of honey-sweet tobacco unfolds - sexy, tempting, irresistible. A note of gingerbread adds its sweet spiciness to his father’s love of liquor - in Rutherford’s rum. Sexy and rebellious - what well-bred girl would not succumb to his charm? As he is wont to whisper in their inclining ears… The night is young…

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