Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Miss Seabrooke, your chin. It’s lowering.’ Lady Chiltern put a warm finger under Cora’s chin, gently pushing it upward. ‘Come, my dear. If you don’t keep your head held high, you may miss a rare sighting of the Duke of Innsee. I know he never attends, but who knows? We might be lucky!’

  Lucky. Cora’s stomach curdled. Of all the adjectives she used to describe herself, lucky wasn’t one of them. Neither was lucky the correct word to use when the Duke of Innsee was concerned… no, there were many more words she could use.

  Sorrow. Rage, Betrayal. Pain, if there were any adequate way of verbally expressing pain. The only thing she really wanted to do was howl—and howling, in the middle of a ballroom, would cause even more comment than she was currently attracting.

  ‘For a young girl of marriageable age, Miss Seabrooke, you really do display a monstrous lack of interest when it comes to the Duke of Innsee.’ Lady Chiltern smiled. ‘I can barely stop Daisy and Iris from exploding into giggles whenever their name is mentioned. No doubt they’ll spend tonight hunting the poor man with a butterfly net. I hope they don’t mistake poor Edward Ashcroft for his brother—they’re remarkably similar in candlelight, although Edward lacks the Innsee jawline.’

  ‘Should I search for Daisy and Iris?’ Cora craned her neck, trying to spot the familiar gowns of her two charges. ‘I have told them more than once to act their ages this evening, instead of capering about the place.’

  ‘No, my dear. Let them run about—who knows, perhaps they’ll run away to sea. It would save me the burden of finding them a French tutor, at least.’ Lady Chiltern smiled sadly. ‘One of the most difficult parts of widowhood is all the work one has to do. I have no time to interview tutors.’

  ‘I’m sure you will find one. One of the staff will know someone.’ Cora had an idea. ‘Perhaps I could ask tonight. If you would let me slip away, and speak to some of the staff—’

  ‘Miss Seabrooke, you lack the flair for falsehood.’ Lady Chiltern laughed, her face full of friendly curiosity. ‘You seem most disinclined to speak of our illustrious host. Is it an over-abundance of familiarity? I seem to recall you running quite wild together as children, along with the rest of the brood. No doubt James Ashcroft seems terribly pedestrian to you, despite his reputation—or perhaps some childish slight on his part was never quite forgiven.’ Lady Chiltern laughed. ‘Come now. We must forgive men these small sins.’

  ‘Yes.’ Cora smiled mechanically. ‘Small sins must indeed be forgiven.’

  What had James Ashcroft, Duke of Innsee, done to her, Cora Seabrooke? Oh, nothing really. He had only been her dearest childhood friend, her closest confidante since she could walk, full of dares and tricks as creative as they were dangerous. He had only grown more and more handsome as the years passed, which Cora in her growing womanhood had grown to notice in ways that were almost troubling in their urgency.

  He had only grown as rakish as he was handsome, with all the attendant consequences. He had only begun to drink, and fight, and associate with creatures of ill-repute, all the more energetically after the death of his father and slow decline of his mother. Only began striding down a dark, dissolute path that had Cora watching in horror from the margins—and growing more attached to him than ever.

  That attachment had shone through everything. It had smoothed over the troubled waters of Cora’s heart, calming her mind through even the fiercest periods of doubt. It had overcome all hardships, all obstacles… all of them, that is, until the night of Don Giovanni.

  The King’s Theatre had been packed; everyone who was anyone had attended. Cora, who at that point wasn’t quite anyone—it had taken a risky speculation on her father’s part to buy them a box for the following Season—hadn’t been there that fateful night. Upon reading the newspaper the next morning, her teacup shattering on the floor as she read, she was almost thankful for her absence.

  What had James Ashcroft done that night? Become so disgustingly drunk, so overbearingly loud, that he had interrupted the opera by shouting from the dimly lit Ashcroft box. Interrupted by shouting fulsome compliments to one Sabine LaCourt, a lady of scandalous reputation singing the part of Donna Elvira—and ending, most shockingly of all, by proposing marriage to her.

  No English woman can hold a candle to you! Why, they’re all as fat as sheep! The newspapers had delighted in recording Ashcroft’s words. For a full week there was talk of forced marriage, illicit affairs, family ruin—before James Ashcroft had published his apologies to both the theatre-goers and Miss LaCourt.

  Then, for a year, he had simply disappeared. Reports were varied; he had gone to Germany, he had followed the spice route, he was spying for the Crown. When he came back, thinner and bearded, the ton rejoiced—what new scandal was James Ashcroft going to fall into?

  None. No scandal. Apart from never having apologised to Cora Seabrooke; a scandal confined to a single person, its particulars unknown to everyone, and thus not worth caring about.

  She had still felt hope after a day. After a week. Surely an apology would come; a word, a letter? But as the weeks passed into months; one month, then two… well. Hope had turned to hurt, and then to something very like hate.

  Who cared if James Ashcroft had ceased to gamble, ceased to duel, ceased even to drink after the fateful episode? Who cared if he had taken the reins of his dukedom with zeal and grace after his year of exile, shunning all worldly pleasures in favour of managing his estate? Who cared for his penance, his goodness, his charitable works and splendid inventions and glittering balls, which he never attended himself… who cared at all about that, all the buried scandal and new-found zeal, if he had never found time for a word of apology to Cora Seabrooke?

  He had never said a word to her since that night. Not a letter, not a note—not a word. It was as if she had simply ceased to exist, along with the rest of his life before that moment in the box.

  Everyone now spoke glowingly of James Ashcroft, Duke of Innsee. There was talk of a different man, and renaissance, and new leaf. New leaf? Pah! James Ashcroft could turn over a forest’s-worth of leaves, and she would remain unimpressed. Unimpressed, and angry.

  She took a cursory glance at her reflection as Lady Chiltern bustled away, noting a lock of hair had fallen out of place. Tucking it back into its rightful spot, she turned away from the glass with a barely repressed shudder.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t like to look at herself—although there certainly wasn’t much to look at, in her opinion, apart from grey eyes and a little more flesh than was fashionable. It was that when she looked at herself, really looked at herself, she began to see the Cora Seabrooke that the rest of the world saw.

  A little too plain. Much too serious. Brought down a peg in life, and most deserving of it… and apart from her employer and a few old companions living far away, friendless. Practically orphaned. Alone.

  No. It was much better to never look in mirrors, be as brisk and practical as possible, and let her old life sink beneath the waves. But how much harder it was to do here, in Ashcroft House, knowing that the man she’d loved so desperately was somewhere within its walls—not thinking of her at all.

  She needed to pause; she needed somewhere quiet and safe. Neutral ground. This ballroom was crowded with memories; her first balls as a young girl, attending with her parents. Her first clumsy dances with one James Ashcroft; only a boy, but more than capable of guiding her over the parquet floor…

  She absolutely couldn’t stay here. Not all night. Cora tried to spot the elegant green gown of Lady Chiltern in the crowd, but she had vanished into the throng. The peach and silver gowns of the Chiltern daughters had also disappeared—no doubt the girls had found their way to the garden, where they would be dramatically pretending to faint into the topiary in the manner of Gothic heroines. Cora was loathe to disturb them; it was harmless fun, after all, and… and she had spent so much time in that garden with James Ashcroft, years ago, her face turned to the sun.

  Where did that leave her? Trap
ped, almost—unless she slipped through the small, anonymous door by the chairs where the wallflowers sat. It would leave her in the older part of the house; the rooms that had escaped destruction during Edward Ashcroft’s ambitious rebuilding of the family seat. As long as she avoided the rooms where most memories lay, the blank white corridors would give her a moment of peace.

  Looking back at the mirror, noting the barely-concealed panic in her own eyes, she walked around the edge of room to the door. Avoiding the pitying glances of the woman sat in the wallflower seats, turning away from the half-mocking glance of a young man she remembered had asked her to dance the year before, when she had been a lady, she unobtrusively opened the door with a sigh of relief.

  Darkness. Silence. Cora leant briefly against the door, silently thanking Edward Ashcroft for building new kitchens at Ashcroft House. This wing of the house, with its labyrinthine corridors and occasional stray cat, was almost never used when it came to grand events—at least, that’s what she remembered Lady Chiltern telling her.

  She began to walk in no particular direction, following the corridor’s twists and turns as the moonlight shone through the high-placed windows. Only a few restorative minutes of solitude would help immeasurably—a quarter-hour, perhaps, and she would be herself again. Or, if not herself, the grey, serious woman she had become.

  A clatter of what sounded like china made her start. Cora looked around, trying to orient herself; if she remembered correctly, this was the corridor that led to the kitchens. One of Ashcroft House’s tabby cats, perhaps, knocking over an old plate…

  She moved closer. Candlelight flickered underneath the kitchen door, spilling warm, golden light onto her gown. Cora moved closer, trying to discern the exact source of the mysterious sound that accompanied the light; a furtive sound, secretive, a combination of thuds and heavy breathing.

  She looked at the keyhole, wondering if she could overcome years of good breeding. Peeping through it would satisfy her curiosity, that much was true—but alas, she didn’t think she could do it. Not because she thought herself better than the common herd, but because she was mildly frightened of what was happening on the other side of the door.

  She smiled bitterly to herself. Really, Cora? After all that’s happened to you, you’re frightened of a door? And you’re technically a servant, now. You can go into a kitchen with your head held high.

  Biting her lip, summoning up her courage, she tried the door. Against all predictions to the contrary, it opened wide with a single, gentle push. Cora took a step forward, her eyes adjusting to the light—and gasped.

  Of all the people in the world to see at the dead of night, in an unused kitchen, in the middle of a ball… James Ashcroft.

  James Ashcroft, tall, dark, as broad and capable-seeming as ever. James Ashcroft, looking at her with barely concealed shock. James Ashcroft, Duke of Innsee, half-dressed and sweating, his hands out of sight.

  Was that… was that sweat on his brow? And why was he looking at her so guiltily, as if caught in the middle of… oh.

  ‘Your Grace.’ Cora looked at the man who had betrayed her, a small smile irrepressibly breaking through her pursed lips. ‘I do believe you are baking.’

  His Grace James Ashcroft, Duke of Innsee and barely reformed rake, looked at Cora Seabrooke as haughtily as he could. Given that he was half-dressed, covered in flour and damn-near up to his elbows in a mixing bowl, his look definitely lacked its usual power. Perhaps it would have worked on a flightier female, or one more inclined to swoon at the aristocracy, but knowing Cora Seabrooke—or rather, remembering her—he knew that a stare wouldn’t quell her.

  A cutting reply, however, might work. What a pity, then, while looking into Miss Seabrooke’s storm-grey eyes, that he could think of absolutely nothing to say.

  ‘This isn’t what it looks like.’ He blurted out the words, wincing at their idiocy before he’d even finished saying them. He deepened his scowl, summoning up all of the ferocity he’d gained through years of weathering scandals, but his frown folded into a sigh as he saw Cora’s lip curl.

  ‘Of course. Forgive me. There must be an enemy hidden in the mixing bowl—one that you’re very manfully strangling. Or you’re preparing gunpowder. That special gunpowder mixture full of sugar and rosewater.’ Cora took a tentative step forward, and Ashcroft found his eyes inescapably pulled to her gown; her shape. She’s barely changed. ‘You definitely, absolutely are not making what appears to be…’ He watched her eyes move over the table, rapidly calculating. ‘… The famous Innsee butter biscuits?’

  Of course she would remember. How many times had the two of them watched the Ashcroft cook make Innsee butter biscuits on cold, rain-splattered Saturday afternoons, while their fathers speculated in the study upstairs? He and Cora, the best of childhood friends, running wild over the Innsee estate; stealing apples, tormenting the groundsmen, hiding in the hay at harvest time. Watching the cook bake, and stealing fistfuls of sugar whenever they were unobserved…

  … Before they had begun to grow, and change. Ashcroft into a disreputable young hellion, and Cora into a lady; a lady who didn’t particularly enjoy being a lady, but a lady all the same. A lady who Ashcroft had known, even then, got somewhere under his skin in a way that other ladies simply couldn’t.

  Before what had happened, happened.

  Still. Perhaps Cora Seabrooke was the best person to find him indulging in his private pastime. He couldn’t bear to imagine the reaction of any other woman; crazed giggling, probably, or a succession of dreadful cake-related puns. Ashcroft looked down at his dough-covered hands, a small spark of gratitude appearing in the depths of his embarrassment.

  ‘It’s an adjustment to the original recipe. I’ve added a little more butter, but it makes the dough more difficult to handle.’ He shrugged. ‘But if it goes badly, the pigs will have a treat tomorrow.’

  ‘I see. This display isn’t the single, desperate act of an impetuous man, then. What stands before me is that most unusual of creatures—the habitual baker.’ Cora walked across the kitchen, standing on the other side of the table as a small smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. ‘A man who bakes at balls. This, if nothing else, requires an explanation.’

  His original impression hadn’t been true; she had changed, with age. She had become even more beautiful. Ashcroft let himself breathe in her warmth; her lush, proud vivacity, before pushing away the thought as violently as he could.

  ‘I despise balls. Especially ones I throw.’ He shaped the dough as he spoke, trying to distract his mind from dwelling on how well she looked. ‘I can hardly shoot a pistol or swim a mile in the middle of a packed house, and have given up intoxicants. No-one uses this little kitchen, now that Edward had the bigger one built.’ He shaped the dough into a ball, holding it up with an ironic flourish. ‘And so, I bake. I hide from the unwashed mass of nobility, and bake.’

  Cora simply looked at him, her face full of the knowing mockery that Ashcroft remembered. Remembered, and craved in the moments of lonely, shameful darkness, full of guilt and regrets that haunted him. How he’d longed to see Cora Seabrooke just like this; frank, staring, her body still full of the sturdy, self-assured confidence that brought summer, full, glorious summer, irresistibly to mind.

  So many questions crowded in his throat, each one more important than the last. Do you hate me? Do you know about all the terrible things I did, and all the ways I have tried to redeem myself since?

  Did the letter make any difference? Will you ever mention it?

  Will you ever forgive me?

  He watched, transfixed, as Cora leaned over. The gentle rustle of her dress against the table legs washed over him like the gentlest of waves; the light colour to her arms, like chestnut honey, spoke eloquently of days spent free of the tyranny of parasols. The shadow between her breasts, deliciously apparent despite the severity of her gown, made him ache anew for every day of the years he’d spent not seeing her.

  Without saying a word, Cora rea
ched for the ball of dough in the bowl. With a deft finger and thumb she dug into the dough, pulling off a small piece, and slipped it into her mouth. Ashcroft watched, struck dumb, as she chewed for several thoughtful seconds.

  He’d used food in a bedroom context before. What enterprising young rake hadn’t made short work of a jar of honey or a bottle of champagne, especially with a willing courtesan to practise on? But Cora Seabrooke eating biscuit dough, as specific as it was, managed to light fires in him he either hadn’t known existed or had deliberately never lit.

  ‘Hmm.’ Cora swallowed; Ashcroft watched her lips, weakly cursing himself. ‘It needs a little more salt.’

  Alright. I’ll weep into the bowl a little. More than enough salt. Ashcroft nodded curtly. ‘Duly noted. Now I believe you have a ball to attend.’

  Cora coloured slightly. ‘I… I am only attending as chaperone to the Chiltern children. My new profession. Or station, I should say.’

  Ashcroft knew. Of course he knew; he knew everything that could reasonably be known about Cora Seabrooke, including the financial woes of the Seabrooke family. Anything, to feel a little closer to her—but he simply nodded gently in response. ‘Then you have two young she-devils to supervise.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a new, slightly unsettling light in Cora’s eyes. ‘Two she-devils… I think I’ve found my price, your Grace.’

  ‘Your price?’ Call me Ashcroft, for God’s sake. Call me James.

  ‘The price for my silence, of course.’ Cora pulled off a slightly larger piece of dough before Ashcroft could react, chewing for another highly distracting moment. ‘You cannot possibly expect me to conceal such a delightful secret from the world at large. Duke of Innsee, secret baker.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’ Ashcroft looked at her in alarm. ‘Why, past loyalty alone should compel your—’