Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Understandable. I’d be irritated with myself if I’d done something so idiotic.’

  ‘Not with herself, sir. With us. With you, I suppose.’ Greenford shrugged; an unusual gesture for a man so elegant. ‘It’s difficult to explain. She’s demanding to see you—perhaps you can help make head or tail of it.’

  Wordless, his confusion now as deep as that of his valet, Simon rose. Following Greenford through the airy, well-appointed corridors of his home, the rain beating down on the roof with all the subtlety of a hammer, he made his way down to the entrance hall… and passed through it, moving into the servants’ quarters.

  ‘Greenford, where has Smith put our stowaway?’ Simon passed two giggling kitchen maids, who lapsed into cautious silence when he glared at them. ‘I thought you said she was a young lady.’

  ‘She definitely is, sir. She refuses to say her name, but I’d bet my boots she’s one of the Chiltern girls. I remember seeing them as children, before His Grace died.’ Greenford sighed. ‘And Smith tried his best, sir, but the kitchens are warmest. She refuses to leave them.’

  ‘God’s blood. The kitchens.’ Simon tutted. ‘The ball is in two days. As if there isn’t enough happening in my kitchens.’

  Annoyance slowly overcoming unease, he pushed past his valet to stride into the kitchens. The large rooms, normally almost bare, were filled to the brim with hung joints, champagne flutes and staff busily preparing everything that could be safely prepared for the ball in advance. Busily preparing, yes—but Simon saw several small smirks on the faces of his maids that had no business being there.

  At the far corner of the kitchens, close to the dark, cool pantry where sweets and puddings were stored, his pastry cook Laurence was rolling out what looked like sugar-paste. Next to him, sitting awkwardly on a stool and wearing a creased day-gown, was…

  ‘Sir, I am Iris Chiltern.’ The girl jumped up, curtseying so flawlessly that Simon had to forgive her forthright introduction. ‘And your cook informs me that you are Simon Harker.’

  Simon looked at Iris Chiltern with undisguised irritation. Not only had the young woman crashed into his very long list of things to do under the most ridiculous of circumstances—jostled into the fruit and flower cart, which seemed as unlikely as it was exaggerated—she didn’t even have the decency to be smiling, jolly and cheerfully attractive. With that mass of dark curls and great, staring eyes, not to mention the paleness of her skin, she was definitely one of those irritating, nobly-bred girls who considered the Gothic novel the last word in literature.

  Simon did not have time for literature. He had, once, but the pursuit of capital had long since surpassed his original pursuit of knowledge. Neither did he have time for dark-haired, large-eyed girls who stared at him—especially when this particular girl was staring at him in what looked like disappointment.

  What, exactly, was there to be disappointed about when one looked at him? Women had told him that he looked very well indeed, and he’d been inclined to believe them… but somehow, under Iris Chiltern’s searching, infinite gaze, Simon almost felt like reconsidering.

  He opened his mouth, ready to send her packing with as little preamble as possible—and stopped as Iris spoke, her tone full of the same disappointment her eyes had hinted at.

  ‘Forgive me. I’m sure this is most annoying for you, sir, but it’s far more irritating for me. I was expecting to arrive somewhere interesting, at least, and be subject to the whim of someone… well. Exciting.’

  Simon abruptly closed his mouth. He turned his head, sure he’d heard a treacherous snigger from Laurence, but the man appeared to be working as hard as he always did.

  ‘Perhaps you did not correctly hear my pastry cook when he introduced me. I—I am Simon Harker. One of the richest men in Bath. This house is on the Royal Crescent.’ He folded his arms, allowing a little anger to creep into his voice. ‘If you are one of Lady Chiltern’s daughters, as you claim to be, I don’t believe you keep a place in town. I also don’t believe you’ve been invited to my ball.’

  ‘Oh, goodness. One of the richest men in Bath. Captivating.’ Iris rolled her eyes; with eyes as large and expressive as hers, Simon had to admit the effect was rather splendid. ‘No, we don’t keep a place in town. We’d have to sell off a piece of the wood, and Mother rather likes the wood. And the last time Daisy and I attended a ball a young man ended up in the duck pond. I assume that’s why we weren’t invited.’

  A duck pond? Simon hadn’t heard the particulars—but then, he hadn’t considered the Chiltern reputation at all. His balls only involved families who were likely to either patronise or invest in his growing wealth, and the Chilterns seemed disinclined to do both. ‘It doesn’t matter why you weren’t invited. Why you’re here in my kitchens, on the other hand, is certainly a matter for immediate discussion.’

  She had rose petals in her hair. Simon wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before; they clung to her tightly-coiled curls, fresh and dark enough to stain the girl’s cheeks. He found himself watching them quiver, straining for a hint of their scent in the air as Iris spoke.

  ‘I already told your valet exactly why I’m here, but he didn’t seem to believe me. Now I have to tell you, and I highly doubt you’ll believe me either.’ She sighed, the petals shaking in her hair. ‘A man pushed me into the fruit-and-flower cart without meaning to. I decided to stay in the flower cart because both the flowers were so very beautiful, and your driver couldn’t hear me no matter how much I shouted, and I thought I would be going somewhere fascinating—a nunnery, or a half-ruined castle, or a gypsy feast. And instead of any of those places, I’m in a very handsome, very dull house in preparation for a very opulent, very dull party.’ She shook her head; Simon watched a petal dislodge, threatening to fall. ‘For an impetuous experiment, this has ended extremely badly—’

  She stopped, lips parted, as Simon reached out the hand. Delicately, not quite sure why he was doing something essentially unneeded, he pulled the petal from her hair. Not wanting to let it drop the floor, unsure as to what else to do with it, he closed it in his fist as he spoke.

  ‘No. This hasn’t ended badly for you at all. Do you have any idea how such a half-brained idea could have ended for you? A cart that could have finished its journey in any establishment, complete with any number of disreputable characters ready to—my God. This was complete foolishness.’ Simon watched her face fall, and felt cruel despite himself. ‘I can’t imagine what Lady Chiltern is thinking, let alone your sister.’

  ‘I… I did ask your valet for a paper and pen as soon as I arrived. I meant to send a letter by the last post. I—I can only hope the time has not yet passed, and the rainstorm over Chiltern has abated. And I couldn’t very well jump out of the cart—the horses were going far too fast, and I would have turned my ankle, or hit my head on a stone, or worse. I did not arrive here entirely under my own power, sir.’ Iris bit her lip; Simon saw, to his horror, the traces of tears beginning to swim in her eyes. ‘And as I have said, sir, more than once, I neither expected nor wanted to arrive here.’

  ‘Stop calling me sir. I can’t be more than five years older than you, and you outrank me. Call me—call me Mr. Harker, if you must call me anything.’ Simon nodded gruffly, hoping against hope that his small offer of courtesy would stop the tears that threatened to fall down the girl’s cheeks. ‘And forgive me. I have no business remonstrating with you over circumstances quite beyond your control.’

  ‘No, Mr. Harker, you do not. Because you forget that when I write my letter to my mother, I can choose how much to let my imagination run away with me.’ Iris lifted her head, her eyes suddenly much less dreamy than before. ‘I can say I’m being treated kindly but impersonally, as a true gentleman would treat an unaccompanied girl—or I can say I’m being held captive by a monster who means to steal my virtue, and force me into marriage.’

  ‘I—I beg your pardon?’ Simon stiffened, a thousand new horrors crowding his mind. ‘What a devious thing to say!’


  ‘Yes. It is, rather.’ Iris tossed her head; another petal floated to the floor. ‘But I’ve learned that if I don’t say something outrageously cunning during an introductory conversation, people assume I’m an empty-headed girl who spends all day reading Udolpho again and again. Which I do—but I’m certainly not empty-headed about it.’

  They stared at one another for a single, crackling moment. Simon felt the rose petal dampening in his fist, his normally sharp mind shattering to fragments as he underwent a rapid reassessment of Iris Chiltern. Irritating, nobly-bred, dark-haired, large-eyed… and a mind like a steel trap.

  Forcing her into marriage would be something of an undertaking. A sly part of his mind let the thought take root, sending up strange flowers. It certainly wouldn’t be dull.

  ‘Give me paper, sir—Mr. Harker. And a pen. I will write to my family, assuring them of my safety and comfort under your completely dispassionate protection.’ Iris tucked a curl behind her ear; Simon watched, oddly fascinated, as it immediately sprung free. ‘They will no doubt come to fetch me as soon as possible—perhaps even tomorrow night, if the rain is less bad than predicted. Until then, I will make myself useful.’ She looked at Laurence, who was busily rolling out sugar-paste. ‘I can even help with preparations for the ball. I’ve always enjoyed making sweet things.’

  ‘It’s a ball, Miss Chiltern. Not a woodland gathering where you cuddle rabbits and make bluebell tea for the fairy folk. I doubt you’re prepared for the amount of work required.’ Simon spoke without thinking, the flash of fire in Iris’s eyes warning him that he’d gone too far. But really; how on earth could she be of any practical help? ‘The house is at your disposal. I would even give you a copy of Udolpho, if I knew what on earth Udolpho was.’

  ‘If the house is at my disposal, the kitchens are too. I want to help.’ Iris leaned forward, her expression suddenly dangerous. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with cuddling rabbits. They enjoy it. As do people.’

  ‘It is unseemly for you to remain in the kitchens.’

  ‘Not as unseemly as you’re going to sound in my letter, if you don’t let me help.’ Iris began scrawling in the air, as if writing with an invisible pen. ‘My dearest mother… Mr. Harker is so very cruel; how forcibly he presses his attentions upon me! I fear for my good character—I am in the den of a wolf!’

  ‘I can see why you’re not invited to many balls. Such distasteful language would be unacceptable.’ Simon glared at Iris, who glared back without even a hint of shame. ‘I will bring you pen and ink. I will bring you paper. And you, in return, will stay out of my sight until your family come to collect you.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Iris folded her arms. ‘Because as I’ve told you many times, now—’

  ‘—You don’t want to be here. Excellent.’ Simon scowled. ‘Because I don’t want you here, either.’

  Turning on his heel, he strode out of the kitchen as quickly as dignity would allow him. It took three flights of stairs for his pace to slow to something approaching normality, his mind still racing much faster than his feet.

  The nerve of the girl! But he had responded too harshly; she was relatively far from home, and unsure of her situation. But still—she was clearly stubborn to a fault. Insisting on kitchen work; she probably thought it was the more romantic option, toiling attractively in a scullery until a handsome prince came to save her…

  … Attractively? Would that really be the correct word to use? It had come naturally; she wasn’t pretty, not by the standards he generally held himself to, which were the standards of the average gentleman. But Iris Chiltern clearly wasn’t the average lady. Perhaps a new standard was required.

  She wasn’t blonde, or dimpled, or shyly giggling from a cupids-bow mouth. Neither was she moulded like a Grecian statue. But… but there was something about her. Something that every part of his body was aware of; that it remained aware of, even through she was on the other side of the house.

  He opened the door to his study with a deep, irritated sigh. Being aware of anything other than the ball, and the wealthy potential speculators at said ball, and the marriageable daughters of wealthy potential speculators at said ball, was the worst kind of imaginative frippery. Of all the things he really couldn’t abide, frippery was near the top of the list—as was losing himself in idle fantasy.

  As he moved to his desk, hungry for the mind-dulling effects of paperwork, he realised that the rose petal he’d plucked from Iris’s curls still sat tightly in his fist. He opened his hand, ready to throw it into the fire, wondering why he couldn’t simply tip the little petal into the flames. It sat stubbornly in his hand, his palm stained crimson, a small trace of its scent subtly tinting the air.

  With a deepening of his scowl, Simon placed the petal on the corner of his desk. It sat smugly on the wood, horribly visible even as he dipped his pen in ink, ready to write. The very definition of a frippery… and now, for some inexplicable reason, in his life.

  ‘Well. How very unpleasant.’ Iris turned to Laurence, who shrugged with a smile. ‘Is he normally this much of a beast?’

  ‘He’s usually quite temperate, ma’am. I’ve never actually seen him so irritated before.’ Laurence kept rolling out the icing, his grin growing wider. ‘You seem to have a unique effect on him.’

  ‘I sincerely hope I have no effect on him whatsoever.’ Iris looked sternly at Laurence. ‘And you should be insulted too. He’s left me here with you, unaccompanied, defenceless against any assault on my virtue you should wish to make.’

  ‘Ma’am… I do hope you truly understand the thrust of the words I’m about to say, and not take them for an insult.’ Laurence looked levelly at Iris, pausing his rolling pin for a moment. ‘I am singularly uninterested in assaulting the virtue of anyone who looks like you.’

  ‘I… oh.’ Iris nodded quickly as embarrassed understanding dawned. ‘I see. And… and Mr. Harker is aware of this?’

  ‘Aware, and completely uncaring. As is anyone of means after they’ve tasted one of my pastries. We’ve never had a conversation about my proclivities, ma’am, but it isn’t needed. Put me in company for more than fifteen minutes, and it’s obvious enough.’ Laurence began rolling again, his smile fading. ‘In a grander, titled house, I would be worried about being hanged every other week. Here, where money talks... well. I am king of my little castle.’

  Iris looked around the kitchen, noting the airiness of the place. In Chiltern Manor the kitchen was dark, especially in the first days of spring. ‘As little castles go, it’s rather wonderful.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Laurence’s smile appeared again. I’ve always thought so. But if you wish to leave it, and explore the rest of the house, Mr. Harker’s words weren’t in jest. It really is yours to explore.’

  ‘No, thank you. I could meet him in a corridor and be forced to explain myself.’ Iris shivered at the idea. ‘I will stay here, and be useful. What would you have me do?’

  ‘I wish I could say something exciting, ma’am. Something befitting your station. But seeing as many hands make light work, there’s only one thing that really needs doing.’ Laurence lifted the rolling pin with a meaningful look. ‘There’s a lot of sugar-paste, ma’am. A lot. And it all needs rolling nice and thin.’

  ‘I see.’ Iris gulped, all visions of delicate cake-tasting vanishing abruptly. ‘Well, then… I suppose I need to roll up my sleeves.’

  Hours later, in the soft, sweetly-scented surroundings of the guest bedroom—quite the nicest bedroom she had ever been in, including her own, although she certainly wasn’t going to tell Simon Harker so—Iris lay uncomfortably in bed. Her discomfort had nothing to do with the bed itself, or her aching arms after hours of rolling sugar-paste. It was her clothes, still crumpled and flower-stained from the cart, that wrinkled and rustled whenever she attempted to move.

  No-one had asked about her night-things, or presumed lack of them. There didn’t appear to be any lady’s maids in the house, female scullery maids excepted, and the valet seeme
d to be avoiding speaking to her entirely after their first embarrassing encounter. He had gruffly opened the door of the room, and disappeared.

  Iris knew she should have raised the issue with someone, but it was difficult to know who to trust with such sensitive information. What she did know, with complete certainty, was that Simon Harker would never hear of her predicament. A man with such callous disregard for his own guests, unexpected or not, was not a man to be trusted with even the simplest of requests. He seemed tremendously curt, unaware of any niceties, completely lacking in any kind of poetic spirit… which did not explain, most irritatingly of all, why she kept thinking about him as she lay in bed.

  It had to be because he was so unlike the Gothic heroes she usually dreamed of before sleeping. Strong, a little too tanned, his hair a tawny sort of fair instead of black. Sharp blue eyes instead of deep brown ones, and a force to his movements—to his whole body, really—that spoke not of thought, but of action.

  Yes, it had to be the novelty that brought him irresistibly to mind. No other explanation would do. Iris shifted in the blankets, a little less uncomfortably this time, her brain acquiring the idle, dreamy expansiveness that came to her when sleep was on the horizon.

  Action. That was Simon Harker’s word, the one that defined him; an arrow cutting through the air around him, hitting the target every time. Even the smallest thing he did seemed to carry great weight—like removing that petal from her hair while she was speaking. There was a power to him; that had to be why her face had tingled at the proximity to his fingers…

  ‘Alright.’ She sleepily addressed the curtains of the bed, quite forgetting that Daisy wasn’t there to hear her. ‘This may still count as an adventure.’

  Early next morning, rain still lashing the damp roof Chiltern manor as the cows began to clamour for milking, raised voices were making themselves heard in the parlour.