Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  He couldn’t resist her any longer. What man could? Her hand was firm on his breeches, his stiff cock making itself felt through the fabric. He would have her now here in the warm sweet-scented kitchen, surrounded by what they had made together…

  No. Matthew stopped. I cannot.

  If he did this—if he took her now, with every bone in his body screaming to do so—he wouldn’t be able to walk away. This was so much more than a casual encounter, a mutual exchange of pleasure; something much more important was being given, and taken. If he claimed Daisy Chiltern as his own in this exact, exquisite moment, he didn’t know if he would ever let her go again.

  Perfection for him. Torture for her. She couldn’t possibly want to marry him; to be tied to such a scarred, broken man with others looking on. This was a moment of madness for her, a passing fancy, and he would do well to respect its limits. Respect her enough not to ruin her, at least.

  This has been a terrible mistake. He paused, his forehead resting against hers. A terrible, wonderful mistake.

  As if designed to remind him of his better nature, the air filled with the sound of Laurence singing what sounded like a comic French song. Matthew and Daisy sprang apart; he heard the rustling of fabric as Daisy adjusted her dress to something approaching respectability. Matthew moved to the other side of the table, reaching out to find the bowl of sugared plums.

  Even being this far away from her felt like death. As he heard the door open, Matthew was struck by the enormity of what he had to do. Break the fragile thing that he and Daisy had created together; face his life alone, as he had before.

  If he didn’t do it now, he would never have the strength.

  ‘I must leave you.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘Forgive me. I—I do not feel well.’

  ‘I—Of course, your grace.’ Laurence’s concern was grating in his current state. ‘Perhaps I should alert someone? Your sister?’

  ‘No. It must be tiredness. Exhaustion.’ Matthew bowed, knowing it was curtly done, turning to leave the room. ‘I need rest. That’s all.’

  Knowing that both Laurence and Daisy had to be staring at him, he closed the door as quickly as possible. Walking a little way down the corridor, leaning his head against the whitewashed walls, he tried to stop his heart from pounding.

  This was the right thing to do. He knew it. Not leaving as he had done; that was crude, and would have to be apologised for. But separating himself from Daisy—removing foolish temptation from her path? That had to be done.

  That had to be done, even if it felt like ripping his own heart from his chest.

  Silence reigned in the kitchen. Matthew tried to carry on walking, knowing that staying where he was would be torture—but he could not move. He had to stay, and listen.

  Laurence’s voice came first. ‘My goodness. Did something happen?’

  Daisy’s determinedly calm voice slipped through the air like the sharpest of knives. ‘No. Nothing at all, despite your unforgivably long absence. His grace must be weary of us today, and nothing more. Given the plums are all but finished, and the maids will be ready to enter the kitchen, I suggest we leave things as they are.’

  ‘As you wish. I’ll ask one of the scullery maids to clean our mess.’ The tenderness in Laurence’s voice was more brotherly than that of a servant. ‘Ride with me in the carriage.’

  ‘No.’ Matthew heard Daisy pause, before her voice came back bolder than before. ‘I will walk home alone.’

  Problems of almost every magnitude, from a torn dress to a sudden death in the family, can be soothed—if not solved—with tea. Daisy had grown up hearing this maxim from Lady Chiltern, who had shared many a brewed pot with her weeping friends through any number of crises, heartbreaks and other disappointments. Now, with a problem that could not be solved through long walks, cold baths or angry biting of her nails, she turned to the ritual of tea with the urgency of a pilgrim seeking penitence. The faint, welcome hiss of the tea leaves meeting the boiling water in the familiar surroundings of Chiltern Manor’s parlour were as comforting as a hug, keeping her caught snugly in the present moment as she carefully poured the tea into three cups.

  When she handed the cups to her guests, however, she found herself transported back to when she had placed the sieve in Matthew’s hands. She looked at her sister and her former governess, noting the eager, expectant looks in their eyes, and bitterly regretted telling them anything—even the highly edited version of events she had carefully revealed, on the verge of blushing with every syllable.

  ‘Well, sister dear, I believe you must know what I am going to say.’ Iris Chiltern smiled beatifically, hand resting on her rounded belly. Daisy watched her look at Cora Seabrooke with the slightly smug expression of women who had found romantic happiness in life without deliberately looking for it. ‘Would you like me to say the words?’

  ‘I can imagine them down to the very letters, but I can’t very well tell a lady in your condition to keep quiet. Who knows what unspoken words will do to the baby?’ Daisy eyed Iris’s changing shape with a mixture of love and concern. ‘Go on. Tell me.’

  ‘It’s wildly romantic! You know it to be so, Daisy. I cannot understand why you’re viewing the whole business with such absurd gloom. You have just described the most delicious story.’ Iris clasped her hands together, her eyes full of the expansive dreaminess that had accompanied her since girlhood. ‘Chance kisses over comfits, the air full of sugar and spice… oh, it’s better than a novel. Do you not agree, Cora?’

  ‘I am a staid married woman of at least two years, girls, but I’m sure I can remember romance if I try hard enough.’ Cora smiled, her expression that of a woman who was still very well-acquainted with all of love’s expressions. ‘And baking is a way to many hearts—not only those of hungry men.’ She blushed prettily, staring for a rapt instant into the middle distance. ‘James declared his love for me in the old kitchens of Ashcroft House. It was most memorable.’

  ‘As awfully glad as I am that my two dearest friends found their happy ending in such short order, your situations hardly apply to me.’ Daisy looked down at her dress, overcome with a sudden attack of most uncharacteristic shyness. ‘His grace hardly concluded the meeting with elegance.’

  ‘Oh, he was overcome by passion. He could hardly stay in the same room, after having declared his intentions.’ Iris smiled. ‘Have a little imagination.’

  ‘Exactly. You are both… imaginative. Flights of fancy come easily to both of you. You are both silk slippers, made for dancing, while I am a hessian boot. And both of your gentlemen were not completely inured to the idea of a little fantasy in their lives.’

  ‘I beg to differ.’ Iris laughed. ‘Simon was most resistant to any sort of novelistic happenings.’

  ‘And then he asked you to marry him in the middle of his own ball, causing the Season’s most enormous scandal.’ Daisy raised an eyebrow. ‘If he was not naturally novelistic, he certainly learned quickly. Mr. Benson… I fear he may have little room for such leaps of sensibility. Especially now.’

  A small, sympathetic hush fell over the three women. Delicately sipping from her cup of tea, Daisy watched Iris and Cora nibble at the corner of their sandwiches with an anxiety formerly unknown to her.

  They had to have some secret, Cora and Iris, the women that were closest to her heart. They had managed it; the strange, unearthly trick of falling in love with a man, and a man falling in love with them, and actually succeeding in turning said love into marriage. An almost impossible feat—half of the ton’s most glittering marriages were certainly not love matches. Both Cora and Iris, stunningly, had managed to achieve the near-impossible.

  But why was she thinking about love? Why was she thinking about marriage? Her mind, normally as obedient as a working-dog, was suddenly beginning to tug her down strange pathways.

  ‘From what you have told me of Mr. Benson—and you have been most reticent as to his private wounds, my dear, which is admirable—he seems somewhat unsure of himself.
’ Cora placed her cup on its saucer, looking at Daisy with her usual combination of steel and grace. ‘You have always been astonishingly sure of yourself. It is to your great credit, but does not help you when trying to read the intentions of a man who has been placed in a situation of such ambiguity.’

  ‘But that is the problem. I—I find myself not sure at all. Unsure of myself, of my motivations, of—of why I wish to go back, and wish to not go back, and—and oh, for goodness’ sake. I am annoying myself.’ Daisy removed a fleck of tea leaf from the rim of her cup, rather enjoying Cora’s disapproving look. ‘I feel utterly incorrigible, and I have no idea what to do. A large part of me wishes to go upstairs, throw my covers over my head, and sleep soundly until the leaves begin to fall.’

  ‘A most dramatic solution, especially for you.’ Iris smiled. ‘I’m terribly afraid that you are going to insist that I be honest with you.’

  ‘I do not need to insist. You are always honest.’

  ‘But being brutally honest isn’t usually my speciality, Daisy. That’s your area of expertise.’ Iris leaned forward, her eyes full of the slightly mischievous love that only a sister could correctly interpret. ‘But if you force me to take up the mantle in such abrupt fashion, I shall do my best. You already know what you want to do—you are already absolutely sure about it. But you have brought us here, and feigned uncertainty, to see if we shall give you permission to do something that could be considered scandalous.’

  ‘But I am not sure. I have already told you that I am not sure at all!’

  ‘And what do you always say to me when I am unsure over something that seems easily resolved to anyone with half an ounce of good sense?’ Iris’s tone was implacable. ‘That I am not looking for clarity. I am, in fact, looking for permission to do the thing that I have already decided to do, because I lack the courage to take responsibility for my decisions.’

  ‘I do wish you did not remember everything I say.’ Daisy frowned. ‘It is not a sympathetic talent.’

  ‘And yet, you find me sympathetic today. Who knows if I shall change tomorrow.’ Iris laughed. ‘As I said—you already know what you wish to do. You merely wish to be told to do it.’

  ‘Go to him tomorrow.’ Cora nodded. ‘You have our full permission. Go to him, and force him to clarify his feelings to the very letter.’

  ‘To the syllable, Daisy dear.’ Iris sighed happily. ‘And then fold yourself into his arms, and allow the force of his presence to transport you to a—’

  ‘Enough.’ Daisy couldn’t help laughing, even as she shook her head. ‘I will go. But on your orders only.’

  Time decided to play tricks on Daisy as she walked to the Benson house the following afternoon. The road seemed much, much longer than before, the walk taking centuries, and yet she was standing in front of the house in the blink of an eye. She paused uncomfortably as she took in the grandness of the place, so familiar to her now; so dear, because of who she knew lived inside it.

  Her eyes narrowed as she noticed the Harker carriage idling outside the servants’ entrance. Had Laurence already arrived—was she late? She would need time to talk to Simon, to speak unguardedly, before any kind of lesson could begin.

  She jumped as the door opened. Laurence strode out of the door, his face unaccountably serious, a sack of what looked and smelled like dried fruit under his arm. Walking quickly to Daisy, he opened his mouth—and paused as Daisy spoke.

  ‘Did you already forget something for the mincemeat?’

  Laurence grimly shook his head, his eyes torn between pity and annoyance. ‘No lesson today, little one. No mincemeat. My modiste has been granted entrance, given that Miss Benson was already waiting in her dressing room, but we are to go home.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ But Daisy did understand; she felt the unsaid words congealing in the air, landing in the lavender plants. ‘What has happened today?’

  ‘His grace didn’t bother to give particulars.’ Laurence sniffed, frowning. ‘He also neglected to invite me to stay for a cup of tea. I imagine he’ll be similarly neglectful with any other caller.’

  ‘I… I am not any other caller.’ Daisy looked at Lawrence, yet more unsaid words screaming as loudly as they could.

  ‘I know that you are not.’ Laurence inclined his head, a world of respect in the simple movement. ‘And that is why I advise you, Miss Chiltern, to come home with me in the carriage.’ His eyes were full of sadness, as well as what looked like guilt. ‘Forgive me. I never should have kept leaving the room.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Daisy swallowed, trying to stop the panic rising in her chest. ‘I—I assume my reputation is—’

  ‘No. It is completely unblemished, and will remain so.’

  ‘I see.’ Daisy took a deep breath. ‘Then I will resolve things. All can be resolved.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Laurence squared his shoulders, looking at her with real regret. ‘My goodness, I hope so.’

  As Daisy walked over the gravel to the servants’ entrance, the wheels of Laurence’s carriage trundling through the gate, she tried to give each feeling she felt battling in her breast an assigned name. There was fear, yes, ever so much of that, and a good deal of confusion, and a sort of sick, shaking shock at the seeming cruelty of Laurence being turned away…

  … And burning underneath it all, anger. A swell of anger, which seemed more useful and more satisfying than any of her other sentiments. Daisy decided to nurture that anger, feeding it as she was silently let into the house by the impassive butler, giving it all but free reign as she strode through the Benson residence.

  It was only as she pushed open the door to the kitchens that she realised, with a jolt of embarrassment, that she had no idea if Matthew would be there or not. He certainly had no reason to be there, if he had so rudely turned away Laurence. When she did see Matthew standing by the kitchen table, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers on the wood, a disbelieving sadness tempered the fury in her heart.

  ‘What do you mean by it?’ She completely forgot all correct modes of address; seeing Matthew’s startled expression behind the blindfold was as satisfying as it was painful. ‘We must see one another today. Surely you cannot think otherwise.’

  ‘I have to think otherwise.’ Matthew bit his lip, his brow furrowed. ‘You cannot treat this as surprising, Daisy. You must know that I—that I have overstepped.’

  ‘Overstepped?’ Daisy stared, shocked beyond all measure. ‘That is the word you choose to use?’

  Matthew’s sigh was as wounding as a shout. ‘Miss Chiltern, please. It is abundantly clear to me, even if it is not to you, that I have behaved abominably. I have ensnared you in an attachment that cannot possibly be welcomed or sustained on your part.’

  ‘I—I truly cannot countenance this. It cannot be borne.’ Daisy was suddenly, horribly weak; she leaned against the back of a chair. ‘You deny me all agency. I told you things that I have never told another human soul. That I will never tell anyone else again.’ She stopped, taking a deep breath, trying to stem the tide of anger that threatened to overwhelm her. ‘I… I bared my heart. Something that I do not do. Especially not to arrogant, foul wretches who would take a woman’s honesty and twist it into madness, or weakness, or some sort of disgusting calculation.’ She wiped away a tear, sickened to find more of them falling. ‘What a terrible lack of foresight on my part. What a terrible betrayal on your part.’

  ‘A betrayal? You—you consider this a betrayal? My God, you’re stubborn.’ Matthew’s face was twisted in a kind of desperate anger. ‘Why must you make this so much worse than it needed to be? Can’t you see that I am trying to save you?’

  ‘Save me from what? Is this really some sort of distorted chivalry—an idea that I must be saved from forming an attachment to a monster? Much as you wish it were so, Matthew Benson, you are not a monster! You are not marked for tragedy, or dissolution, or death, and yet you wish you were because—because—’ Daisy bit her lip, her cheeks wet with tears. ‘No. No, I will not say it.’r />
  ‘And yet you must. I have never heard you bite your tongue, even when it was more than warranted.’ Matthew spat the words, his face dark. ‘Another bitter truth, from the mistress of bad medicine—ow!’

  He rocked back, clearly shocked at the force of the slap. Daisy stood close, her hand still held high, breathing hard as she half-spoke, half-sobbed the words she had tried to keep buried inside.

  ‘You wish to to be alone, to be a monster, to die, because the alternative is work. Not working to recover what you had, but working to remake yourself anew. Working to do your duty to your sister, and your mother, and the legion of people who depend upon your title and your lands for their very survival. But it is easier to withdraw into yourself, draw the curtains and be the most intolerable beast to everyone who wishes to look after you, and so you allow yourself to calcify. You close yourself off to all who worry about you, all who knew you knew you before, and all—all who know you now, and who care about you so very, very much.’

  She paused, trying to collect herself but failing miserably. Matthew’s face was full of a shock so profound, so deep, that Daisy almost wanted to look away.

  No. She had already ruined everything with her bitter truths. Her last spoonful of bad medicine would be enough to kill whatever burgeoning understanding once grew between them.

  ‘I don’t think you are indifferent to me. Call it arrogance, call it a foolish flight of fancy, but I don’t. I think you like me very much, Matthew Benson. Perhaps—perhaps even love me.’ She couldn’t stop her lip trembling on the word love, however hard she tried. ‘And I think that frightens you terribly, for two reasons in particular. For one thing, it means you would no longer be the unrepentant rake you so enjoyed being before the accident. And for another, it means that you would be giving your heart to someone that could very easily hurt it. As for me… well, I like you very much. Perhaps even—well, I’m sure you know. And that frightens me as much as it does you, believe it or not. If anything, your cruel treatment of me is a blessing—because it means my greatest fear is no longer relevant.’