Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘So polite.’ Agnes bought her fingers back to his shaft, slowly stroking along the rigid, silken flesh as Isaac felt another wave of pleasure. ‘Do you know, I had imagined you being very commanding.’

  ‘Really?’ Isaac felt a seed of doubt. ‘Imagined… or hoped?’

  He didn’t want Agnes, his Agnes, to have imagined him as some sort of insensitive brute. Surely she could see that his silence did not mean thoughtlessness—that his strength had softness so tightly bound to it that one could not be had without the other?

  Agnes’ smile soothed him. ‘I hardly dared hope for anything at all from you. In fact, I am rather glad I didn’t.’ She kissed him, a hint of daring in her fingertips as they stroked him a little more forcefully. ‘Nothing could possibly have been as wonderful as the reality.’

  Isaac, kissing her with feverish gratitude, surrendered to the pleasures of her touch. Sinking back onto the bed, leaning against the wall as Agnes bent over him, Isaac bunched the blankets into his fists as he prepared himself for an onslaught of sensation.

  ‘Christ.’ He muttered the blasphemy under his breath, stricken with desire, as Agnes began touching him in earnest. Her inexperience only heightened the bliss; she was eager, clumsy in her passion, her fingers sliding over him with such impatient delight that Isaac found himself moaning with pleasure, unashamed, greedy for more of her touch. He strained his hips forward, desperate for her stroking to continue—and swore aloud, overwhelmed, as he felt Agnes’ lips close over the head of his cock.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Her laugh shivered through him. ‘I appear to have hurt you again. Are you going to be polite?’

  ‘Yes.’ Isaac gritted his teeth, trying not to finish at the mere thought of her taking him in his mouth. ‘Although—maybe not. No.’

  ‘Then I shall continue, and see which you are after some minutes have passed.’ Agnes bent her head back to his cock. ‘It should be intriguing.’

  After no more than ten seconds, of delicious, tentative laps and licks, her kisses warm and yielding as they peppered his shaft, Isaac pulled away with a growl of pure desire. Having Agnes use her mouth on him was, quite possible, the most divine thing he had ever felt—which was why he had to stop her, before he embarrassed himself by finishing too quickly.

  ‘I hope I am not lacking.’ Agnes looked up at him, confused.

  ‘No. If anything, you are far too expert. I cannot finish here, like this.’ Isaac looked down at her, more exposed than he had ever felt. ‘I…’

  ‘What?’ Agnes bit her lip.

  God, he couldn’t hold back. ‘I want to be inside you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Agnes rose, shifting awkwardly as she moved her injured leg; Isaac moved to put his arms around her, taking her weight. ‘I see.’

  ‘But we won’t. Not if you are still hurt—still—you know.’ Isaac looked down, willing his desire to ebb. ‘I will wait.’

  ‘No. We will not wait. I have been waiting for far too long.’ Agnes nodded primly, a spark of humour in her eyes. ‘It will be now.’

  Pulling him down to the pillows, her arms sliding around his back, she kissed Isaac with the long, sweet openness that he was rapidly becoming more enamoured with than ever. Isaac lost himself in her once again, lavishing her with all the love his body could communicate, surprised at how wet she still was between her thighs—and gasping as Agnes’ hand firmly grasped his cock, bringing it to her entrance.

  ‘I may be somewhat unsure of the mechanics, but—but I believe this part is fundamental.’ Agnes smiled timidly. ‘Unless we must truly positions ourselves like beasts in a field. Should I turn over?’

  The thought of taking Agnes like a beast in a field was immensely erotic, but Isaac knew better than to obey that particular need. ‘Perhaps later.’

  ‘Yes.’ Agnes’ breath caught in her throat as she caressed him; Isaac cherished the sound. ‘This… this is perfect, for now.’

  Isaac kissed her, too full of sentiment for words. With a slow, indrawn breath, holding her close, he gently thrust his hips forward.

  How tight she was; tight, and hot, and still tender from his fingers. Agnes whimpered; Isaac tensed, holding still, kissing her with utmost tenderness. He expected her to pull away, but she only gripped him tighter—gripped him with trembling fingers as he moved deeper and deeper inside her, becoming one with her as seconds became minutes, wrapping them both in a time quite separate from that of the real world.

  When he finally began to thrust, Agnes whimpered again—not from pain, but a dawning pleasure that Isaac could feel humming through both her own body, and his. With infinite, relentless love, every move he made attuned to Agnes’ response, Isaac kissed her with mounting passion as he let his body take control.

  She was his. His, forever and always. Isaac, unable to hold back any longer, felt his own release crash over him as he buried his face in her hair.

  ‘I love you.’ He whispered it, hoarse with pleasure. ‘Oh, Agnes.’

  Long after dawn had made the sky blush rose, there were tentative signs of life on the Longwater estate. Irritable servants lit fires, opened curtains and cleared away the night’s evidence of merriment, all the while carefully avoiding the firmly closed door of Agnes Hereford’s room.

  Shortly afterwards, Henry and Anne Colborne rose from their bed; sleepily, with many pauses to drink further cups of coffee, they made their way to breakfast as other family members began waking. It was at least three hours after the sun had risen when Anne and Henrietta finally sat contentedly at the breakfast table, discussing innumerable pieces of gossip that became only more exciting upon repetition, as Henry Colborne, Andrew Balfour and Richard Westlake sat carefully nursing sore heads.

  ‘I say, will Lydia ever come down with our youngling?’ Henrietta yawned, wrapping her morning robe more tightly about her. ‘I know Agnes normally requires a little solitude before appearing after a ball, but this seems excessive.’

  ‘Yes, but this has been unusual. All the business with the letter, our arrangements with the earl—I imagine she is quite overwhelmed, poor thing.’ Anne sighed, stirring sugar into her coffee. ‘At least she managed to dance with the poor man.’

  ‘Barely. From the way they spoke to one another, you would barely believe that they had managed to conduct a courtship of such intensity.’ Henrietta gave an elegant shrug. ‘Why, they almost appeared strangers to one another.’

  ‘True.’ Richard reached for his wife’s hand, gently kissing it. ‘But then, that is rather how respectable people are meant to behave when in one another’s company.’

  ‘Respectable.’ Henrietta rolled her eyes. ‘Being rich and scandalous sounds infinitely better.’

  As Anne and Henry burst into gentle laughter, Andrew wincing as his head throbbed, Lydia walked into the room. The assembled company rose immediately; Lydia’s face was very white, and she was carrying something in her hands.

  ‘Please listen carefully, and do not panic.’ She placed the object on the table; it was Agnes’ green folio. ‘Agnes is gone—now, I did say not to panic!’

  Her instruction had evidently been of no use; Anne rose to her feet, as did Henrietta, as the men looked on bewildered.

  ‘Gone? What on earth do you mean, gone?’ Anne put a hand to her brow. ‘Oh, Lord, you know she hides—what if she has hidden somewhere that has been locked, or flooded in last night’s storm?’

  ‘No. I do not believe she is trapped somewhere, or hurt.’ Lydia looked fixedly at the folio, her voice oddly guarded. ‘But… I fear we may have been fundamentally mistaken. About Agnes—about Agnes, and the object of her affections.’

  ‘They cannot possibly have eloped.’ Henrietta folded her arms. ‘As soon as we had ascertained the identity of the earl, I convinced his coachman to declare his carriage broken. He would have no way of taking her to Gretna Green.’

  ‘A fine plan, Henrietta, if a mildly frightening one—as so many of your plans are.’ Lydia sighed. ‘But I fear we may have been more mistaken than that.’

/>   She opened the folio in grave silence. The sisters clustered around it, as their husbands tried determinedly to look as if they knew what was happening. Henry Colborne, attuned as always to the fleeting expressions on his wife’s face, knew that Anne was terribly worried; he took her hand, stroking her palm, trying to subdue his own misgivings.

  ‘Look.’ Lydia gently drew forth several sheets of paper; the sisters gasped in unison. ‘Look at these.’

  They were flowers; pressed ones. Henry couldn’t for the life of him identify the blooms, apart from the obvious ones like roses and peonies. Still, there were dozens; beautiful blooms, the pride of Longwater, painstakingly pressed, a small date written in pencil alongside each one.

  ‘Do you see what is written underneath? Not the date.’ Lydia pointed. ‘In her smallest handwriting, but still. Can you read it?’

  ‘My goodness.’ Anne bent lower, until her nose was practically touching the page. ‘Are… are they meanings? For when one gives a flower, or is given one, and wishes to remember the sentiments expressed.’ She stood upright again, the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks. ‘Oh.’

  Henry leant closer, unsure as to why his wife had reacted so unusually to Agnes’ spidery script. When he read what was written, he audibly swallowed.

  Cowslip… Grace Beyond Measure. Flower-Of-An-Hour… Fragile Beauty. Everlasting… In Constant Memory Of You.

  Rose… Passionate Beauty.

  Henry, apart from a former rake’s knowledge of how many roses could appease the heart of a wounded paramour, had never given much thought to flowers. The youngest Hereford sister, silent as she was in company, was evidently opinionated in private when it came to certain matters.

  ‘I lay no claim to absolute knowledge of the Longwater Estate, and where our flowers are grown. My tenure as Head Gardener was cut short—I believe Susan is still annoyed with me.’ Anne looked shyly at Henry, who risked a smile. ‘But these blooms appear to be from different parts of the estate. Most of them very far from the earl’s prescribed hunting route. I hardly see how he would have managed to collect these without being seen by someone.’

  ‘There are some beautiful specimens here.’ Andrew drew closer, laying a reassuring hand on Lydia’s shoulder as he examined the folio. ‘Perhaps she collected them herself.’

  ‘I have never seen her pick a single flower. This is hardly a hobby one would hide—she would have at least mentioned it to one of us.’ Lydia pointed to the carefully-written script. ‘And these meanings… Agnes may be something of a romantic, but even she would find it somewhat odd to pick these flowers for herself.’

  ‘I do believe you are reading a little too much into this.’ Henry held up his hands, trying to appease everyone. ‘Thanks to this amateur divining of motives, Agnes’ mysterious suitor has become a sort of silent, flower-giving shadow—a creature who can leap from one end of Longwater to the other, leaving a trail of pretty petals in his wake.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia looked at him politely. ‘Or, one of the gardeners. The Head Gardener, for example.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Henry snorted, shaking his head. ‘Or the… the Head Gardener…’

  The blood drained from his face as he understood the full import of Lydia’s words. As Anne gasped, the air seemingly drained from the room, Henry stood in a state of profound shock.

  A minute of tense, confused silence passed. Then, as if obeying a secret cue that neither Henry nor the other men had heard, all of the sisters began to speak at once.

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Goodness, when one thinks about it, it really—’

  ‘It makes perfect sense.’ Henrietta paced the room, nodding as she calculated. ‘They are both quiet. Both somewhat secretive, but straightforward when they finally open their mouths.’

  ‘He would certainly know everything about the different flowers.’ Anne spoke thoughtfully, one hand on her chin. ‘What they mean. From what I have heard from Martha, the girl who clean the library, Mr. Anderson is a great reader… why, was there not a list left for Mr. Wilkins to purchase at the bookseller a little while ago?’

  ‘Yes. There was. I remember quite distinctly.’ Lydia nodded eagerly. ‘There was a copy of Hattonby’s Language of Flowers on it—I remember thinking it odd, as I knew we already had a copy somewhere about the house.’ She nodded significantly. ‘But I thought no more of it, until this very morning.’

  ‘Isaac.’ Henrietta stopped, gazing into the middle distance. ‘That is the man’s name. Isaac Anderson… well.’ She sat back in her chair, visibly contented. ‘That is where she will be, then. In his cottage.’

  ‘Have you seen it, dear?’ Lydia closed the portfolio with a decisive snap. ‘Is it pretty?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There are flowers around the door. Agnes enjoys that sort of small detail.’

  ‘And to think I grew so very worried when you entered the room alone, Lydia.’ Anne smiled with relief. ‘Now I see there was no need. When we finish breakfast, we must go to her and—’

  ‘I beg your pardon? After breakfast? Oh, come now!’ Henry stared at the women with a kind of marvelling impatience. ‘Less than a minute? Is that really all the surprise such astonishing news warrants?’

  ‘It is hardly astonishing once one puts the pieces together, sweet.’ Anne patted his hand in a slightly absent way. ‘Although if you need more time, do let us know.’

  ‘It is not the fact of the news! It is what said news entails, and implies, and allows!’ Henry looked aghast at his wife. ‘Are we to imagine from this that she is with him now, alone, having—having spent a night in his company?’

  ‘Your Grace, please, do not attempt to refashion yourself as a model of decorum at this crucial moment.’ Henrietta looked shrewdly at Anne, who had the decency to blush. ‘Your past rakehood aside, I have always wondered how you and Anne managed to discover each other’s sentiments so very quickly.’ A gleam appeared in her eye. ‘I would so hate to interrogate my dear sister, and discover the roots of your courtship.’

  ‘I am in no way attempting to take on the mantle of a prude. I am well aware that such an attitude would be falsehood.’ Henry, attempting to speak high-handedly, was distracted by Andrew Balfour’s knowing smirk. ‘The… particulars of their courtship do not concern me. For all we know, they are sketching flowers together as we speak.’

  Richard Westlake snorted derisively. Henrietta sent a sharp look at her husband, marred only slightly by the smile on her face.

  ‘As I was saying.’ Henry stared at Richard until he raised his hands. ‘The particulars of their courtship are not the problem. The problem is that Isaac is a servant. He’s not even in trade—’

  He stopped, beset by an angry flurry of Hereford voices.

  ‘What an atrocious thing to say! I hardly expected this of you.’ Lydia glared at him, folding her arms. ‘Why, when I think of all the Longwater staff do for us—do you really think that sentiment is incapable of flourishing between the classes?’

  ‘We were nothing at all before your marriage to Anne. Why, we were clinging to the edges of respectable society by our fingernails.’ Henrietta’s voice had acquired the cold, cutting edge of a blade concealed in a cloak. ‘I assume that Anne is about to come to your defence. Quickly.’

  Henry looked at Anne, wincing as he saw the deep irritation she had carefully concealed at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘I’m sure my darling husband is about to say that his concern is for Agnes’ welfare, and does not spring from some deep-rooted, foul ignorance as to the fundamental humanity of those who serve us.’ Her voice was acid. ‘I am very sure of this.’

  Henry, to his dismay, looked in appeal to Andrew Balfour. His oldest friend shook his head very slightly, letting Henry know that he had made an error of judgement that could very well be fatal.

  ‘Of course.’ He rapidly marshalled his thoughts, trying to unpick his finer feelings from his much larger reserves of aristocratic snobbery. ‘I… I merely wish to remind all of you that there will be
much judgement of Agnes, none of it kind, if this news is true. It will be exactly as lazy and ill-considered as the judgements I made, without the brotherly concern that mine comes with.’ He shook his head. ‘She may even be frightened of your judgement. That may be why she has said nothing to you.’

  ‘But she cannot think that we will judge her.’ Lydia stood up, scandalised. ‘How could she possibly think that we would be so cruel?’

  ‘You judge everyone, Lydia. Heartily and thoroughly.’ Henrietta rolled her eyes with a smirk. ‘You spent half an hour castigating poor Laeticia Woodcock for daring to fall in love with a tradesman.’

  ‘But that is Laeticia Woodcock! This is Agnes.’ Lydia stamped her foot. ‘I wouldn’t care if she fell in love with a—with a valet, or a pigeon-racer, or one of those men that sell scents. Her happiness is my only concern.’

  ‘Aren’t we all beginning to speculate a little wildly?’ Richard Westlake straightened up in his chair, looking at Henry with a slight smirk. ‘We cannot be completely sure that she is with Isaac. She could really be lost, or, with another gentleman, or… or…’

  The combined withering looks of the three Hereford sisters gave off enough heat to boil water. Richard, looking at Henry with a shrug of apology, retreated to his former slouch.

  ‘The flowers, my dear.’ Henrietta looked at her husband with loving contempt. ‘No other man on this estate has access to the flowers, knows the properties of flowers—much less use them as a method of communication.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia sighed. ‘It has to be said… it’s rather…’

  ‘Yes.’ Anne smiled. ‘Romantic.’

  There was a brief moment of reflective, heartfelt silence. Henry, utterly confused by the wistful look on his wife’s face, sought silent confirmation from both Andrew and Richard that yes, this was happening—their wives, as usual, were acting against every expectation.

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Anne collapsed into quiet giggles. ‘We were so serious, conversing with her… making her dance with that poor earl.’

  ‘We made that earl dance with poor Agnes! The one who gets an unusual gleam in his eye whenever he talks about skinning carcasses!’ Lydia held a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she laughed. ‘She will never forgive us. Never.’