Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Yes…’ Isabella let the word trail away, realising with annoyance that she was going to have to be somewhat rude. ‘I bid you goodnight, Lord Wetton.’

  ‘Oh. Goodnight.’ Isabella heard the faint air of surprise in the man’s tone as she stepped away from the window.

  She would wait until she heard footsteps, then peer out again. Isabella realised, with a delicious shock, that she was excited.

  ‘Well that was a little abrupt.’ Lord Wetton looked at Victor, frowning. ‘Why did she end so impolitely?’

  ‘Because you were being impolite in keeping her. You said your piece, she responded well—you are meant to retire as soon as she shows weariness. If anything, it makes you more pleasing to her.’ Victor stopped, sighing; Lord Wetton’s face looked like that of a kitten that had been kicked. ‘But you did very well.’

  ‘I’ll say.’ Lord Wetton relaxed back into satisfaction. ‘She said she would monopolise me completely.’

  ‘Well. A definite success, then.’ Victor felt unaccountably hollow. ‘You have your invitation, at least. Now you can present yourself as you are.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish. Why on earth would I do that?’ Lord Wetton shook his head, chuckling. ‘You will be there—you have an invitation too. Which means that you will be helping me.’

  ‘How on earth am I meant to aid you in the middle of a crowded ballroom? I can hardly leap about with you while you’re dancing with her.’ Victor repressed a shudder at the thought of Isabella dancing with Lord Wetton. Dancing with him thanks to the words he himself had said; the strange, honest words that had come from his very core. Words that Isabella had unaccountably responded to.

  ‘I know you will not dance, Bale. That is common enough knowledge. We will hammer out a system of sorts—we will have to. The alternative is unthinkable.’ Lord Wetton shivered. ‘I certainly wouldn’t know how to talk to the woman as well as you.’

  ‘But…’ Victor loathed having to admit weakness to anyone, but there seemed to be no other alternative. ‘I do not like attending balls given by people who do not know me well.’ He brought one hand up, attempting a carefree reference to his scars, but his hand moved too roughly to seem elegant. ‘One doesn’t want to frighten the horses.’

  ‘Bale.’ Lord Wetton’s face had fallen a little; there was a new seriousness there, one that Victor didn’t particularly like. ‘I understand—of course I do. But this is serious for me, remarkably serious—why, all of my problems would be solved. And I rather think I could be a good husband to her—she needs someone with a bit of life.’ He frowned. ‘And… and I do hate to bring it up, old chap. I really do. But if you help me win her—lord, even if you help me try—I would consider all debts more than repaid.’

  All debts. That was the crux of it; that was what burned in Victor’s mind whenever there was another favour to perform. The greatest of debts, the one he never thought he had a hope of repaying, would finally be met and matched.

  He owed Lord Wetton his life. If he helped him try to marry Isabella—his Isabella—then finally, finally, he would be beholden to no-one.

  Finally, he would be free.

  Isabella watched Lord Wetton walk away, his stance that of a man who has worked miracles. Waiting silently at the window, peering through the darkness, she saw the other man melt into the line of trees that bordered the lawns.

  ‘Well.’ She spoke to her nightstand, wishing that Daisy had no other tasks to complete. She needed someone to listen to her nonsense, if only to tell her that her nonsense wasn’t nonsensical. ‘That was unusual.’

  Lips pursed, eyes dreamy, she prepared herself for bed. She slowly unravelled her plait, taking pleasure in the act of making herself look simpler; the glittering creature she became at balls was a beautiful construction, to be sure, but one that could only live for a short time. The real Isabella, paler, softer, was still a face she enjoyed seeing before falling asleep at night.

  A name briefly flickered in her mind; one she had deliberately not allowed herself to think for a very long time. Isabella paused, trying to banish the name to its allotted place in the crowded drawer at the back of her consciousness, but it persisted—bringing a face with it, that burned briefly in her vision before being abruptly bundled away.

  ‘No.’ Isabella murmured to herself, looking once more at the open window. A rational process of elimination was one thing; a sudden fancy, based on the embers of an infatuation that had lasted little more than a minute, was another thing entirely.

  A wonderful thing. A dangerous thing.

  ‘No one is that lucky.’ She stroked her fingers through her hair, smiling bitterly. ‘Not even me.’

  A ball? A ball with Isabella Thurgood in attendance? Victor still attended balls, but only those hosted by the Bad Dukes. He could rely on each man to provide him with the things he had most need of; a dark corner, a chair he could turn away from the crowd, and a glass of brandy endlessly refilled by a servant who didn’t wince when stared at.

  He knew he had to go through with it, but his courage still almost failed him when he took in the splendid, bustling exterior of the Thurgood residence. Heart firmly in his mouth, mask fixed tightly to the more unsightly side of his face, he put more coins than necessary in the palm of his driver’s hand as he prepared to exit the carriage.

  ‘Listen.’ He spoke softly. ‘Stay outside. I may need to leave in a hurry.’

  ‘Of course, your Grace.’ The driver looked at the money, his eyes wide. ‘For this much, I’ll stop the horses in the middle of the ballroom.’

  ‘That may not be necessary.’ Victor winked. ‘But we’ll see.’

  The night air assailed him as he stepped onto the pavement, bringing scents and sounds that seemed to spark on the air like fireworks. Trying to control his fear—as well as the sweet, skin-prickling shiver of excitement that refused to stop racing up and down his spine—Victor walked into the house.

  Isabella Thurgood had quickly learned the essential social arts, adding her brilliant flair to old traditions in order to create a ball that would have the ton talking for more than a month. Victor had heard gushing descriptions of her many decorative innovations; the flowers festooning the chandelier, the towers of champagne glasses, the intriguing new arrangements of orchestral favourites—but it was certainly quite something to see in person.

  He walked silently, as if in a dream, lost in the brightly tilted world of elegant merriment. Whispers accompanied his footsteps; Victor resisted the urge to adjust his mask, knowing that his mere presence was enough to invite curious comments.

  Still; no-one would know the real reason for his attendance tonight. He had come as a guest of Lord Wetton; Victor could already imagine the watery-eyed mothers of the ton going into pitying rhapsodies over the man’s kindness. Truly generous of Wetton to invite Bale, the scarred wretch, to a ball that everyone had already agreed was the last word in refinement—

  ‘Ah!’ Lord Wetton emerged quickly from a chattering crowd, dressed to the nines and all the worse for it. ‘Bale!’

  Victor fought an instinctive shudder. He made his way over to Lord Wetton as smoothly as he could, wishing he could simply stand and glower by the one of the champagne towers.

  ‘You’re late, Bale.’ Lord Wetton was sweating. ‘I’ll be meeting her any minute now.’

  ‘I’m perfectly on time, and you know what to say. I gave you a list at Simpkins.’ Victor looked at Lord Wetton, one eyebrow raised. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot it.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t. I’ve memorised every word.’ Lord Wetton shook his head, swallowing. ‘Lord, I hope she isn’t clever or funny. I have no idea what to do with women who are clever or funny.’

  ‘Of course she’s clever. Funny, too.’ Victor looked at Lord Wetton, brow furrowed. ‘We told her under the window. Remember?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s all romantic rot.’ Lord Wetton brushed invisible specks of dust off of his cuffs. ‘Who really gives a fig what she’s actually like, Bale—she’s dash
ed pretty, and dashed agreeable, and sure to give a man a brace of bouncing children.’ He reached out, grabbing a glass of champagne from a tray proffered by a silent servant. ‘Those are the most important characteristics.’

  The man really was most violently unpleasant. A wave of revulsion rose in Victor for what he was being made to do; the sordidness of the conduct he was involved in. It couldn’t be borne by any reasonable man, could it—or rather, no normal man, no man that didn’t have a life-debt hanging weightily over their heads…

  ‘Look! Up there. She’s coming down.’ Lord Wetton eyed the stairs hungrily, champagne sloshing onto his fingers. ‘Or is it the maid?’

  ‘No.’ Victor felt utterly hollow as he followed Lord Wetton’s gaze, seeing a distant shadow vanish from view. ‘It is the lady.’

  His lady. A lady who deserved infinitely more than this. Victor prayed, his eyes on the shining staircase, that his words would be much less attractive to Isabella Thurgood when they were spoken up close.

  Isabella took a single step back into the safety of her bedroom, eyes closed as she leaned against the wall for a long, breathtaking instant.

  Him.

  Lord Bale. The man who she had seen once as he had sat in a carriage, the curtains half-pulled across its window. Isabella had been standing on the theatre steps, painstakingly dressed in her cold-weather finery as her friends had excitedly clustered around her; she had been cold, and bored, and half-inclined to pretend she had a headache, before she had caught a glimpse of Lord Bale’s face.

  His eyes had sent a strange, shivering jolt through her, even though he hadn’t been looking directly at her. Grey, and troubled; troubled in a way she felt reflected in the roots of her own soul; his face unique in a way she had never previously experienced.

  When he had turned his head, and Isabella had seen the extent of the red, gouging scars that patterned one side of his face, she felt no panic or disgust. If anything, the marks explained the depth of feeling she had seen in the man’s eyes—a knowledge of pain, a compassion, that she had never thought was possible to see in someone without having met them.

  She felt as if she had met the scarred man, there on the theatre steps. Met, and spoken, and felt, and wanted, and—why, she had sunk into a delicious, impetuous dream of an imagined future, an impossible series of events, as the first traces of snow had begun to settle on her hat. For a little more than a moment she had stood there, dreamily staring… until an acquaintance had jokingly pointed out the carriage, explaining that it belonged to a well-known monster, and Isabella had known that further acquaintance would be impossible. Not because she was frightened of censure—but because she knew that she could never subject the man to the petty cruelties of the people who called themselves her friends.

  That, of course, was before she had known of his interest in her. Those words spoken the previous night had not been calculated fripperies; Isabella knew, knew without question, that they had been true expressions of Lord Bale’s deepest self. If he had seen so much of her; if he had been observing her, thinking of her, wanting her… why, the world became full of possibilities again.

  She wondered, for a moment, if she would simply faint before she had even arrived in the ballroom—if she would have to be carried away and fussed over, and cause yet another wave of gossip to flood through the ton. She clutched Daisy’s arm as her maid prepared to leave for the servants’ quarters, suddenly speechless.

  ‘My lady?’ Daisy looked at her, concerned. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘... Yes. Of course.’ Even as Isabella recovered her powers of speech, she felt uniquely incapable of sounding her normal self. ‘I tripped. I—oh, Daisy, I am excited.’

  ‘I am glad. This is the first time I have seen you excited at the idea of dancing in goodness knows how long. But I must leave—your guests have no wish to see me.’ Daisy gave Isabella a warm, frank smile. ‘They only wish to see you.’

  Isabella smiled back, thinking that she now longer wished to see anyone but Lord Bale. Lord Bale, who had been speaking to Lord Wetton with such evident seriousness that Isabella knew, knew without a doubt, that they had been discussing her.

  She felt hot. Hot all over, and languid, and thrilled in a way she knew was forbidden. A way that led to temptation, transgression—all manner of delicious sin.

  Isabella squared her shoulders, smiling.

  Finally.

  Victor watched Isabella descend, his gaze lost in the universal stare of the ton as they watched each careful footstep, her hand pale and lovely as it slid along the bannister. She was magnificent, and exhausted, and expectant—all at the same time.

  Victor had never been arrogant enough to assume he knew the inner workings of Isabella Thurgood’s heart with a single glance; he had met men like that, and realised their supposed talent for listening was really a talent for impressing their own feelings upon the hearts of others. But he did have an instinct for faces… and a love for Isabella’s face, with all its bright, brittle beauty, that led his instinct to a greater understanding.

  Magnificent, he had expected. Exhausted—well, the ball was a resounding success, and even successes could be draining. Expectant… Victor’s heart rose in him, frighteningly light and joyous, when he considered exactly why Isabella might be expectant.

  His words. She was expecting more of his words; she had liked what she had heard. Then he remembered that she would be hearing his words through the imperfect medium of Lord Wetton, and his brief flame of hope was abruptly snuffed out.

  ‘Tell me something encouraging, Bale. Please.’ Lord Wetton murmured in his ear, his voice full of a sort of resentful panic. ‘Perhaps she’s simply too pretty. A man can develop a complex.’

  ‘You have prepared. You have memorised.’ Victor didn’t have it in him to assure his success; he was enthusiastically praying for the man to fall on his face, even though it meant his debt remained unpaid. ‘There is really nothing more you can do—look. She is already making her way to us.’ He watched her approaching, his heart beating painfully in his chest as her beauty struck him all the more powerfully. ‘Just say the words we agreed on, and try not to trip over your own feet.’

  ‘I cannot possibly promise both.’ Lord Wetton’s anguished look of worry became a broad, insincere smile as Isabella moved closer. ‘But thank you—and remember, you can dance with any of the ladies who wish to dance with me!’

  Victor sunk back into the crowd before he had to bow to Isabella. The moment was painful enough; he didn’t wish to increase his agony by actually speaking to the one woman who occupied his heart. Better that she curtsey to Lord Wetton, take his proffered hand, and be led through an exhaustive series of compliments that Victor had painstakingly prepared… his passion for her, his ugliness, would only spoil the purity of his words.

  Not knowing what to do with himself, too gloomy to talk but too anxious to simply retire to a card table or a dark corner, he wandered fretfully through the crowds. Curious whispers dogged his footsteps, along with the occasional slyly covered mouth, but he didn’t care; his gaze hung upon the shining hem of Isabella’s gown as she moved and twirled through one dance, then two, then three, with Lord Wetton as her partner.

  ‘Goodness.’ A nearby voice pulled Victor briefly back to his senses. ‘She is showing a very clear preference. Has she ever danced more than two dances with a single gentleman?’

  ‘No.’ There was the impatient flutter of a fan. ‘Although I suppose there’s no accounting for taste—Lord Wetton is well-made, I suppose.’ There was a slightly arch chuckle. ‘He must have astonishing linguistic powers.’

  Victor turned, staring hard at the offending parties; a young man with an insolent face, and an elderly lady with too much powder in her hair. He looked at them unblinkingly, watching them jump with shock at his face—the red edges of his scars just visible beyond the outline of his mask—until, murmuring with slightly ashamed voices, they moved back into the crowd.

  Vultures. Victor realised he was
breathing hard; he could take any number of ignorant comments about his face, but sly suggestions of impropriety where Isabella was concerned were not to be borne. Her reputation glittered, yes—but she was young, and beautiful, and kind to everyone, and so she was in much more danger than she thought.

  ‘Lord Bale.’ Isabella’s voice; close, and quiet. Victor, turning as slowly as he could, wondered if he was in more danger than anyone else.

  ‘Miss Thurgood.’ He bowed deeply. When had she stopped dancing? ‘My friend—’

  ‘Your friend has briefly retired from dancing in order to fetch me some water. I have grown far too spirited; I am like a child in need of refreshment.’ Isabella’s curls quivered as she laughed; Victor looked at the roses in her cheeks, the candlelit curve of her shoulders, and took a ragged breath. ‘But we have both agreed that you are far too full of gloom, in a place that is meant to allow only merriment—and as the hostess, responsible for the cheer of every one of my guests, I must perform an act of pleasant duty.’ She held out her hand, smiling. ‘You are to dance with me, Lord Bale.’

  Duty. Of course dancing with him would be duty for Isabella; of course it would not be pleasure. Victor paused, his heart filling with gall, knowing that he needed to take her hand but finding himself unable, utterly unable, to do so.

  ‘Lord Bale?’ There was a soft, near-hidden glint in Isabella’s eye; Victor couldn’t help but notice it. It was as if she were playing a game, and not necessarily a malicious one. ‘Indulge Lord Wetton and I.’

  Pursing his lips, trying not to sigh, Victor placed his hand in hers. The warmth of her palm sent a quick, savage pulse of feeling through him; he blinked, steadying himself. ‘Of course.’

  As he led her to the centre of the room, the openly curious faces of the other couples in the set falling on his skin like freezing raindrops, Victor redefined his vision of hell. Before it had been full of slavering dogs, ready to finish the job the first one had begun… now, for him, hell was a beeswax and rose-scented ballroom. A ballroom full of people about to excitedly watch him dance with Isabella Thurgood.