Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  The music began. Victor, his mouth dry, tried to remember how to move in a vaguely human fashion.

  ‘I understand that you are Lord Wetton’s particular friend. One to whom he reveals the secrets of his heart.’ Isabella’s tone was light, playful—Victor knew he had to be imagining the current of feeling that seemed to flow beneath her words. ‘Why, you must know exactly what he thinks of me.’

  He doesn’t think of you. He thinks of your pretty face and full purse and fine house, and discards everything else as useless. Victor stepped and turned, moving through the steps of the dance with such wooden efficiency that even the most determined gossipers moved onto easier prey. This was already one of the worst moments of his life; he did not wish to worsen it by embarrassing Isabella with his clumsiness. Neither did he wish to sadden himself by speaking of Lord Wetton’s false affection for the woman opposite him—more glorious, more beautiful and witty and kind, than even he had previously known.

  They came to a pause; Isabella stood opposite him. Victor swallowed, dry-mouthed again at the sight of her so close to him. If the world were different, if he looked different, if the ballroom was empty of all these chattering souls, then—

  ‘Tell me what Lord Wetton has said of me.’ Isabella’s soft, coaxing tone flowed through Victor, unlocking yet more parts of him he normally kept barred. ‘I would so love to know.’

  As he moved with the music, trying to keep pace with Isabella, Victor realised that he was speaking without thinking. He wasn’t saying the carefully crafted phrases that he had given to Lord Wetton; these were small observations, meagre ones, but ones he had previously kept jealously to himself.

  ‘I believe that… that you are constantly in his thoughts. Not as an obsession—even in his own mind, he would not wish to cause you any kind of discomfort. But when he looks at something beautiful, or good, or both, I know without a doubt that he is thinking of you.’ He bit his lip as he almost lost a step; Isabella, seemingly without noticing, corrected her own step to remain in time with him. ‘You help him to become a better man, merely by existing.’ He paused, trying not to let too much emotion enter his voice. ‘He wonders how perfect he would become, how good, if he were honoured by your continual presence.’

  ‘I… once again, I am taken aback.’ Isabella looked down shyly, her cheeks flushed with both exertion and what looked like embarrassment. ‘He thinks so very much of me… and yet, he does not know me well. Not yet.’ She looked back up at Victor, her palm trembling slightly in his. ‘How has he divined so much of my innermost self, despite not knowing me?’

  ‘He would not claim to know you. He is not so arrogant as that.’ Victor wished he could stop speaking, but the opportunity seemed too powerfully glorious to miss. ‘But his thoughts of you are so powerful, so meaningful to him, that he has acquired a knowledge of you that some would see as divination.’

  ‘I see.’ Isabella briefly bit her lip; Victor watched her white teeth sink into the fullness of her lip, struggling against a tide of lust. ‘What a truly singular person my suitor is.’

  Victor, not knowing how to respond without making a complete fool of himself, nodded. They moved with the music in strange, fraught quiet, the air filling with words felt but not said, until Isabella leaned closer.

  ‘He must come here, tomorrow night. He must stand outside as he did the first night, but closer—close enough for me to see his face, as I sit half-hidden in candlelight. It shall be such tremendous fun.’ She smiled; Victor found himself smiling back, even as the practical implications of her plan overwhelmed him. ‘He must press his suit in exactly the same manner as he has done today.’

  ‘Of course.’ Victor swallowed, a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘It shall be done.’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful.’ As the music came to an end, Isabella’s hand slowly slid free of his. Her eyes met Victor’s, a moment of pure, adult frankness quickly vanishing in a sea of glowing satisfaction. ‘I am sure to enjoy myself immensely.’

  Bowing, incapable of a reply, Victor turned and walked away as the orchestra briefly rested. Spotting Lord Wetton’s face in the crowd, he made his way towards him as his heart beat treacherously fast in his chest, his palm still tingling from the memory of Isabella’s touch.

  Lord Wetton was holding two glasses of champagne. His unpleasantly indulgent face, like a father watching his most stupid child complete a simple task, dissolved into unabashed glee as Victor leaned close.

  ‘Tomorrow evening, here at the house. Closer to the window—I cannot be there with you, she will see me.’ He kept his voice low, dying a little with every word spoken. ‘She wishes to hear more of what you think of her.’

  ‘Oh, lord. I don’t think of her all that much.’ Lord Wetton swigged from his glass, a drop of champagne escaping from the corner of his mouth. ‘More work at Simpkins tomorrow, then. If she wasn’t so rich she’d be infinitely more trouble than she’s worth.’

  Victor closed his eyes. If he thought very vividly about knocking the man down in the middle of the ballroom, perhaps he wouldn’t do it in real life. ‘Fortunate, then, that she is very rich.’

  ‘Very. Oh—she’s coming. Refreshment, then, and more dancing.’ Lord Wetton’s eyes gleamed as he set his own champagne glass down. ‘And keep your evening free, Bale—you may not be hiding in a bush, but you will be nearby.’ He briskly patted Victor’s shoulder. ‘I would be singularly incapable of this without you.’

  Victor nodded, Wetton’s words slicing through his heart like a blade. As Isabella’s scent washed over him, alerting him to her presence, he turned and walked away as quickly as possible.

  Hell, then, was not full of dogs. Neither was it full of excited onlookers, watching him and Isabella Thurgood… it was midnight in Isabella Thurgood’s garden, listening to Lord Wetton successfully woo her.

  A day of activity came and went in the Thurgood residence, an army of quiet servants ruthlessly cleaning away every sign of the ball before a clear night slowly fell upon the house. The flowers waited patiently for sunlight, closing their blooms in readiness for sleep, while the London pigeons and mice scurried and flew to conduct their business in more welcoming environments.

  Victor sat gloomily on one of the wooden benches that lined the small walled garden at the back of the Thurgood residence, his breeches stuck with teasels and thorns. The roses would look battered the following morning, but no matter—the gardeners would think a badger had trundled through, or a fox. Not a scarred, half-mad peer of the realm who would be staying for the duration of the night—or at least until Lord Wetton decided that he no longer had need of him.

  He shouldn’t, under any circumstances, have need of him. In a back room at Simpkins, avoiding the exasperated glares of the other members of the Bad Dukes Club, he had painstakingly armed an eager Lord Wetton with an enormous number of compliments, comments, questions and statements—a vast expansion of his original list, a litany of ways to woo a woman the man clearly didn’t give a fig for. Isabella, should she wish to hear them, could be endlessly flattered and entertained… and he would be here, waiting. Waiting for Lord Wetton to affect a sudden cramp, or hearing a noise, and run to him in need of advice.

  Or perhaps he wouldn’t need advice. Victor glowered, the seed of the idea too horrible to stomach. Perhaps Lord Wetton would be so stunningly effective, such a skilled user of stolen words, that Isabella would be overcome enough to invite him to her room…

  Anxiety clawed at his breast, shredding his heart. It wasn’t that he was afraid of being discovered; it would be embarrassing, yes, but more for Lord Wetton than for himself. If anything, he was more frightened of not being discovered. Of convincing Isabella to marry a man who didn’t love her, using stolen words that had come from the very depths of him. Someone would have to detect the ruse, surely… because duty, the worst kind of duty, forbade him from telling Isabella himself.

  Duty had coloured every day of his life, since the accident. Now that he had heard Isabella’s voice clearly
, and danced with her bright gaze opposite his own, Victor wondered if duty would ever feel palatable again.

  Of course, that didn’t matter. That was why it was called duty, and not pleasure.

  ‘Ah.’ The voice shivered through him; Victor stood suddenly, wondering if he had simply imagined the sound.

  Isabella. Isabella, standing at the entrance to the walled garden, the soft grey hem of her dress kissing the ground. Victor blinked; sure that he was seeing something his heart alone had conjured.

  ‘I looked for you in the vegetable garden. That seemed oddly logical, for a time. Then I searched in the glasshouse, but it was intolerably hot.’ Isabella’s smile shone in the dim light. ‘But I suppose the walled garden has a sense to it as well.’ She curtseyed, slow and formal. ‘After all… you are here.’

  Victor blinked again. Perhaps he had taken complete leave of his senses; Isabella couldn’t possibly be here, talking to him. If she was here, then…

  ‘Lord Wetton?’ His voice came out husky, harsh, Victor swallowed, his heart beating loudly in his chest.

  ‘Lord Wetton? Shouting valiantly from the lawns to my maidservant, Daisy, who is installed in my bedroom window with appropriately soft candlelight surrounding her. She has been instructed to listen attentively, sighing prettily at intervals.’ Isabella smiled, stepping forward; Victor watched the starlight fall on her curls, each point of light becoming a waterfall of silver. ‘Do you think Lord Wetton will manage to acquit himself well, or will he stumble without his voice?’

  She knew everything. Of course she did; the plan was foolish from the start. Victor, caught in the moment as surely as a fly in amber, heard his own voice with a small start of surprise.

  ‘I imagine he will. I prepared him well enough, I think.’

  ‘Yes.’ Isabella moved closer, the hem of her gown rustling as it moved against the flowers. ‘I imagine you did.’

  She was coming closer; where had he left his mask? Victor looked at the bench in agony, seeing the slim black shape where he had let it fall earlier. It was dark, but not too dark to conceal the extent of his injuries; she would see him, the marred, ugly parts of him that only a handful of people had ever seen…

  She stood before him. Victor, unable to look into her eyes without shame overwhelming him, turned his head.

  ‘His words were your own.’ Isabella’s voice was graver now. Softer. ‘Yes?’

  Victor nodded.

  ‘Words that came from intellectual curiosity, or… or something deeper?’

  There was no way to lie; she would see through it, just as she had seen through the more elaborate deception. Victor, frowning so intensely that his face hurt, tried to speak as offhandedly as possible.

  ‘Something deeper, of course. I imagine you’re used to—used to men making fools of themselves, by now.’

  Isabella’s soft intake of breath hurt as much as a blow. Victor, unsure if he had wounded her or simply surprised her, risked a quick look at her face.

  She was smiling. Not cruelly, or lightly—she was smiling with warm, disbelieving awe. As if Victor had said something perfect; something that she had wanted to hear very much.

  Be careful. But he didn’t want to be careful—not if being careless felt this wonderful.

  ‘I do not want to be used to it.’ Isabella moved closer still. ‘I do not… I do not think I will ever be used to a sentiment as powerful as this.’ Was Victor imagining things, or did her voice shake just a little? ‘But then, I have only ever felt it once. Possibly because only one man has ever been brave enough to play the fool.’

  She was standing directly in front of him. What woman had ever stood before him in such a manner, apparently unafraid? Her scent, a mixture of candle-smoke, lavender and something undefinable, washed over Victor like rain.

  He stepped forward, unable to stop himself. Now they were closer than he had ever dared to imagine.

  ‘You have seen me, Lord Bale. You have seen to the very depths of me—you have divined my most secret thoughts. Thoughts that I have never dared to speak aloud.’ Isabella’s voice trembled more distinctly this time. ‘And you will not let me see you?’

  ‘You… you are exquisite. Down to your depths. Every part of you is perfect.’ Victor took a deep, ragged breath, determined not to look at her as he spoke. ‘I am nowhere near as blessed.’

  ‘Well.’ Isabella’s warm hand was suddenly on his forearm. ‘Let me be the judge of that.’

  Victor knew that he wouldn’t be able to resist. He wouldn’t be able to say stop, or no—he had been fighting with his own heart for so long, so very long, and it had finally gained the upper hand. All he could do, full of fear and desire and sentiments so strong he could not name them, was surrender to her touch.

  Slowly, delicately, Isabella turned him to face her. Her expression was grave in the starlight; Victor took in her gentle frown, the slight curve at the corner of her mouth, and felt something deep within him flower anew.

  ‘Will I ever be able to convince you of your handsomeness, Lord Bale?’ Isabella stared at him, unblinking. ‘Speak truthfully.’

  ‘I think not.’ Victor heard his own voice as if from very far away. ‘But if anyone could, it would be you.’

  ‘I see.’ Isabella took a step closer; Victor felt the heat of her body. Her scent washed over him again; dreaming flowers, untold luxuries. ‘And how can I best convince you?’

  So many possible answers, and none of them polite enough to say. Victor, biting his lip, decided to tell the absolute truth.

  ‘By… by continuing to look at me.’ He paused, closing his eyes, calming himself. ‘By seeing me.’

  He bit back a gasp as Isabella’s arms slowly, lightly wrapped around his waist. She was holding him; Victor stood still, still as a statue, unable to react to the sudden wave of feeling that ran violently through him.

  ‘Well then, Lord Bale.’ Isabella’s voice had sunk to a whisper. ‘I shall look at you.’

  With a long, slow exhale that seemed to gather Victor up, holding him securely in place, she fell silent. Victor waited for the ambush, the joke—it had to be a joke, a cruel trick. The woman who made his heart race was looking at him, caressing him, her fingers light but potent as they rested against the small of his back… no, this could not be real. It could not be happening.

  He stood, seconds dissolving into minutes, waiting for the joke. But none seemed to come—there were no shouts from the garden gate, or sudden lanterns hoisted in his face. Isabella, her lips slightly parted as her eyes travelled over his face, wasn’t running away.

  He felt safe. Hard, needful, agonised—but safe. Had he ever felt safe under someone’s eyes, since the accident had robbed him of his looks? Victor, caught fast under Isabella’s gaze, knew that he had not.

  He was safe. His arms worked of their own accord; he felt the smooth grey silk of Isabella’s gown against his fingers as he gently circled her waist. Isabella smiled slowly, her sigh of pleasure barely perceptible as Victor moved closer still, watching the bare skin of her shoulder tingle into awareness as his breath settled upon it.

  ‘Do you know how I feel, when I look at you?’ Isabella’s mouth was so close to his ear; Victor felt her warm voice ripple over his skin, his nerves singing in response. ‘Shall I tell you?’

  Frightened. Disgusted. Victor could well imagine the words that could come from Isabella’s lips; words he expected. But everything about tonight was so utterly unexpected, from first to last, that he forced himself to think beyond his fears.

  ‘Please.’ He let his temple rest against Isabella’s forehead; the softness of her skin inflamed him. ‘I… I would like to know. Very much.’

  He heard Isabella’s slight exhale as she smiled. ‘Good. I feel… warm.’

  ‘Warm?’ Another unexpected occurrence. ‘… How?’

  ‘Perhaps warm is not the word. I feel… I feel hot, Lord Bale. As if a thousand bright stars are beneath my skin, making it thrill.’ Isabella moved closer; Victor sighed ha
rshly as her curves finally brushed against his body, hard and waiting for her. ‘I do not think I have ever felt such a thing before. But I know I want to feel it again… I know I wish to keep feeling it now.’

  All Victor could do was nod. His hands had a will of their own; they gripped Isabella’s waist, pulling her closer still. Her delighted gasp moved through him like music; he struggled to control himself, stilling his arms through immense force of will.

  ‘And now I feel it—it is greater still, because we are closer.’ Isabella turned her head; soon her forehead pressed lightly against Victor’s, her mouth so close to his own that it was almost unbearable. ‘Do you feel it too? It is almost painful… but a delicious kind of pain. As if I am lost in the desert and see a lake. All I have to do is reach out, and drink.’

  Victor waited. He couldn’t speak; no words could contain the force of feeling that ran through him.

  ‘Or—or perhaps you are in the desert, and I am the lake. I am still, and waiting for you to reach me. Waiting desperately.’ Isabella’s voice throbbed with feeling; the same feeling that Victor felt deep in his core. ‘I can feel your thirst. Let me quench it.’

  Impossible, unbelievable, that she seemed to need this more than he did. Victor, staring into her eyes, wondered if he were dreaming—until, with a soft determined movement of her head, Isabella brought her mouth to his.

  As soon as the kiss began, Victor knew there was no stopping it. It was already so much more powerful than him, than her, than the both of them; gentle brushes of lips were becoming bolder, sharp breaths of surprise were slowly lengthening into sighs of pleasure. Kissing had never felt so much like play, or speech, or the act of love itself—Isabella’s hands were caressing his face, moving over his scars with apparent indifference as her kisses grew deeper. Soon they were open-mouthed, tongues gently exploring, Victor’s hands moving downwards to stroke along her neck and shoulders.