Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  Isabella, Isabella, Isabella. Victor’s head rang with her; his body, his nerves and blood and galloping, unleashed lust, murmured her name throughout the night as he tossed and turned in bed. She had lost herself again on that bench, flooding his fingers with her pleasure as she had sighed in his ear—God, what fortune-teller would have predicted it? That the bliss he had always imagined, always craved, had been even better in reality?

  He hadn’t slept. No mortal could possibly sleep under such conditions. He had lay fitfully between his sheets until dawn had kissed the windowpanes, slaking his lust with his own hand again and again, reliving the memory that had already become the defining point of his adult life.

  He had given pleasure before. He had taken it, too, but it had never felt as strong as this. As strong as Isabella’s whispers in his ear, her breasts warm and soft in his hands, her core wet and hot and cravenly sweet against his tongue.

  He forced himself not to think beyond pleasure. Of course his sentiments concerning Isabella went acres and acres beyond pleasure—why, they were so deep that they were almost frightening—but it would be beyond presumption to assume a deep attachment on her part. She was far more beautiful than he, and far more favoured; she could pick and choose her loves, even if it appeared that he would only ever have one.

  He intended to remove himself from Lord Wetton’s harebrained scheme as soon as humanly possible. Unfortunately, as Victor strode manfully into the Club the following day, he was met with a complete absence of Lord Wetton. No-one had exact knowledge of the man’s whereabouts; diverse sources had seen him ordering new breeches, buying a monstrously expensive bottle of scent, and making a slow and exacting tour of St Bride’s church with a vicar trailing anxiously in his wake.

  The man was clearly marriage-minded; no doubt people had already begun to talk. Victor, not to be defeated at the first hurdle, went dutifully to tailor, perfumer and church with a head full of suitable apologies, excuses—Lord, if he could only find the man! Despite paying carriage drivers exorbitant amounts to drive him over the greater half of London, the sun rising in the sky to its highest point and sinking again once more, Lord Wetton was completely impossible to catch.

  As evening spread through the crowded streets, bringing the sounds and scents of pleasures that only came with darkened skies, Bale realised that the man would not be caught. But there was no way of letting Isabella know that he could not go to the house on Regent Street, would not go, was too noble to go…

  … He wasn’t too noble to go. His body, gleefully ignoring every limit that his mind imposed upon it, compelled him to go with the urgency of a dagger at his back.

  Without quite tracing his route home, or thinking consciously about the careful way in which he chose and prepared his clothes for he and Isabella’s meeting, he eventually found himself looking up at the vast, glorious edifice of Maldon’s Regent Street townhouse.

  Wondering how to enter the place without attracting attention, he was distracted by a long, low whistle. Victor looked distractedly about him, expecting to see a laughing group of gossipers or a shocked couple, and instead saw a young man standing discreetly off to the left side of the house.

  Without saying a word, the man jerked his head to the left. Following the man’s emphatic gesture, Victor saw a small path running down the side of the house; small, ill-lit, and half-obscured by a tangle of overgrown weeds.

  ‘Should I…’ He turned back, pointing to the path—but the helpful young man had vanished.

  Shaking his head, fighting the urge to swear, Victor forced himself to walk down the dark alleyway. He pushed the dingy, anonymous door open, sure that he was about to walk into a trap—and cried out, astonished, as he came face-to-face with Richard Maldon.

  ‘Bale.’ Maldon’s smile glittered with curiosity. ‘How nice of you to finally visit.’

  It felt strange beyond measure, exchanging the usual pleasantries with Maldon as they climbed the stairs together; stranger still as Victor looked about him, taking in the opulent decorations and tinted glass that all but screamed the true nature of the house he was in. When they finally came to a stop outside a dark wooden door, Victor had the sense that he had walked into the deepest heart of a dream.

  ‘The room is completely new, Bale.’ Maldon opened the door with a key that he dropped into Bale’s hand, throwing out an arm to gesture to the surroundings. ‘Just furnished—it’s going to be my prize for any aristocracy with burning hearts and full pockets. Barons and above, only.’ He smiled at Bale. ‘You are to christen it. Would you like to smash a bottle of champagne on the headboard?’

  Bale rolled his eyes. ‘You really are unspeakably sordid.’

  ‘Yes, I am—but I am also speaking entirely in jest.’ There was real, human warmth in Maldon’s voice—a quality he rarely showed outside of the walls of the Club. ‘There is no-one in the building apart from the doorman, the young man you saw on the street, who will leave with full pockets as soon as your guest arrives. I will leave as soon as the signal is sounded. And whatever occurs here—even if it is little more than a game of whist—the room will be yours forever, free of charge. No-one will be paying for the privilege of using it.’

  ‘That… that is quite the gesture.’ Victor looked suspiciously at Maldon. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’

  ‘Because we are friends, Bale. And because, despite my debauched exterior, I have the soul of a poet languishing beautifully on a mountaintop.’ Maldon winked. ‘And possibly because this house is already too small for the business it attracts. I’ll be shutting most of it, and moving the action to Mayfair.’

  The sentence was so classically Maldon that Victor burst out laughing. The two men laughed together, the sound muffled as it fell against the richly upholstered chairs and silken cushions.

  ‘I really do not know how to thank you enough.’ Victor smiled, the candlelight making the bedroom glow warmly. ‘Truly.’

  ‘I know, Bale. But if you really wanted to thank me, you could thank me by telling me exactly who the bloody hell you’re meeting here.’ Maldon shook his head, his easy smile tempering the real curiosity that shone in his eyes. ‘I’ve been running this little place for years, now, and you’ve never expressed so much as a peep about the whole affair. Now you’re bringing a woman here.’

  A lady. Victor knew that he couldn’t correct him. Maldon’s house in Regent Street, still new by London standards, had welcomed any number of ladies and gentlemen from every possible social class—but someone as currently well-known as Isabella Thurgood would invite a tidal wave of gossip. The entrances were hidden, the servants well-bribed, the carriages outside determinedly anonymous—but still.

  That was if she came, of course. There was every possibility that Isabella simply wouldn’t come; that she would think better of it. Victor, trying to shake the unwelcome thought, started in shock as a low whistle came from the lower floors.

  ‘Ah. The doorman has done his last job of the night.’ Maldon’s smile was warm. ‘Your guest has arrived.’

  Victor woodenly bowed his way through their goodbyes, breathing a shaky sigh of relief as Maldon vanished through a small door at the rear of the room. This house had to be full of secret passages, ways to arrive and leave unobserved… and now he was here, alone, with Isabella.

  There was a soft knock at the larger door. Victor, his heart in his mouth, opened it; he stepped back as Isabella, carefully cloaked and bonneted, walked into the room.

  They stared at one another for a moment, the air crackling around them. With hands that Victor could see were trembling slightly, Isabella removed her cloak and bonnet.

  She was beautiful. Even more beautiful that she was in a ballroom, being the Isabella Thurgood that everyone expected. Here, stripped of all adornment, she was the most perfect thing that Victor had ever seen.

  ‘I look so very like Daisy when I do little to my hair, and leave my rouge pot undisturbed.’ Isabella smiled, shaking her head; Victor watched a rogue curl escape
its bonds. ‘I was almost pulled into conversation with a greengrocer. Apparently the peas we ate last week were the best of the—’ She stopped, taking a shaky breath. ‘Forgive me. I am nervous.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ Victor moved towards her, taking her hands in his; how strange it was that he could touch her like this, unobserved, his fingers making slow, comforting circles against her palms. ‘You may leave, of course. I should have remembered that this much more difficult for you than—’

  ‘No.’ Isabella’s tone was firm, if fragile. ‘I wish to be here very much. I wish to be here, with you, very much.’ Her eyes darted away for a moment, before coming to rest on Victor’s face with a look of slight embarrassment. ‘The reason for my nerves is somewhat foolish.’

  ‘I see.’ Victor didn’t know whether to smile or frown. ‘May I enquire as to what the reason is?’

  ‘I…’ Isabella sighed. ‘In plain clothes, and with none of the womanly aids to beauty which clutter my dressing table, I feel distinctly flat.’ She swallowed. ‘I worry that, away from ballrooms and starlit gardens, you will think I am ugly.’

  Victor couldn’t help smiling incredulously. He opened his mouth—and stopped, nonplussed, as Isabella held up her fingers to his lips.

  ‘I know that you divine the secrets of my heart most expertly, Victor. Allow me to demonstrate a modicum of the same talent.’ She spoke quietly, her voice more serious than Victor had been expecting. ‘I know that you are going to try and assuage my fears by making a humorous reference to your own looks—that you are ugly too, or uglier than I, or that ugliness and beauty are irrelevant to us. They are not. I, at heart, despite my foolish fears, know that I am beautiful—you neither honour me nor yourself by describing yourself as ill-looking. I know that you are beautiful too. I will leave, now, if you refuse to let me describe you as such.’

  Silenced, overwhelmed by the strength of his own sentiments, Victor pulled her closer. He kissed her, sighing at the softness of her mouth, feeling her quiver as he pulled away.

  ‘I will let you call me beautiful.’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘You may call me the world’s most well-looking gentleman—if you tell me that you are not ashamed.’ He gently waved his hand, taking in the surroundings. ‘Of this. Of being here, with me, about… about to do what we will do.’

  ‘No.’ Isabella looked at him. ‘With you, I do not think I could feel any kind of shame. It…’ A high blush came to her cheeks, like the petals of a rose. ‘It feels almost holy.’

  Holy. Isabella was holy; she was his goddess, and Victor wished to do nothing more than worship her.

  With eager hands, with hearts too full to speak any longer, they fell upon one another. Victor couldn’t decide whose clothes to remove first, hers or his own; they had already gone too far in the gardens for moderation, for restraint. Isabella had welcomed everything he had done—every daring touch, every kiss beneath her skirts. She was ready now for his ardent sighs in her ear, his hands fitfully pulling at her bodice and sleeves and petticoats until, one by one, her garments fell to the floor.

  He gasped as he felt her hands on him too; pulling at his waistcoat, his breeches. Not only did she welcome him… perhaps she thought he was simply being too slow. Victor smiled, aiding Isabella’s fretful touch, as she slowly stripped him of all the clothing he had.

  As the true extent of his scars were revealed thoroughly, he couldn’t help but shiver. He had wanted to apologise; to explain how they looked, the angry red curls and gouges that marked his side. But Isabella had been so clear; he was not to say that he was ugly, even in jest, even if he believed it down to the depths of his very soul… and as her eyes moved over his skin, Victor could see nothing but lust. Nothing but the sweet, clear anticipation of pleasure.

  With clenched fists, he pulled down her chemise. Isabella laughed as she stepped free of the garment; her nakedness, golden and glorious, stole the air from Victor’s lungs. From the line of her neck, the swell of her breasts, to the downy triangle of curls that had already brought him so much pleasure between her thighs… she was perfect.

  They stared at one another. Isabella, a marvelling smile on her face, moved to the bed. She slowly settled herself on the opulently embroidered coverlet, her hair half-undone as it spilled over her shoulders; Victor bit his lip, unable to believe that he was standing before her.

  ‘Come here.’ Isabella held out her hands. ‘I need you here.’

  Too hungry for her to hold himself back, too full of lust and sentiment entwined together, Victor went to her. Her skin was divinely soft beneath his fingers, her pale loveliness such a marked contrast to his own scarred flesh that it took Victor’s breath away. Kneeling over Isabella as she sank onto the pillows, ardently stroking and kissing her neck and shoulders, her felt a savage jolt of lust as Isabella’s fingers closed over his cock.

  ‘Closer.’ She pulled him gently, lightly, her laugh becoming a gasp as his rigid shaft rested at the meeting of her thighs. ‘Much closer.’

  Victor couldn’t help but moan as his body covered hers. His scars didn’t matter here, so close to her; they were one flesh, a quiet singular world of kisses and sighs. Isabella’s hands roamed slowly over his back, her slow, marvelling touch the same whether she touched scarred flesh or smooth, and Victor bent his head to her breasts in rapt gratitude.

  ‘Ah!’ Isabella arched her back, a playful smile spreading over her face as Victor’s tongue found her nipples. He licked and sucked, pulling her swollen, rose-flushed peaks into his mouth with an ardency that bordered on ferocity, watching her blush rise upward to her neck as he lavished her body with his complete attention. It had been erotic when they were both half-clothed in the gardens, exploring one another, there was no denying that—but this, her ripe, glorious nakedness pressed against his own unclothed body, felt like something approaching a sacrament.

  He moaned harshly as his cock slipped between Isabella’s thighs, pressing against her entrance. Isabella’s gasp rippled through her body; she clutched him tightly, bringing Victor’s lips to hers in a taut, trembling kiss.

  ‘I cannot hurt you.’ Victor rested his brow against Isabella’s own, breathing hard. ‘I do not want to hurt you.’

  You will not hurt me. Even if you do, I have decided that it is of no consequence.’ Isabella shifted her hips upward; Victor moaned, helpless against the onslaught of pleasure as the head of his cock slid closer to her wet, hot centre. ‘And you cannot pretend that you do not want this.’ Her voice was the most delicious entreaty Victor had ever heard. ‘Can you?’

  ‘No.’ Victor pressed his lips to hers, his hands cradling her face. ‘I have always, always, wanted this.’

  Keeping his brow against hers, a rush of pure sentiment obliterating any last traces of fear, he sank inside her with a long, low moan.

  God, she was tight, so tight; Victor forced himself to hold still, to wait as Isabella tensed beneath him. Her half-closed eyes clouded briefly with pain; Victor kissed her nose, her cheeks, showering a multitude of loving kisses onto her skin as he murmured sweet words, feeling wave after wave of sensation flood his core as he controlled himself.

  Eventually, with a shivering half-moan that thrilled through Victor like a note of music, Isabella moved her hips again. Victor moaned as he sank deeper; she was tightening around him, welcoming him, drawing him further inside…

  ‘Yes.’ Isabella’s whisper found his heart. ‘Yes.’

  Dimly remembering that he was meant to move, not simply to float in ecstasy, Victor began a slow, deep grind. He couldn’t push Isabella further than she was ready to go, or hurt her; he listened to every sound she made, every whimper and sigh, responding to her mute instructions with the movements of his body. He had never had this before, not once; the sense of secret, wordless communication with a woman as he thrusted slow and deep, his mouth lingering at her breasts, her nipples, her mouth as she sighed and moaned… but this was Isabella, the woman he loved, and they had been speaking their hearts to one another before t
hey had even met.

  Soon, without paying attention to time and space—to anything but Isabella—Victor realised that his thrusts had become quicker, more animal. He paused, not knowing whether he should give into the bestial desire to claim, to possess—but Isabella’s cry of pure frustration, the way her hips shifted eagerly to take him deeper, let him know that his worries were baseless. With a breathless burst of laughter, Isabella’s answering smile warming him like sunshine, Victor let his call for release take over.

  ‘Oh, God.’ The words came almost as a growl; he couldn’t steady his thrusts now, fast and potent, the feel of Isabella’s hot, wet core sending pulses of sheer delight through every one of his nerves. Her curves were the perfect foil to his hardness; she eagerly met his every thrust, hips lifting from the bed, breasts soft and heavy as they swayed back and forth… and her face, oh, her face. The bliss in her eyes.

  ‘I…’ Isabella looked up at him, biting her lip. ‘It’s—it’s going to happen.’ One hand rested shyly against Victor’s hips; Victor bit back a moan as he felt her fingers urging him on. ‘Soon—oh, soon.’

  ‘Then come for me.’ Victor leaned down, kissing her, his tongue gently stroking the roof of Isabella’s mouth as she began to quiver beneath him. ‘Come.’

  It was as if Isabella had needed his words; Victor felt her buck beneath him, her moan becoming a long, drawn-out cry as her climax began to make itself felt. His own peak was already arriving, already here—all he needed was to feel Isabella’s own pleasure flooding him, her own desire satisfied, before he could give himself permission to let go.

  ‘I love you.’ Isabella’s quick, breathless murmur stilled his heart. ‘I do.’

  Victor’s only answer was a moan, a helpless moan of pure feeling, as his climax came sooner than expected.

  Isabella came back to earth by slow degrees. When she finally opened her eyes, soft and satisfied in a way she had never previously felt, she saw Victor looking down at her with intense concentration.