‘Richard.’ His sister was using her special, soft voice that Maldon knew she only used when being perceptive. ‘Are you sure that nothing is troubling you?’
‘Yes, Poppy.’ Maldon began to eat more decisively. ‘Nothing can trouble one, if one hits upon a solution in time.’
Poppy Maldon managed to contain herself throughout the hastily-eaten pudding, the barely-drunk coffee, and the effusive goodbyes of her brother. Only as the wheels of Richard’s carriage crunched on the drive, announcing his departure, did she and her mother exchanged identical, word-weary glances.
‘Goodness me.’ Poppy sighed. ‘Does he really think we do not know the source of his malady?’
‘Men never think they exaggerate when it comes to emotional expression. Their emotions are objective, to them—is is us flighty females who go to extremes.’ The Dowager Duchess laughed gently. ‘But my poor son cannot possibly believe that he is behaving well.’
‘I imagine he thinks he is suffering very manfully.’ Poppy took a grape from the large bowl at the centre of the table, ignoring her mother’s frown. ‘All of this sighing over some paramour.’
‘At least he is finally doing so. Whoever the woman is, it is the first time I have seen my son so affected.’ The Dowager Duchess frowned more deeply, watching the roses blow in the breeze scudding over the lawns. ‘One hopes the lady is from a nice family, if not a particularly good one. All that talk of class.’
Poppy tried to resist the urge to snort. The idea of her brother forming an honest attachment to a wealthy, respectable lady or gentleman was nigh-on impossible, given the business he had chosen to conduct. Far better for him to find someone free of the pressures that titles and names pressed on one—a sensible woman, with a good head on her shoulders and the ability to keep Richard’s restless mind focused.
She looked at her mother, suddenly concerned. ‘Is it really of the highest importance that Richard find a girl of good family?’
‘Of course I would like dear Richard to find himself a girl of good family.’ The Dowager Duchess looked hard at Poppy before sighing elegantly. ‘I would also like the girl to be perfectly beautiful, perfectly good, in possession of an enormous fortune, with acres and acres of good grousing land and the magical ability to keep fish fresh in the warmest of summers. Alas, one can rarely have everything one wants.’ She sighed again, staring into the middle distance. ‘And given the unexpected happiness I found with your father, my dear, I am more concerned with Richard’s contentment than I am with his reputation.’
‘Mother.’ Poppy paused delicately, wondering how on earth she could broach the subject of her brother’s uneasy status in the eyes of the ton. ‘It is hardly as if Richard’s reputation is so very unimpeachable.’
‘Quite.’ The Duchess’ expressive eyes said more than her restrained tone ever could. ‘Which is why I shall allow a little more leeway in his choice of life companion than with you, my flower. You are far better-behaved than Richard, and your husband shall be above reproach as well.’
‘Oh, Mother. I rather think marriage would spoil my fun.’ Poppy smiled at the thought of the Season to come, her second, with all of the enjoyment that it would entail. A scandalous brother was meant to impede one’s romantic prospects, but the Maldon wealth had managed to keep Poppy untarnished in the eyes of the ton. ‘Especially to one of the current crop of gentlemen.’
‘Oh, now, they are not so very bad.’ The Dowager Duchess had one hand on her chin as she mused. ‘Some of Richard’s friends are perfectly capable of being brought up to scratch, despite their unusual lack of interest in courtship.’
Poppy covered her mouth, lost in giggles. The idea of any of Richard’s friends behaving as a suitor was so amusing that it was enough to lose one’s composure—why, imagine Harding pressing his suit, or that strange man Selby! Or Grancourt, who always looked so determinedly miserable at every social occasion. As if he had told himself not to smile, or laugh, or even look as if he were going to. Poppy sat, her smile fading a little, realising that she felt almost personally slighted by the man’s obvious lack of enthusiasm for fun.
‘Make sure you are courted by someone cheerful, dear.’ The Dowager sipped her tea. ‘I am terribly worried that Richard’s dramatics mean he is to bring me a girl who wears black veils and reads novels before breakfast.’
‘Of course, Mother.’ Poppy banished the glowering figure of Grancourt from her mind with more difficulty than expected. ‘Any and all of my suitors will liven any winter evening.’
There were an infinite number of very practical things a woman could do in the absence of her employer. Ellen had made a neat mental list, with entries placed in order of how useful and engaging each activity would be.
Unfortunately, intentions became weak and useless things when struck against reality’s coalface. Ellen’s neat mental list, which included buying thread and speaking to the fishmonger about the state of the previous week’s salmon, rapidly became more cramped and scribbled as her emotions began to make themselves more clearly felt. First shock, then a kind of numbness, then an immense feeling of being useless for anything but sleep… by Saturday evening, even sleep seemed impossible.
‘You absolute nit.’ She admonished herself with extreme viciousness, sitting miserably in the study as the pleasure-house conducted its trade around her. Women reliant upon wages, even women with duties as ill-defined as hers were, simply could not fall into such atrocious attacks of moping. Why, there was no reason for it—she was still being paid, and the running of the place went like clockwork, and it wasn’t as if she would be in charge of every brick and stone for more than a week.
He would be back in a week, wouldn’t he?
‘You are more than a nit.’ Ellen looked grimly at the bottle of claret sitting on the corner of the desk, wondering when the drink Maldon normally provided for curious guests had begun to look so attractive. ‘You are the worst kind of idiot.’
She was in no fit state to examine her sentiments. She was really in no condition to even acknowledge that there were sentiments; powerful ones, that had crumbled her list to dust after only a day of separation. Sentiments that had begun flowering in her breast the moment that she had seen His Grace, all six feet of him, and stared into his mischievous green gaze.
If only it were just his looks! Ellen was a practised hand at ignoring good-looking men. If Maldon were simply handsome, she would have found a way to push her attraction into a dusty drawer at the back of her mind and simply forget about it. Alas, Maldon was not only handsome; he was intelligent, witty, gentle with friends and ruthless with enemies, as well as being broad-minded in ways that Ellen had certainly never expected, let alone expected to appreciate so very much…
… And when he said her name, she heard music. When they looked at one another in shared humour, or shared curiosity about a customer’s quirks, it was as if they were the only two in possession of the world’s secrets.
And that moment in the study, when she had almost revealed everything… when he had looked as if he were going to stride across the room, sweep her up in his arms and…
And what? Leave for the countryside again?
‘Not just an idiot.’ Ellen reached for the claret, glumly noting that the vintage would have cost at least a year’s worth of her former wages. ‘There are words for you that haven’t been invented yet.’
One glass dulled her misery a little. Two glasses made Ellen feel as if she were floating on something infinitely soft; a cloud, perhaps, or the pelt of a sleeping bear. The third glass, filling her with a mad, shaky courage, made her determined to do something a little more interesting than simply weeping in the study for the remainder of the night.
She was going to be scandalous. Why shouldn’t she be—she was already working in a brothel, after all. And for the first time in her month of service, she was going to pay attention to that fact.
The bottle of claret fitted easily into her hand as she strode down the stairs, absent-mindedly
noting the silence of the place. The maids had their afternoon off, and the doorman would no doubt be conducting the ladies and gentlemen to their rooms in Maldon’s absence. Ellen, frowning, wondered what sort of scandal she felt physically capable of making.
Should she visit Mrs. Stroke, and her various implements of discipline? No.
Should she go to the room with the mock Roman bath, and watch the men pretending to be gladiators together? No.
Should she simply sit on the floor and cry until Maldon returned? Well…
Aha. Ellen took a triumphant swig of the claret as the idea came to her.
The Viewing Room.
She had never summoned up enough courage to go to the Viewing Room before. The small, cramped, windowless room that stood next to the largest bedroom, designed for spying on the activities of those who wished to be watched during congress, was very rarely occupied. Ellen had seen Sergio enter several times, presumably at the request of a customer, as well as several of the younger women wishing to learn their trade by watching… and once or twice, she had seen Maldon himself enter the small, dark room.
She hadn’t felt jealous, watching him go inside. Not because she knew she had no claim to him, but because she understood why someone would want to watch the act of love. Understood that desire so deeply, and so thoroughly, that a quiver of what she now knew was lust had flooded her as she had watched Maldon vanish inside the room.
If anything, she was jealous that Maldon was allowed to watch without feeling ashamed. He could watch lustful people kiss, disrobe, take forbidden pleasure in one another’s bodies; he could slake his own lust, satisfy it, there in the dark. Ellen, whose greatest liberty was coming to work at a house of pleasure, had never allowed herself to fully partake in any of the erotic bliss that lay at her fingertips.
She looked down at the bottle of claret, then at the door of the Viewing Room at the other end of the corridor. That, at least, was about to change.
It was the work of a moment, slipping unseen into the room. It was still less work to run her fingertips along the wallpaper, a single wall-sconce illuminating the tiny space with dim candlelight, to find the peep-holes that revealed the bedroom to a searching eye. There was barely enough room to sit, let alone comfortably; only two people, at most three, could view the bedroom in any kind of dignified position.
Ellen, pressing herself to the wall, sank to her knees. The bedroom on the other side of the wall was empty, but she could see that fresh candles had been lit. Guests were coming to use the bedroom; Ellen, for all her attempts at organisation, could not remember their names. All she knew was that they would be expecting an audience.
She was so engrossed in the sight of the prepared bedroom, the anticipation of what was to come, that she barely heard the door open. As Ellen turned, ready to deny what she was doing until blue in the face, she jumped.
Maldon. Maldon, still in his travelling clothes, staring at her in open shock.
Ellen couldn’t move. Where would she go? She couldn’t open her mouth either; there was nothing she could say, no possible combination of words, would extricate herself from such a situation. She simply stared, wordless, as Maldon stared back… and watched, too shocked to breathe, as he stepped over the threshold.
His eyes were full of something unrecognisable; an emotion that Ellen knew was clear in her own face. There was a softness in his expression, a kind of awe, that was unutterably dear to her. Their last conversation rose in Ellen’s mind, complete with all of the things that had been left unsaid, now clear and shining in the new light of what she saw in his face.
‘You are back early.’ Stupid words, very stupid ones, but she felt compelled to say them. ‘Very early indeed.’
‘Yes.’ Maldon paused. ‘I did not need to be there.’
‘Your mother.’ Ellen bit her lip. ‘Is she well?’
‘Yes.’
She had to know. ‘Was… was she always well?’
Maldon nodded softly, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘Of course she was.’
He had acknowledged it; the sentiment that had grown between them. The yearning. Ellen, quivering, had no idea what to say next.
Maldon, stooping, moved closer. Ellen thought to move, to shrink to the corner of the room… but another part, of her, a deeper, more stubborn part, wished to stay exactly where she was.
‘May I be here?’ Maldon’s voice was so gentle. ‘While you watch?’
Ellen, biting her lip, nodded.
‘Thank you.’ Maldon knelt down; Ellen briefly closed her eyes as his scent washed over her, full of hedgerows and dusty roads at sunset. ‘Watch.’
Ellen, not knowing what else to do, turned her face back to the peep-hole. The bedroom swam into view once more, still ready for the unseen couple. Her hand traced vaguely over the wallpaper, moving downward, compelled by something deeper than her reason… and then, with a delicious shock that took the breath from her lungs, Maldon’s hand was caught tightly in hers.
‘May I look at your face?’ Maldon’s voice was close. ‘While you watch?’
‘Yes.’ Nothing mattered anymore, not now that his hand was in hers. Ellen had already lost any hope of recovery; perhaps some dark urge of hers, some need that lay unrecognised, had taken her into the viewing room in the hope of being discovered.
Ellen found, to her astonishment, that she didn’t much care. Not with Maldon’s palm tight against hers, as warm and constant a touch as she had frequently imagined.
‘Then keep watching.’ Maldon’s tone was as low and intimate as it had been in the library. ‘They are coming.’
Ellen kept her eye fixed to the peep-hole. It was the only course of conduct that made any kind of sense; the alternative was turning to look at Maldon, staring directly into his sparkling green eyes and finding out what they were becoming to one another. The wine made her tempted, dizzyingly tempted, as if she were about to dive from a cliff into a hot, tumultuous sea.
The bedroom door opened. Ellen watched as dark-haired, gently laughing woman entered the opulent space, followed by a gentleman that watched her with hungry eyes.
‘You needn’t worry about them hearing us. The walls are thick.’ Maldon’s voice washed over her; Ellen bit her lip, trying to keep her eyes on the couple. ‘He is the third son of His Grace the Duke of Starnworth, while she is a ballerina who performs at the Theatre Royal. They are very beautiful, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’ Once again, there was no denying it. The woman’s charms were obvious; there was a ripe flush to her cheeks, a sinuous flow to her walk, that made her incapable of being ignored. The man’s dark, lustful energy, focused directly on the blushing ballerina as she removed her gloves, only heightened the barely concealed tension filling the air.
‘How do you feel?’ Maldon was asking a question that should not, under any circumstances, be asked. Ellen fought the urge to look at him. ‘How do you feel, when you look at them?’
His fingers were hot against her own, tangled in them. Ellen swallowed, trying to find her voice. ‘As if… as if I cannot look away.’
Maldon was silent. His thumb flickered against Ellen’s wrist, once, as the couple in the bedroom moved towards one another.
Ellen covered her mouth with her hand as the man and woman began to kiss. She had never seen kisses like these; raw ones, deep ones, full of the fire that came from long periods of self-denial. The woman gasped openly as the man’s mouth covered her neck, her bared shoulders, each kiss leaving rosy blush-marks on her pale skin as her fingers tousled the man’s dark golden hair.
‘I…’ Maldon’s tone was lower now. Deeper. ‘May I say something to you, Miss Brooke?’
‘Yes.’ Ellen watched the man’s teeth graze the side of the woman’s neck; the woman whimpered, high and delighted, and Ellen tensed as a deep quiver ran through her core. ‘Please.’
Maldon’s hand tightened in hers. ‘I have dreamed of kissing you for God knows how long.’
The quiver came again, deeper this time,
hot sparks flooding Ellen’s nerves. Not trusting herself to turn around, but unable to not respond, she pulled his hand closer. As she watched the man kiss along the border of the ballerina’s dress, moving to the valley of her cleavage, Ellen brought Maldon’s hand to her lips.
She kissed his hand with feverish, desperate intensity. Maldon’s gasp was drowned out by the unabashed moan of the ballerina as the man brought his mouth to her breasts.
Maldon’s voice was ragged. ‘Let me come to you. Keep watching.’
‘Yes.’ Ellen kissed Maldon’s palm, her tongue glancing against his flesh. All she had to do was keep watching the couple through the peep-hole, watch them indulging in things she had only heard through the walls of this house of pleasure, and all that occurred her would remain a divine, forbidden dream.
With a slow, furtive rustle of fabric, Maldon moved behind her. Ellen took in a trembling breath as he leaned close, his breath warm on her ear, his hands resting gently against the wall as she kept her eyes fixed on the couple.
‘What are they doing now?’ His whisper was so much more powerful now; the words practically stroked her flesh.
‘He… he is kissing her b-breasts.’ Ellen’s tongue stumbled over the illicit words as she watched the man pull the woman’s bodice downward. The woman’s breasts were full, her nipples stiff and dark like summer wine; Ellen tensed her thighs as the man eagerly bent to lick and suck one peak, then the other. ‘He is kissing them again and again, and—and lapping them with his tongue… she is pulling his head to her, keeping him there.’
Her own breasts were weighty, aching with need. Ellen waited for Maldon to touch her, silently begging for his hands, before frustration overcame her.
‘I…’ How did being forced to say the words make the pleasure more intense; the bodily want that danced one step away from agony? ‘I need your hands there.’
‘Where, Miss Brooke?’ Maldon’s lips were so close to her skin. ‘Tell me where. Say the words.’
Private Passions Page 93
