Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  Private Passions: The Complete Steamy Romance Collection

  by Felicia Greene

  Gentlemen of Pleasure: Lady Sophia’s Gentlemen

  A Gentleman in Theory

  A Gentleman at Christmas

  A Gentleman of Passion

  Rakes and Cakes: The Complete Rakes and Cakes Regency Collection

  A Sprinkling of Scandal

  A Spoonful of Sin

  A Sugar-Plum Soldier

  A Snow-Apple Scoundrel

  A Christmas Confession

  Dukes and Devilry: The Complete Blooming Regency Collection

  A Duke in the Daisies

  The Eglantine Earl

  A Baron with Bluebells

  The Peony Prince

  Queen of the Garden

  Bad Dukes Club: The Complete Bad Dukes Collection

  The Duke and His Debt

  The Duke’s Desires

  The Duke and His Duty

  The Duke and his Dreams

  The Duke and His Destiny

  Gentlemen of Pleasure: Lady Sophia’s Gentlemen

  A Gentleman in Theory

  Prince Amha Ras Yohannes of Ethiopia ran down the alleyway at breakneck speed, almost tripping over a cat. Looking wildly from side to side, darting away as soon as he saw looming shadows on the dirty brick wall, he clambered over the first wrought-iron gate he saw—landing, with a winded thump, in front of a handsome terraced house.

  This was not the behaviour of a prince. Fortunate, then, that Prince Amha Ras Yohannes of Ethiopia was otherwise known as Robert Prince, professional swindler. Robert Prince, professional swindler, feeling distinctly less professional as he heard distant footsteps getting closer and closer.

  ‘Amha! Whatever your bloody name is!’ The hoarse yell rang through the alley and over the gate, unmistakeably enraged. ‘Show your face and take your punishment, you thieving bastard!’

  Robert couldn’t resist a bitter smile. He’d made the mistake of conning Jack Swift—and that meant his punishment wouldn’t be a back-alley beating. He’d end up floating in the Thames, or filling out the meat in Whitechapel’s pies… which meant that hiding was the preferable option, at least for now. Hiding for an hour, running for two, and getting the hell out of London for as long as it took for it all to blow over.

  There’d be somewhere to hide in the elegant house he’d landed in front of. A coal-hole, or a scullery—somewhere to sit in safe, if uncomfortable silence. A silence he could use, if he was feeling particularly good-hearted, to consider all of the mistakes that had led him to this particularly low point.

  With a deliberately inconspicuous walk, keeping out of the way of any windows, he began casing the house. London wasn’t all that silent, even in the places where these beautiful houses stood… but oh, who cared. He could start considering his mistakes anyway.

  It was a mistake, first of all, to be born poor. That was a foolish move. Even more of a mistake to be born poor and black—poor counted more than black, but black made it harder to pretend he was rich. But poor, black, and charismatic… a trinity of errors that had practically written his destiny for him, even as he lay in his cradle.

  Being charismatic had meant charming people into working for him was much easier that doing any work himself. Being charismatic had given him everything a boy of his class could dream of, and more besides; free food from shopkeepers, free clothes from tailors. Even a year or two of free schooling, before he’d been thrown out on his ear for being a little too clever. And as soon as he’d come of age, and his bewildered parents had sent him off to fend for himself… he’d made his next mistake.

  It hadn’t seemed like a mistake at the time. In fact, lying about his charismatic self—his name, his origins, and his wealth—had seemed like the easiest, best idea in the world.

  What’s more, it had worked. He hadn’t begun as Prince of Ethiopia, of course; he’d been an ambassador, a rich merchant, a trader in mysterious medical remedies for all sorts of ailments. A confident smile for the marks, and a share of the profits for any suspicious servants, meant success in any number of prosperous tradesmen’s houses. But why be a trader when you could be a rich merchant, and why be a rich merchant when you could be an ambassador, and why be an ambassador when—with the help of a box of stolen theatre props and a couple of well-paid helpers—he could be the Prince of Ethiopia?

  People loved helping the Prince of Ethiopia. They loved helping anyone rich and titled, but someone rich, titled and black made people feel helpful and superior at the same time. Prince Amha Ras Yohannes had been patronised, yes, but he’d also been given enormous sums of money with only the flimsiest promises of payment in return. Money, and new suits, and hotel suites, and…

  …And women. Lots of very beautiful, very elegant, very married women, who wished to explore outside of their colour while remaining very firmly inside their class. Women who turned to Jack Swift, the omnipotent and omnipresent butler of the wealthiest social circles, to procure the perfect man for the job. Robert Prince, as Prince Amha Ras Yohannes, had been the perfect man for the job.

  He’d done the job very enthusiastically. Right up until this morning, in fact, when a ferocious banging at his door informed him that Jack Swift had discovered his ruse.

  If he’d just been honest with Swift, this would never have happened. A handshake and a split in whatever profits were made, and he wouldn’t be running through London like a chicken escaping the cleaver. But that would have required him to have used his better nature—and his better nature was back in the cramped attic where he slept, along with his moderation and discipline. And his precious collection of theatre tickets and autographs, which acted as physical proof of his wildest dream.

  An acting life. A life on stage, saying words that rang with truth and beauty instead of hollow lies. Rapturous applause and an honest wage for his trouble, instead of ill-gotten handfuls of notes… yes, he’d never been good at working, but to act was to live. Not to work.

  Oh, yes. Robert Prince, actor. About as far away as the moon—and no man would ever land there. Unlike the men chasing him, whose boots would be landing on his throat before he knew it if he didn’t stop dreaming.

  As he shook himself back to reality, he spotted a gutter pipe leading to a small, half-open upstairs window. Deciding with the logic of the desperate that it was probably an empty storeroom, Robert began climbing up the grimy bricks with more force than grace.

  Scraping his fingers, flicking away a spider and briefly hanging by one hand as an ancient piece of pipework shuddered loose, he finally swung himself through the window—landing, with a loud thump and a louder curse, on a hard wooden desk. A desk covered in papers, which fluttered up like a snow flurry as he half-fell, half-jumped, onto the floor.

  This wasn’t, unfortunately, a storeroom, despite being small and tucked away at the back of the house. It appeared to be a bedroom; a bedroom belonging to someone of quality, if the elegant furnishings were anything to go by.

  A woman’s bedroom. A bedroom with a woman in it. A woman staring at him through spectacles; tall and poised, arms folded, a complete lack of fear in her quick, finely-drawn features.

  Robert found himself, against his better judgement, smiling. She looked utterly at home; completely herself. It was as if he had stolen a glance of something that no-one else had ever seen; something small, private. Exquisite.

  When he saw the small, pearl-handled pistol in her hand, he adjusted his impression. Exquisite, and terrifying.

  ‘Well?’ The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Who are you running from, and why should I hide you?’

  Robert looked at the papers scattered about his feet, and the smudges of ink on the woman’s fingers. ‘Do… do people often come in through you
r window as you write? Do your ideas jump off the page as vividly as I have?’

  ‘Good. You speak well enough not to be insane, and your attempt at being funny suggests you’re not desperate enough to do something truly unwise.’ The woman adjusted her spectacles; Robert found himself briefly, improbably captured by the brightness of her blue eyes. ‘And you’re dressed well, and smiling in a sort of half-distracted way… which means we’re in the realm of a gentleman’s disagreement, rather than something that requires Bow Street Runners.’

  A frantic knocking sounded through the house. Robert looked at the strange woman in front of him, wondering how on earth he should proceed.

  Swindling someone meant always being a little more comfortable than your mark, in any situation—but he was utterly uncomfortable. The woman standing in her bedroom, who had every right to have hysterics, seemed much, much calmer than he. Almost as if she had men tramping through her bedroom as a common occurrence.

  A small part of him bristled. When it came to this woman, for whatever reason, he rather hoped his presence would be more of an event.

  ‘The butler will be letting those gentlemen in.’ The woman’s stare didn’t waver. ‘As I said—who are you running from, and why should I hide you?’

  Robert realised, with a sinking sense of destiny, that he was going to tell her the truth. With a stare like that—with eyes like that, a cold, strangely inviting blue—any man would be incapable of lying.

  ‘I’m running from three coves who are probably going to kill me. Or leave me in a distressing condition—and I don’t like being distressed.’ He swallowed, determined to get the next part out as quickly as possible. ‘I misled them, you see. About who I was. And thanks to misleading them, I managed to enjoy a lot of things that, by rights, didn’t belong to me.’

  ‘Goodness.’ The woman’s head tilted a little to one side. ‘What things?’

  ‘Oh, money. Fine houses.’ Damn it, he was going to say it—anything to break that porcelain mask of composure. ‘Other men’s wives.’

  ‘Oh.’ The woman blinked; Robert felt an obscure flush of victory. ‘I see… and why should I hide you, exactly?’

  Well, there was the important question. Robert slowly shrugged, realising that nothing he’d said would convince any sensible person to hide him. ‘I could lie, and say something about Christian mercy or a grand conspiracy or a big reward in the offing, but I won’t. In truth, there’s only one compelling reason to hide me.’

  ‘Only one?’ The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m agog. Let’s hear it.’

  ‘Because…’ Robert was seized by a flash of inspiration that under any other circumstances, he would have called divine. In this moment, in this place, it merely seemed accurate. ‘Because I’m the most exciting thing to happen to you this morning. And if you let those men drag me away, after an hour or so things will be horribly dull again.’ The woman’s lip curled a little, and he couldn’t help smiling in response. ‘You don’t want that. Do you?’

  The woman looked at him for a long moment, the pistol still steady in her hand. Robert knew that the men would be climbing the stairs, running along the corridors… but goodness, how compelling she was to look at. As straight and forceful as an arrow, in a world he was long accustomed to watching pitch and shift with every passing moment.

  It was fascinating. So was her sleek knot of dark hair, pinned tightly to her head, and the wry twist of her mouth. And her eyes… such a clear, powerful blue, like a winter sky. A sky that held secrets of its own.

  She was beautiful. Slightly frightening, too—but then, tigers were beautiful. As were shadows, poison gardens, and frozen lakes… dangerous, but beautiful.

  This, he silently told himself, is why you get yourself into trouble.

  ‘Under the bed.’ The woman gestured gently, putting the pistol into a drawer in her desk. ‘Go.’

  Too struck to even stammer out his thanks, Robert dropped to the ground. Clambering under the woman’s ornate bed, awkwardly curled to hide his feet, he found himself shrouded in warm, intimate darkness.

  Her bedclothes smelled like otto of roses. Robert breathed in the full-bodied, wildly flowery scent, trying to reconcile the severity of the woman he’d just met with the outspoken passion of her perfume. The hundred-petalled rose, its perfume the distillation of wild sensuality… and she had it on her bedsheets.

  No. This was not the time to start wondering about how such control, and such abandon, managed to combine. Even though a certain part of his body, quite immune to practical concerns, seemed inordinately interested in such a combination.

  Through the minute gap between the bed cover and the floor, he watched the woman sit at her desk. She opened the draw, putting the pistol inside, before picking up her pen and beginning to write—as if none of the events of the last minute or so had occurred. Or as if the events weren’t important enough to interrupt her writing.

  Robert had never been ignored so thoroughly. Never been ignored so thoroughly by someone he was concentrating on with such intensity, at any rate. It was oddly frustrating, despite the gravity of the moment.

  Oddly erotic, too. So erotic that for an instant, watching her work, Robert found himself forgetting everything. Forgetting, that is, until there was a loud rap at the door.

  ‘Ma’am?’ The low, unmistakeably powerful voice of Jack Swift. ‘Allow us entrance. This is a very serious matter.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’ The woman’s placid tone made Robert smile. ‘You’re not Bow Street, or you would have announced yourselves. My father isn’t with you, so he’s still sleeping at his Club—and I can’t hear my mother having hysterics, so I can only assume she hasn’t been informed of your presence yet. As far as I know, you are merely a man who wants to enter my bedroom.’ She paused. ‘I fail to see why I should let you.’

  Robert had never seen a woman with such an air of command. From the reflective silence on the other side of the door, neither had Jack Swift.

  ‘We… we are concerned for your safety, ma’am.’ Swift was clearly recalculating. ‘We believe that a dangerous criminal has managed to gain access to your home. Rather than unduly alarm the ladies of the house, we wished to make a perfunctory search of the rooms. Including yours.’

  ‘What a lovely wish.’ The woman’s tone seemed designed to be as maddening as possible. ‘But as I can see as well as any man, a search is unnecessary. No dangerous criminal has taken up residence in my bedroom.’

  ‘Really, ma’am?’ Robert recognised Swift’s silken, dangerous tone. The tone that meant he had information. ‘I could have sworn I saw a pair of handsome shoes disappearing through your window.’

  Any other woman would have blushed. Instead, through the gap, Robert saw the woman’s small smile grow just a little wider.

  ‘I see. Whoever you are, you’re accustomed to ruining reputations.’ She smoothed down her skirts, rising to her feet. ‘You think that rumours about me will ruin me… you think that a rumour is a club, to beat me with.’

  Swift’s voice, much like Robert’s entire self, was full of curiosity. ‘And what should I think?’

  ‘That rumours are a drawn sword, sir—and I am better-armed than you think.’ The woman’s voice cut like a blade as she approached the door. ‘Gossip is a weapon wielded far more effectively by women, and I think you know it. So unless you want to declare war, leave immediately. Wiping your feet as you go.’

  ‘I’ve declared war many times, in that fashion.’ Robert could practically see Swift folding his arms. ‘I’ve never met anyone who could beat me.’

  ‘Well.’ Robert watched the woman lean close to the door, speaking mere inches from the wood. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  What a performance! It was all Robert could do not to give a round of applause. He could tell, from the silence on the other side of the door, that Swift was as surprised as he was… but Jack Swift never remained surprised. He was far too cunning for that.

  ‘Now leave.’ The woman sat back down at
her desk. ‘Go.’

  ‘As you wish, ma’am.’ Swift’s voice had the low, gravelled curl to it that meant pretence was over. ‘Until we meet again.’

  ‘I would say I look forward to it.’ The woman picked up her pen again, making a small note. ‘But I don’t.’

  Swift was actually going to let her have the last word. Robert, hearing the quietly retreating footsteps, couldn’t recall another time that had happened. But then, he couldn’t recall a woman like this one ever appearing in his life—outside of dreams, or nightmares, or erotic fantasies. He doubted Swift had either.

  Lost in his private thoughts, he jumped as the bedclothes shifted. The woman’s face appeared, her spectacles slightly askew, her eyes alive with excitement despite the porcelain composure of her face.

  ‘Out.’ Her mouth twitched. ‘What unusual enemies you’ve made.’

  ‘An enemy we now share.’ Robert crawled awkwardly out from under the bed, hurriedly standing. ‘I didn’t ask you to cross him, ma’am. You provoked him.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I.’ The woman’s smile was back. ‘But I did save you… so there’s the matter of compensation.’ Her mouth twitched. ‘I don’t hide men under my bed for free. No sensible woman would.’

  ‘No sensible woman would do it in the first place. Not that I’m arguing.’ Robert looked down at his pockets. ‘But there’s no payment I can offer you. I find myself temporarily impecunious.’

  ‘Criminals often do. Although they don’t use words like temporarily or impecunious.’ The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘A criminal who had good schooling?’

  ‘A criminal who reads Shakespeare every night.’ Robert shifted, wondering why he was telling a near-stranger such an intimate detail of his life. ‘Especially the comedies.’