Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘My what? My silence? Past loyalty?’ The wintry blaze in Cora’s expression had Ashcroft’s next sentence dying on his lips. ‘No, your Grace. I—I believe it’s far too late for that.’

  It was too late. Why on earth was he behaving as if it wasn’t? He had slipped far too easily into their old way of conversing; the intimacy that shadowed every word, every look. Ashcroft shifted, looking at the bowl, as Cora awkwardly wiped her thumb and finger on a nearby dishcloth.

  ‘Forgive me.’ The weariness in her voice, the resignation, filled Ashcroft with shame all over again. ‘I forgot myself, your Grace—but as I said, I have found my price. It is nothing at all, really. Much like this conversation.’

  Ashcroft waited, hardly breathing. Whatever price she demanded, he already knew he would pay it.

  ‘The Chiltern girls need a French tutor. Someone respectable enough for Lady Chiltern, but interesting enough for two easily distracted minds. I imagine you’ll know someone suitable, given your time in France.’ She paused just long enough for Ashcroft to realise she had heard the rumours of his Parisian debaucheries. ‘Someone, as I said, respectable.’

  ‘A French tutor? That’s your price?’ Ashcroft knew he looked dumbstruck, struggling to maintain his composure.

  ‘Yes. A French tutor, and as soon as possible.’ Cora nodded. ‘Find me such a person, your Grace, and… and no-one will ever hear of this.’

  ‘Ashcroft. Not your Grace.’ Ashcroft couldn’t take it; the new stiffness, the formality, when before she had been so delightfully free. ‘You used to call me Ashcroft. Even James, once.’

  As soon as he said the words, he knew he had made a great mistake. All the vulnerability in Cora’s eyes vanished; a wall went up, impregnable, between what they had shared in the past and what they were currently experiencing.

  ‘Yes, your Grace. Once.’ She curtseyed with an icy gravity. ‘And now I call you your Grace.’

  His regrets had been for nothing. The letter had been for nothing. Ashcroft hadn’t been expecting forgiveness—but basic, frank friendliness? He knew Cora was capable of it… but apparently not when it came to him.

  Understandable. But still… hurtful.

  He nodded. ‘A French tutor.’

  ‘See to it.’ Cora turned away, walking to the door. ‘… And, your Grace?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She turned back. Ashcroft saw her half-smile; that soft flash of humour that sparked something painful in him still. ‘You have flour on your nose.’

  Ashcroft watched her leave, wordless, absent-mindedly rubbing the smear of flour from his face. He looked down at the ball of dough, forgetting for a moment what he needed to do next.

  Rolling pin. That was it. He reached for it, beginning to roll, waiting for the usual peace to wash over him that came with the hobby. He’d had so little calm in his life before—and there was a strange alchemy in flour, sugar, butter and eggs, slowly stirred together. It seemed to empty the mind.

  This time, of course, after seeing Cora Seabrooke, it would take an avalanche of flour to empty his mind. Seeing her for the first time since… the incident… and it had been quite astoundingly normal.

  He looked down at his iron-hard cock, fortunately concealed beneath the table. As normal as could be expected, really, given that Cora Seabrooke still aroused him in ways that were damn-near uncontrollable.

  A French tutor for the Chiltern girls. Of all the things in the world she could have asked for; god knows he would have promised her much more, if only she had asked. The idea of his baking being public knowledge was shameful enough to offer her anything—and she had chosen a French tutor! So like Cora; charitable and conniving, all at the same time.

  A treacherously attractive thought made itself felt. Ashcroft pushed it away, beginning to roll out the dough, before it nudged at him again. By the time he’d taken a cold glass and stamped out several rounds of biscuit dough, the thought had acquired the urgency of hunger or thirst.

  He still had amends to make with Cora Seabrooke. His letter hadn’t been enough; that much was clear. And if the best way of making amends was also the best way of seeing Cora again? Being close to her? A first step, however small, of breaking the gulf between them?

  Yes. That would do very nicely indeed. A plan was afoot—and after these biscuits were made, he needed to look in the Ashcroft jewellery box.

  A French tutor. He was in the palm of your hand, and you asked for a French tutor. Cora went over the conversation again, as she had done for the entirety of the evening before the carriage had arrived to take her and the Chilterns home. Of all the things she could have demanded, from kneeling to hair-tearing to tearfully listing all of his faults, she had chosen a sensible, practical solution to someone else’s problem.

  How on earth Ashcroft was going to find a French tutor was unclear, but she had no doubt he would manage it. The panic in his eyes when she’d come across him had been quite something to behold.

  Something to behold—that was James Ashcroft all over. It was unfair, quite vilely unfair, that a man of such confirmed bad character could look so thoroughly handsome. A solid-seeming man; broad, defined, eyes always shining with the most attractive mischief. Incorrigibly well-made, even as a youth… oh, how she had looked at him when she was younger. How she had stared.

  She had stared tonight. Spoken to him, even! She hadn’t slapped him, or said any number of the biting, savage things she had prepared in the brutal aftermath of his betrayal. She had behaved for all the world as if they were the friends they had been before.

  He had shouted lewd things to an opera singer. Proposing marriage to an opera singer. He had abandoned her without a word—without a look, or even a letter of apology. And she, Cora Seabrooke, the most idiotic woman in Christendom, was apparently still in love with him.

  A French tutor. She lay back in bed, closing her eyes, trying to erase the memory. Honestly. What a regrettable thing to say.

  The very next day, sitting in the warm, airy schoolroom of Chiltern House, she had more than enough cause to regret her impetuous decision. Cora looked hard at her two mutinous charges, wishing she had a little more natural gravitas. ‘A French tutor will arrive. Perhaps not today, but next week. You must both accept it.’

  ‘Honestly, Miss Seabrooke. We tell you very firmly that we have no need of a French tutor, and the first thing you do is procure one for us.’ Daisy Chiltern sighed theatrically, slumping onto her desk. ‘We’ve already told you that learning is detestable for Iris and I, if someone else is making us do it. Give us a book and let us run wild by the lake. We’ll come back speaking perfect French.’

  ‘The fishes in the lake are far too delicate to bear your mangled pronunciation, Daisy.’ Cora looked pointedly at her, sighing as Iris Chiltern chuckled behind her. ‘Iris, appeal to your sister’s better nature.’

  ‘We have no better nature, Miss Seabrooke. We’ve told you this a number of times.’ Iris shrugged. ‘Come, now. You rarely resort to phrases a real governess would use.’

  Cora looked thoughtfully at her two charges, noting that Iris was correct. The reason the two girls were flourishing so much under her care was that she wasn’t a real governess, or a practised chaperone. There was an intimacy between the three of them, a shared stock of childhood experiences and class mannerisms, that meant Daisy and Iris didn’t feel patronised or resented.

  ‘Alright. French is a language used by a great number of spies.’ Cora looked at Iris, who reluctantly nodded. ‘How are you meant to communicate with dashing, elegant spies if you can’t speak adequate French?’

  ‘A fair point.’ Daisy folded her arms. ‘But there aren’t many spies in Chiltern.’

  ‘How do you know? You’ve never spoken any French.’ Cora raised an eyebrow. ‘There could be a legion of them.’ A thought struck her. ‘And the tutor could be a handsome, noble-hearted gentleman who you can look at adoringly when conjugating verbs.’

  ‘Really?’ Daisy suddenly looked very excited. �
�How handsome?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’ Cora repressed a smile, reflecting that the tutor was more than likely to be an ageing French courtesan dressed up in a respectable shawl for the day. Who could expect more from Ashcroft? ‘But if you refuse to attend your French lesson, you will simply never know. And… and perhaps I’ll have to send the poor gentleman to the Benson house to earn his bread instead.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. Not to Amelia Benson—that perfect fool.’ Iris huffed. ‘She wouldn’t know how to look adoringly at anyone.’

  ‘Well then. I expect you two to sit here quietly, pencils at the ready, and wait for—oh.’ Cora started as she heard Lady Chiltern’s excited tones coming from the drawing room. ‘Perhaps our tutor has already arrived.’

  Wondering why on earth her employer sounded so very charmed—her delight was clear, even from the other side of the house—she made her way down the picture-lined corridor to Lady Chiltern’s favourite room. The drawing room shone with the clear, crisp light of a spring morning, the crocuses blooming on the bank outside reflecting the gay spring colour of Lady Chiltern’s morning dress. Lady Chiltern, laughing, looking at Cora with marvelling eyes as she gestured to…

  ‘Your Grace.’ Cora stared at James Ashcroft, eyes wide, almost forgetting to curtsey. Ashcroft, here; impeccably dressed, his dark gaze dancing with a humour she couldn’t interpret. ‘I… I beg your pardon, Lady Chiltern. I assumed the French tutor had arrived.’

  Why was he here? Here in her new life, as handsomely painful to look at as ever?

  ‘How very astute of you, Miss Seabrooke.’ Lady Chiltern stood, clapping her hands excitedly. ‘He has! His Grace has been kind enough to offer my girls the benefit of his expertise in languages. How very charitable of him, no?’ She looked at Cora, face brimming with gratitude. ‘What a miracle-worker you are. I had no idea you and his Grace had been such firm childhood friends—he has been regaling me with stories.’ She turned to Ashcroft, who inclined his head with a gentle smile. ‘Isn’t Miss Seabrooke a wonder?’

  ‘Miss Seabrooke’s good nature is evident to any man living.’ Ashcroft stood, bowing, as Cora made a deeply embarrassed curtsey. ‘When she spoke of her difficulties finding an appropriate teacher, I could do nothing less than offer my services.’ He turned to Lady Chiltern. ‘Allow me a gallop with Fiera over Chiltern park, my lady, and it is I who will be in your debt.’

  ‘Your Grace, both the horse and the park are yours.’ Lady Chiltern looked at the clock, then turned to Cora. ‘And I believe the hour has come!’ She clapped her hands again, clearly delighted. ‘My deepest thanks. My very deepest thanks.’

  Ashcroft bowed again in response, turning to Cora. He approached slowly, hat and riding bag in hand; Cora breathed in the scent of him, her knees weakening at the faint perfume of leather and musk. She reached for the door, steadying herself, trying to arrange her features into an expression of dispassionate disapproval.

  ‘Miss Seabrooke.’ Ashcroft’s smile let her know how aware he was of her discomfort. ‘Perhaps you could show me to my new pupils?’

  ‘Of course.’ Cora smiled through gritted teeth. ‘It would be a pleasure. But please—I urge you to remove your coat, your Grace. The fire in the schoolroom has been set and blazing for some time.’ She gestured down the corridor. ‘A maid will happily take your things.’

  ‘Of course. I bow to your superior judgement.’ Ashcroft bowed again, much to Cora’s annoyance. ‘I shall see you in the schoolroom.’

  He moved past her, his gaze glittering with mischief as he began to walk down the corridor. Cora turned, a dozen inarticulate sounds of protest choking her throat—all dying away to nothing as soon as she saw the happiness in Lady Chiltern’s face.

  ‘Oh, Miss Seabrooke. My treasure. Will you take a little tea for your lesson? Carstairs anticipated the need for a fresh pot long before I ever thought of it.’ Lady Chiltern turned to the butler, who bowed slightly. ‘A cup might cheer you.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Cora smiled apologetically at Carstairs, wondering not for the first time how the grave-looking man with silver streaks in his hair carried himself with such quiet grace. He had the build of a soldier, but the elegance of a dancer—it had to be an art passed down from butler to butler. ‘Perhaps later.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lady Chiltern smiled. ‘Scholarly pursuits first—an admirable spirit! Follow his Grace to the schoolroom, and force a little instruction into Daisy and Iris.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Cora curtseyed, turning back to the corridor. She walked slowly back to the schoolroom, trembling with an apprehension that not even her fiercest remonstrations could control.

  Ashcroft was not, under any circumstances, elegant. He had the grace of a pirate, or a boxer, or a bad spy—a solid, swaggering confidence that annoyed and excited her in equal measure. He was maddening, utterly maddening… and in her schoolroom.

  ‘Damn him.’ She muttered it to herself, unable to blaspheme at anything above a whisper. As Carstairs passed her in the corridor, she was sure she saw him smile. ‘This will not, under any circumstances, be a pleasure.’

  It was not a pleasure. It was the furthest one could possibly be from pleasure; a constant, aching torment to have Ashcroft near. Not only near, very near, but speaking a language that became shamelessly sensual as soon as it left his lips. Cora sat mutely in her chair, determinedly concentrating on a piece of needlework, torn between openly staring at the man and examining the stitches on her cloth. Her hands ached from the delicate work; she focused on the pain, scowling.

  Daisy and Iris were, predictably, stunned into near-silence. Apart from the first rapturous squeak as they beheld the Duke of Innsee—the Duke of Innsee—entering their study room, they had behaved admirably well. An hour of patient teaching passed rapidly for them, agonisingly slowly for Cora, the air humming with Ashcroft’s voice as he filled the room with perfectly accented French.

  Of course he spoke French. No doubt he spoke as many languages as there were rabbits on Chiltern green—and one in three words taught to him by the women he’d bedded. No doubt he has quite a collection of flags on his bedside table, Cora thought, staring at him for an instant in deep annoyance, before turning very deliberately back to her sewing.

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he was still handsome, still cultured, and a thousand times more worthy of her love than he had been before. It wasn’t fair that he was here, being so utterly pleasant, filling her head with ideas of what could and should have been. And it especially wasn’t fair that if he carried on being so grave,and considerate, and thoroughly delightful, she would forgive him his every sin…

  He had abandoned her. But this man hadn’t abandoned her; the sincere, serious adult who seemed perfectly content to be where he was, trading French witticisms with two giggling young women. The Ashcroft he had been seemed so very far away—tempered, somehow, made purer.

  She looked up, meeting Ashcroft’s eyes quite by accident. The fire there, the blaze of mischief, made her turn back to her needlework as fast as she could. Forget all impressions of a better man—he was who he was. The man who had betrayed her.

  Only by counting stitches under her breath could she make time pass. For a few precious moments she forgot herself; only the threads mattered, the delicate stitch-work dancing through her mind… and then Daisy and Iris were attempting to cough discreetly.

  ‘Miss Seabrooke.’ Ashcroft’s voice startled her out of her reverie. ‘I believe the first lesson has been successful.’

  ‘Oh—good. Excellent.’ Cora stood hurriedly, curtseying. ‘I am most content.’

  ‘As am I.’ Ashcroft gently lowered his head. ‘If there are any books that you feel would be most edifying for the girls, you have only to send word to Ashcroft House—or better yet, come yourself. The library is yours to use.’

  ‘I… a most gracious offer.’ Cora looked at Daisy and Iris, who were smiling in a most irritating fashion. ‘But we are more than adequately furnished here. If you
feel more books are needed, I trust that you can bring them.’

  ‘... Of course.’ Ashcroft bowed, his face falling a little. ‘Then I shall take my leave.’

  Cora curtseyed again, looking daggers at Daisy and Iris until they copied her. ‘Thank you, your Grace. Goodbye.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief as Ashcroft left the room, trying to ignore how grey things seemed without him. Turning to Daisy and Iris, preparing herself for an outpouring of girlish sentiment sweet enough to hurt, she asked the fateful question.

  ‘And so? Will his Grace do, for French conversation?

  ‘Oh, yes. In terms of French, he’ll do… I hate to sound like a wet Sunday, Miss Seabrooke, but he seems so dreadfully polite. Rather nice, in fact.’ Daisy wrinkled her nose, apparently disgusted by niceness. ‘I can’t see what’s so infamous about the infamous Duke of Innsee.’

  ‘I didn’t invite his Grace here for his infamy, Daisy.’ Cora spoke hotly, quite forgetting that she hadn’t invited Ashcroft at all. ‘His expertise in languages should be the only notable thing about him.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Seabrooke, you know quite well that we couldn’t give a fig for languages.’ Iris leant dreamily on her desk, one hand under her chin. ‘We’ve heard so many delightfully dangerous things about his Grace… the feats of strength, and the Highgate duel, and the courtesan who quite lost her head over him and threatened to throw herself under his horse. And the opera night, of course. So much marvellous gossip.’

  ‘Gossip that certainly wasn’t meant for young, ladylike ears.’ Cora narrowed her eyes, but her heart wasn’t in it. All she felt, foolish as it was, was grateful; grateful that the small, fragile understanding she had shared with Ashcroft hadn’t flowered into something worthy of gossip. The news of the opera singer had been devastating enough to receive in private, without the eyes of the world upon her. ‘And even if any one of those silly rumours were true, his Grace was hardly going to do something scandalous in the middle of a French lesson.’