Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Oh, well, of course. No hero would ever stoop to trade.’ Simon couldn’t help but let a touch of bitterness enter his voice, before wondering why on earth he felt bitter about people who weren’t real. ‘No-one wants to read about men making money, instead of merely having it.’

  ‘Those are the principal differences, I suppose. Looks, and funds. And attitude, of course—they drink too much, and read constantly, and can recite any number of delightful poems. And they often paint.’ Iris sighed contentedly, plucking another petal from the rose. ‘Your attitude seems markedly different. And they also… well, it’s not important.’

  ‘If it’s as important as painting, or shouting poetry into the ether, then it’s clearly wildly important.’ Simon leaned a little closer, intrigued by the hint of embarrassment in Iris’s eyes. ‘What other characteristic means these heroes differ so markedly from me?’

  ‘Well…’ Iris bit her lip; Simon fixed his gaze there, unable to look away from her soft, flushed mouth. ‘The way they kiss.’

  ‘Oh.’ Simon blinked, stupidly. Of all the things he had been expecting, this wasn’t one of them. ‘I see.’

  Iris stopped, a flush of coral colouring the tops of her cheeks. Clearly she hadn’t meant to say such a thing; talk of kissing was far too free, and bordering on dangerous. Perhaps she felt the same strange, many-shadowed undercurrent that glimmered in the leaves and flowers of the garden… a sense of the unpredictable.

  Anything could happen. A lady could speak of kissing to a hard-hearted man of trade in the middle of a sunlit garden, and no-one was going to prevent it. Least of all Simon himself, deep in the grip of a more literary man would have called enchantment.

  ‘The way they kiss.’ He paused, fighting the urge to clear his throat. ‘I didn’t know novels went into quite so much detail.’

  ‘Detail certainly isn’t the word.’ Iris sounded almost grateful to begin speaking again; the moment of silence had clearly touched something in her too. ‘I don’t think detailed books on that subject can be printed.’

  ‘... Quite.’ Simon was seized with the sudden, extremely unwise urge to show her the number of illicit folios he’d amassed on his travels through Italy. ‘How much do they manage to elaborate?’

  ‘Again—there is really no elaboration. If anything there are… deliberate absences.’ Iris looked down at the rose, hesitantly stroking a petal. ‘Absences that are rather meant to be filled with one’s own imagination. And the occasional use of an adjective—cruel, for example, or punishing…’

  She trailed off with a small, enigmatic twitch of her mouth. Simon stared, briefly wordless, watching the way her lip curled.

  Finally, after too long a pause, he shook his head. ‘Cruel? Punishing?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They do tend to rather press their attentions.’ Iris plucked the petal she’d been stroking. ‘Those are the words most often used. Sometimes furious, as well.’

  ‘But you have no way of making a comparison between these heroes and men like me.’ Simon moved imperceptibly closer, only half-aware of what he was saying. ‘You can’t compare at all… because you haven’t been kissed in either way.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’ The coral in Iris’s cheeks deepened. ‘I could have been kissed in a variety of ways.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ I hope not. ‘I find it interesting that you already prefer the cruel, or punishing, or furious kiss to any other kind. I don’t think one can express a clear preference for something without having tried it.’

  ‘An untrue statement.’ Iris tossed her head; Simon watched her curls shake, gleaming in the sun. ‘And even if it were true, I… well, I…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can hardly compare, can I?’ Iris bent down, gently placing the rose back on the path. ‘It’s not as if we’re going to kiss. Is it?’

  She slowly rose, her gaze fixing him to the spot as surely as an anchor in a storm. The air stilled; it seemed to Simon that the singing birds paused mid-note, waiting as expectantly as he was.

  Waiting in vain, of course. Both he, and the birds, were being almost unbearably foolish. He knew what was required of him; to grow his wealth, to solidify it, before the Harker name could even think of acquiring titles… but for a moment, a single, sweet moment, the plan had meant nothing at all.

  Stop. He looked away, breaking the moment. Stop, now.

  ‘Kisses mean different things to different men. For titled men, they’re games… for men in trade, who had to scrap and fight for everything they own, kisses are investments.’ He examined the grey sky, not wanting to look at Iris’s face. ‘The right one planted in the right place, and wealth flowers. You may want punishing kisses from scarred reprobates, but I want to give pleasant ones to pleasant girls with fathers much richer than I. Preferably standing in front of an altar—the girls, not their fathers.’ He looked down, still avoiding Iris’s gaze. ‘That way, perhaps my daughter will be rich enough to gallivant about the country expecting cruel kisses from poetic wretches.’

  ‘... I do not gallivant.’ Iris’s eyes blazed with new fire, her posture abruptly changing. ‘I do not gallivant, I do not expect kisses, and any poetic wretch lucky enough to cross my path will be infinitely more deserving than a pig-headed, money-minded man of commerce!’

  For a moment they simply stared at one another. Then, with a truly devastating sigh, Iris turned on her heel and walked away.

  As the door to the kitchen was most decisively shut—not quite with a slam, but on the verge of one—Simon stood in the middle of the garden, mouth opening and shutting like a carp. He furiously adjusted his waistcoat, trying to find something appropriately masculine to do with his hands, before giving up with an angry sigh of defeat.

  Iris Chiltern was clearly being foolish. It wasn’t as if he had said anything unreasonable—every word had been perfectly logical, if not at the height of politeness. She was exaggerating; a sin for most, but bordering on unforgivable in a guest…

  … So why, when all was said and done, did he feel as if he were the one in the wrong?

  He jumped as the door opened again. Iris’s face appeared, still full of irritation.

  ‘Nightclothes.’ She spoke so abruptly that Simon wondered if he had heard correctly. ‘I have none. No-one has provided me with anything, and thus I am forced to make demands.’

  A wave of pure embarrassment flooded Simon. ‘I—I will see if something is available.’

  ‘Something will be available. At worst, a nightshirt.’ Iris blinked, apparently as embarrassed as he was. ‘But see to it. Please.’

  As she closed the door again, more gently this time, Simon found himself staring at the rose petals Iris had left scattered on the path. So very delicate-seeming, so fragile… but how strong, how lasting, their perfume was. There was a reason they were considered the queen of flowers.

  Roses needed good soil, and care. They needed spoiling—or, perhaps, to be treated with the attention they so richly deserved. And he was such an indifferent, careless gardener, that he’d left Iris Chiltern without nightclothes.

  He was normally so very good at everything. But now, for the first time in his adult life, Simon found himself considering how he could be better.

  Iris had never really understood how people could hold grudges. She had her fits of rage, as any woman her age did—but thanks to her ability to distract herself, no glowering mood ever lasted for more than an hour. This meant the anger she felt after Simon’s comments in the kitchen garden—an anger that was still burning hours after the initial encounter—was not only unwelcome, but frightening.

  How dare he? She was still fuming over his words, hours after their encounter. Her annoyance had sustained her through a sullenly eaten piece of bread in lieu of lunch, an afternoon of being stared at by the kitchen maids as Laurence had gently cajoled her into performing any number of dull but necessary tasks, and an evening of glumly sketching the view from her bedroom window because her pride would not permit her to ask for books.
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  A letter from Daisy had arrived a little after her disappointing lunch. Iris had eagerly read it, hoping against hope that her mother would be coming to save her—and had almost torn it up, annoyed beyond all measure by her sister’s very reasonable explanation as to why they would not be arriving immediately. She had another night, and most of another day, to exist in the same house as Simon Harker—and given the level of irritation that rose in her whenever his face came to mind, it was going to be a very difficult trial.

  Why exactly was she so irritated? She mulled over the question as she lay in bed, Simon’s nightshirt sitting primly on the pillow opposite hers. She wasn’t going to wear it, even after having demanded it so rudely—it seemed far more appropriate to wear her petticoat and shift to bed. Her dress lay on the chair opposite the bed; she was far colder without it, but she couldn’t every well wear it another night.

  Simon’s nightshirt did seem soft. She had to admit that. Soft, and snowy white, and no doubt smelling of soap. Soap, and perhaps sandalwood, and the faint, undefinable scent of man…

  ‘Oh, good Lord.’ She whispered it to herself, rolling her eyes. ‘You really are a goose.’

  She had to be annoyed with Simon because of his rudeness; it was rude, speaking in such a way to a woman he barely knew. Never mind that she had begun the conversation; that she had steered it down the dangerous, attractive path that it had taken. He had been dismissive, and impolite, and—and—

  —And why would kissing her not be considered a good investment? Was there really nothing to recommend her; was her relative lack of wealth really such an impediment? Why, she would kiss every single poetic wretch she came across, just to spite a tall, handsome, smiling man like Simon Harker—

  A moan cut through her reverie. Long, harsh, full of the rain-lashed darkness that pooled outside the windows, it filled Iris’s bedroom for a slow, terrifying instant before dying away. Iris lay still, eyes wide, the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly prickling with awareness.

  The low, plaintive moan sounded again. Iris shivered, trying to burrow back down into the blankets, but her mind was already far too awake. Sounds like that, full of such pain, such anger… well, they rarely meant anything good.

  If the literature she had read was anything to go by, those sounds meant unquiet ghosts. Unclean rites. Insane wives, entombed in the walls of the houses they had lived in…

  With the next moan, she jumped. Hands shaking, she reached for the candle that shone beside her bed. Holding it aloft, she wondered if she should call for someone—the butler, or Laurence, or even Simon—that would protect her from whatever terrible thing was happening only a little way away.

  Alas, she was alone—her bedroom isolated, at least as far as she knew. If anyone was going to identify the source of the sound, and attempt to appease it, it was going to be someone sleeping far away…

  … Or, perhaps, there was no-one else. Perhaps it would have to be her.

  On unsteady feet, silently cursing the twinge of bravery that had brought her to such a decision, she slid out of bed. She took one last look at Simon’s shirt, wondering if the extra layer of warmth would help keep out the freezing damp of the rainy night, before dismissing the idea on principle.

  Walking down a dark, empty corridor in a strange house to investigate a mysterious sound had always sounded rather thrilling in books. Iris tried to find the same rush of feeling that had always come to her when reading about such situations, but all she found in the depths of her soul was profound discomfort. It was cold, and the floorboards creaked, and the terrible moaning kept on and on, like a funeral lament… and no servants seemed to be rushing to anyone’s aid. Perhaps they were simply sleeping hard after an exhausting day of preparations—or perhaps they were used to the perversions of their master.

  As fiercely as Iris attempted to conjure up Simon Harker doing something devilish, though, the image always fell flat. The man was simply too real; he lived in a logical, capable world, that could always be relied upon. And as much as that had bored her upon first meeting him, now, in the terrifying gloom of the house, Iris wanted nothing more than to feel the sense of safety that came with being around him.

  At the end of the corridor, flickering light came from under a closed door. Iris almost cried out as the moans began again; there was a growling element to the sound, as if something was so frightened it felt it needed to fight…

  Slowly, the candle shaking in her hand, she walked to the end of the corridor. Holding her breath, every ounce of courage she possessed suddenly feeling like nothing at all, she gently pushed open the door.

  The yowling, wailing sound intensified. Iris winced, holding up the candle, prepared to find scenes of almost unimaginable horror…

  But no horror occurred; at least, not for the first few moments. After standing unmolested in the doorway, Iris’s curiosity overcame her fear.

  Biting her lip, she opened her eyes. The first thing she saw, in the gloom of the candlelight, was Simon’s confused face. He wasn’t holding a knife, or cackling maniacally over a bubbling assortment of chemicals, or forming devilish signs in the blood of some braying beast. He seemed to be holding a blanket; holding it upward, slowly backing into a corner as he ineffectually shook the cloth at a small, wet, loudly growling animal.

  A cat, if Iris saw correctly—a cat full of kittens, if her bulk was anything to go by, that had found itself in a strange place. An absolutely beautiful place; one full of dark wood, books, and painted faces on the walls.

  ‘Oh, my.’ She held up the candle, quite forgetting to be frightened. ‘What on earth is this?’

  ‘It’s a damned cat.’ Simon spoke through gritted teeth, holding the blanket aloft like a shield. ‘A soaking wet, matted, feral beast of an animal that crept in through the window expressly to ruin the brief moment of solitude I allowed myself today.’ The creature, apparently understanding the thrust of his words, growled even more ferociously. ‘The bloody thing ruined at least four deeds. Almost knocked over the ink.’

  ‘No, not that. Of course it’s a cat—and pregnant, the poor thing. Ignore her for a moment, so she can get her bearings.’ Iris held up the candle, the stark beauty of the room washing over her. ‘What is this place? And why didn’t you show me it immediately?’

  ‘I—you’re asking me to ignore this infernal thing?’ Simon stood, frowning as the cat gave another warning yowl.

  ‘Yes. More attention will only make her angrier. Let her adjust.’ Iris looked up at the ceiling, her lips parting in a disbelieving smile as she took in the frescoes on the ceiling. ‘You simply must tell me where I am. And what you do here.’

  ‘It’s a study. Where one studies, and where I work. I would have shown you it on the first day, if you hadn’t been so very insistent on playing the part of a scullery maid.’ Simon slowly edged away from the cat, whose crazed yowls dwindled away to an irritated growling. ‘The previous owner of this house had far more scholarly pretensions than I—along with a de-consecrated chapel in the corner, which I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure of using. It’s the only study like this you’ll find on the Royal Crescent.’ He jerked his head towards a small door, half-hidden by a screen. ‘I assume you’ll be able to tell me all the ways in which I’m using this place incorrectly.’

  ‘I don’t know how on earth you use it. I wouldn’t be able to do anything at all in here apart from gaze rapturously about me.’ Iris held the candle up higher, trying to count the delicately painted stars on the vaulted roof of the study. ‘Gazing, and occasionally gasping. Perhaps weeping a tear or two.’

  ‘I have absolutely no chance of gazing rapturously at anything if this beast is determined to torment me.’ Simon gestured to the cat, whose eyes widened.

  ‘Well, without presuming to be an expert, I believe you’re going about it the wrong way. I don’t believe you wish to remain in this curious entanglement all night, and neither does the poor cat.’ Iris looked at Simon with more than a hint of scorn.‘What w
ere you going to do? Throw the blanket over it? You wouldn’t want to hurt it—and it’s entirely possible that she would simply leap upon you anyway, blanket and all, and leave your face covered in scratches.’ She turned to the cat, blinking slowly, trying to calm it with her tone of voice. ‘You can’t simply bend everything to your will.’

  ‘Having you in this house is remembrance enough of that fact, thank you very much.’ Simon’s voice rang with equal parts humour and sarcasm. ‘And I refuse to believe that you have a more practical plan.’

  ‘I rarely have plans. I have impulses, which gradually become plans given enough time and trouble.’ Iris set the candle down on a nearby table, folding her arms. ‘And if you can open the door to the chapel, I believe my current impulse could become an excellent plan.’

  Simon looked at her for a short, smouldering moment, his face so comically stern that Iris didn’t know whether to laugh to cry. Then, with a speed that startled her almost as much as it startled the cat, he pulled open the door to the small, whitewashed chapel room and stepped away.

  ‘Thank you.’ Iris took a tentative step towards the cat, who stared at her with more confusion than anything else. ‘Now then, puss. Let’s put you somewhere a little more suited to your circumstances.’

  With tender, silent patience, she gently shooed the still-growling cat into the tiny, bare chapel. Pulling a stiff woollen blanket off of a nearby chair, ignoring Simon’s grunt of protest, she carefully made a soft pile of bedding in one corner before reaching for the water-jug on the desk. She poured a small amount into a shallow Dresden bowl, and set it carefully by the blanket as the suspicious yellow eyes of the cat followed her every move.

  Finally, tiptoeing away, she slowly closed the door. She held her ear to the door, feeling Simon’s eyes on her, until she heard the fretful growling of the cat dissolve into the tentative rustling of paws on the blanket.