Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  Iris smiled in spite of herself. Typical Daisy.

  It was, indeed, typical Daisy—Daisy who flew into her arms, hugging her with an intensity that was equal parts admonition and relief as her sharp eyes took in everything around her. It was also her typical mother, eyes shining with tears as a stream of love and fear poured from her lips, accompanied by both embraces and wringing of hands—and, to her surprise, typical Carstairs, standing in amused silence with his arms full of cloaks and bonnets. Iris took every histrionic criticism and exaggerated kiss with what she considered to be admirable good humour, all the while waiting for Simon’s arrival with an agitation that bordered on pain.

  When her host finally made himself known, the sound of his footsteps ringing on the parquet, she realised that she could not look at him with anything approaching impartiality. Looking determinedly at Daisy and her mother, trying to keep her smile pleasantly bland, Iris suffered her way through introductions, explanations and compliments before finding an opportunity to escape.

  Sidling up to Daisy, trying not to steal a glimpse of Simon as he spoke to her mother, she leaned in and whispered to her sister in as cheerful a tone as she could muster. ‘There is a cat in a small chapel upstairs. A hungry cat.’

  ‘Oh, good. I’m already bored.’ Daisy smiled. ‘Let’s go and feed it.’

  The cat, with the typical feline disrespect for both propriety and convenience, had decided to have her kittens in the night. She tucked hungrily into the plate of ham and chicken Laurence had begrudgingly prepared as Daisy and Iris cooed over the tiny, mewling creatures, making sure they were all warm and healthy until the well-fed mother wearily took up the task of suckling her young once more.

  As Iris tucked the last kitten back into the snuggled pile of its brothers and sisters, she caught Daisy’s suspicious eye. She tried to ignore her sister’s expression for as long as she possibly could—until, with a mingled sigh of relief and annoyance, she felt the last of her reserve fall away.

  ‘Alright.’ She folded her arms. ‘What have you noticed?’

  ‘The way our host looks at you. The way you most assiduously avoid looking at him.’ Daisy raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me everything, please. Remembering that I am much less squeamish than you.’

  Iris had never quite realised how much of a relief it was, unburdening herself to someone as placidly unflappable as Daisy. How oddly soothing it was to tell Daisy how everything had unfolded, her sister simply listening with her head held attentively to one side—until, as she tentatively began to describe the previous night, Daisy held up a firm hand.

  ‘I sense this is about to become immensely embarrassing for the two of us.’ She looked at Iris with narrowed eyes. ‘Are we going to have to tell Edith to make you tansy tea?’

  ‘No. At least, I don’t think so. Not if our observations on the Chiltern farms have been correct.’ Iris shook her head, wishing that she had at least a little more knowledge of anatomy. ‘I… I am simply so surprised. Shocked, I would venture to say. I find myself thinking words that cannot feasibly be thought—words like, husband.’

  ‘It certainly isn’t something I had expected.’ Daisy looked reflectively at Iris, her lips pursed. ‘If anything, he seems very much the sort of man that I would consider to be a good husband.’

  Iris stared at her sister, a sudden surge of anxious jealousy overcoming her finer feelings. ‘And would you consider him?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Not now that I’ve met him—which isn’t to insult him.’ Daisy clicked her tongue. ‘As logical as a man like that seems to be in terms of a marriage choice, my heart does not want to listen to reason. Clearly my conclusions as to a successful union are somewhat flawed, when it comes to myself.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m honestly as surprised as you are.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone could fathom my level of surprise. Even you, dear sister.’ Iris knelt down, gently caressing the head of one of the kittens. ‘And… and I am normally so very sure of what I wish to do, even if I know nothing of the consequences. This time, I find myself in desperate need of advice.’

  She looked beseechingly at Daisy. There was something about sisterhood; particularly their sisterhood, forged through childhood tragedy and social isolation. Daisy kept her tethered to the ground, securely rooted, while she gave Daisy the confidence to occasionally fly…

  … Which was probably, thinking about it, how it would work with Simon Harker. But as soon as Iris tried to think about it, her heart shrank in anticipated hurt.

  ‘Well, sister—and please don’t blush, or cry, or run from the room—I rather think, all told, that you should do something about it. You should tell Mr. Harker, or… or show him. We have been invited to the ball, after all—and I brought a gown that will become you. I didn’t bring any of yours—you deserve a brighter colour.’ Daisy bent down, stroking a tabby-striped kitten; Iris realised with a shock that her sister was embarrassed. ‘Yes. I would show him. If not at the ball, then in another way—perhaps the cook you mentioned so much in your letter has some ideas. Preferably ideas that won’t involve us having to pick tansy in a month or so, to make sure your courses come.’

  ‘... Oh.’ Iris looked at her sister, dumbfounded. ‘I see. That is somewhat unconventional advice.’

  ‘You are a somewhat unconventional person, and I tailor my advice depending on who needs it.’ Daisy sighed. ‘Iris, if you will allow me a sisterly observation… wherever you normally are, and whatever you normally do, you always seem to be longing for both somewhere else and something else. You are never quite happy where you are.’ She shrugged. ‘Apart from here. I have been in this house for less than half an hour, and it is as if you have lived here all your life. You are completely here, and completely happy about it.’

  Iris knelt, slowly stroking a kitten as she understood the truth of the words. She was normally so determined to wander into fantasies; ones written by others, or those she conjured up herself. Only here, in this house, with Simon Harker, did she feel entirely… present.

  ‘My goodness.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Now that I have met him, I simply cannot imagine being without him.’

  ‘And he needs to marry a girl who will bolster his bank accounts.’ Daisy knelt beside her, taking her hand. ‘I think you might need to cry for a little while. And after that, you need to think about how you can most effectively say goodbye.’

  Simon had tried to imagine Iris’s family before their arrival, but had never been entirely successful. He had only ever vaguely heard of the Chilterns; from what he could recall from gossip, the deceased duke had been involved in somewhat suspect dealings for the Crown. Their nobility, lack of obscene wealth and somewhat idiosyncratic habits had meant he had never moved in the same circles—but now, thanks to a flower cart and a rainstorm, they were unexpectedly both in his house and expected to be at his ball.

  He had expected a little more… froideur. A little of the dreaminess that accompanied Iris wherever she went. What he found, to his great surprise, was a down-to-earth friendliness on the part of both Lady Chiltern and her daughter—even if it were accompanied by a slightly wary suspicion of his motives. Not to mention the butler, who had looked at him with the narrowed eyes of a man who had seen far too much of the world.

  And why shouldn’t they be suspicious? He was wildly suspicious of himself; of his rebellious spirit, which insisted on cartwheeling into colour whenever Iris was even vaguely in the vicinity. Despite her reticence, and his own sense of duty, his body could not yet accept that the night in the study could never happen again… and maybe, just maybe, Iris’s family could sense a hint of the conflict raging within him.

  Why had he gone so far? It was ridiculous—almost tragic. Going so far with a woman he would need to say goodbye to, if his life were to flourish in the way he had planned. It had been a desperate act; a seizing of authentic pleasure in a world where authenticity was so very rare… or perhaps it had been something very different.

  A beginning. A communion of souls—bec
ause even though he’d never shared so much as a meal with Iris Chiltern, he knew he understood her intimately. Just as she did him.

  Alas, there was nothing he could do. There was no way of talking to Iris with her family surrounding her; he could hardly find a convincing excuse to see her alone that didn’t break with propriety. All he felt capable of was retreating into his bedroom—not the study, where memories were lingering like shadows—and performing enough paperwork to fill the rest of the morning, commanding the staff to serve the Chilterns lunch without expecting his presence.

  Hours later, after a cold, indifferently served plate of meat and salad, he wearily pushed his pile of papers aside. Time for his usual bath, a slightly more attentive period of dressing and perhaps a cigar, before the guests arrived and the ball was upon him. Standing, stretching, he waited until he heard the tell-tale splash of his valet pouring hot water into the copper bath two rooms away before he began to undress.

  Slightly more relaxed at the mere thought of hot water soothing his muscles, he made his way to his bathing room with a spring in his step. Leaving his boots by the door, beginning to unbutton his shirt, he opened the door…

  … and stopped, open-mouthed.

  Iris, in his bath. Iris, her hands delicately covering herself, acres of smooth white skin still very much on display.

  ‘Now, before you say anything, I really must insist that you don’t storm out of the room.’ Iris spoke quickly, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the bathwater as Simon looked helplessly on. ‘I insisted Laurence take my clothes away. So if you’re going to be overly dramatic, know that you’re leaving me in something of a state.’

  ‘... Laurence?’ Simon lingered on the name, lurid visions suddenly filling his mind.

  ‘Yes. Laurence. Laurence who was kind enough to collect the clothes that I left outside the door, without so much as a peek.’ Iris raised an eyebrow. ‘And given we’re in a slightly franker atmosphere than usual… I think we both know Laurence lacks the prurient interest you’re so worried about.’

  Simon nodded quickly, trying to banish Laurence from his imagination. He stared, unable to do anything else, until Iris spoke again.

  ‘I know very well that I’m doing something that’s not in the least bit literary. Every heroine I’ve ever read about is frantically shaking their curls at me, telling me I should think of my virtue and wait for a pale, miserable hero who flits about in the ruins of cathedrals, and so on and so forth.’ Iris’s gaze was fixed on the bathwater, seemingly determined not to look at Simon directly. ‘And before I came here, I would be very happily listening to all of them… and goodness, I’ve spent more than enough time here telling you how little you compare to any hero in a book.’ She cleared her throat, her voice growing a little less certain. ‘I wasted ever so many words imploring you to be more novelistic… when I should have spent at least a few moments trying to live in a world that is more real. And in that real world, where—where you must marry someone considerably richer than I, and I must marry someone considerably more titled than you… well, I didn’t want to part from you without knowing what, exactly, I’m saying goodbye to.’

  She looked up at him, her dark eyes a world of infinite, painful sweetness. Simon couldn’t breathe; he waited, desperate, for what she would say next.

  ‘So… teach me. Show me.’ Iris cleared her throat. ‘Please.’

  As Iris finished speaking, the hot water barely dulling the chill of pure vulnerability creeping down her back, she was caught by the sudden fear that Simon would simply walk away. Not condemn her, or embarrass her, or gently disappoint her. Abandon her, without looking back, at the very moment in which she’d decided to become the heroine of her own story.

  She was expecting something, at least. She watched him stand there, rooted to the spot, a slow blush rising in her chest as she began to doubt herself. Perhaps she had been too impetuous—perhaps this was a plan best left in the imagination, where it wouldn’t hurt her terribly if it failed.

  She watched, silent, as Simon stood still. Eventually she opened her mouth—to say what, she didn’t know—and gasped as he moved forward.

  Striding forward, bare feet and unbuttoned shirt giving him an air as wild as his expression, he stepped bodily into the bath. Water splashed onto the floor as Iris prepared to stand, trying to give him space—but there was no need, no need at all, as Simon knelt to pull her into his arms.

  ‘You do realise, Miss Chiltern, that this is happening unaccountably quickly.’ Simon held her tightly, his damp clothes rough against her skin.

  ‘Yes. I had thought this.’ Iris reached upward, gently caressing his cheeks with wet hands. How could she express how normal it felt, without scaring him? ‘But… but not all stories need to have long beginnings.’

  ‘Quite. But don’t speak of stories—not now.’ Simon spoke thickly, his fingers tight on her hips. ‘Because beginnings mean middles, and then endings—and I don’t want to think about those. Not now.’

  Iris paused for an instant, anguish stitching itself to her heart for a single, agonising second, before Simon’s lips on hers blazed everything away. Beginnings, middles, endings—all that mattered, all she could depend on, was now. Now meant kisses, swift, desperate, longing kisses, her own nakedness as much of an afterthought as Simon’s wet clothes.

  Her body was his, now, just as it had been in the study—but now his body was hers too, hers to touch with the same feverish need. Hers to begin boldly touching, stroking along the long, harsh lines of him until she was suddenly lifted into his arms.

  ‘Only men of trade know about the latest fineries. Gentlemen cling to the old ways; thin cloth, scrubbed on the skin to dry oneself. I normally do just that.’Simon stepped out of the bath, knocking a pile of towels to the floor. He gently lay her back against the luxurious cloth; Iris couldn’t help smiling at how downy-soft the fabric was. ‘But trading men… they must always be ahead of the fashion. Look at these, from Turkey. I had been going to give them as a gift… but for you, nothing else will do.’

  ‘You were going to use them for yourself, you liar.’ Iris smiled. ‘I thought you hadn’t known I would be here.’

  ‘Let me lie a little.’ Simon leaned downward, kissing her with such lingering need that Iris pre-emptively forgave any further lies. ‘You inspire all sorts of stories.’

  Iris watched him strip, her fingers itching to help remove his clothes. Off came his shirt, revealing his bronzed, sparsely-muscled chest… and then, with a brisk, animal potency that made her gasp, he removed his breeches.

  Naked. A man, naked in front of her… Simon Harker, naked in front of her. Iris kept her eyes wide open, determined to view as much of him as possible, noting the strangely powerful reaction of her own body in response.

  Simon reached for the bottle of flower-scented oil that stood on the table next to the bath, alongside a silver-backed hairbrush. He let a thin stream of oil pool into his hand; Iris closed her eyes, breathing in the perfume, her heart full of curiosity and apprehension in equal measure.

  ‘No. Look at me.’ Simon let a few drops fall into Iris’s cupped palm; his blue eyes full of a vulnerability so sharp it almost hurt. ‘I… I don’t want anything we do to hurt you. So anoint me, as I anoint you.’

  With hands that had the perfect blend of tenderness and strength, he began to move his oiled palms over her skin. Iris gasped, a small whimper leaving her lips as he caressed her breasts.

  How quickly her flesh responded to his touch! The depth of feeling his fingers could draw forth from her, like water from a well… the way he lavished attention on every inch of her, from her shoulders to her forearms to the curve of her hips, his hands moving to the inside of her thighs with the swift, delirious hunger of possession…

  She cried out, a bloom of pleasure flowering in sudden splendour as his fingers found their way to her mound. How good they felt; smooth, slippery against her outer lips as she spread her thighs wider, welcoming him, reaching up to him in burgeo
ning ecstasy as his hand touched her most intimate, sensitive place. Simon’s other hand closed tight around her wrist, slick with oil, his gaze softening into a kind of pained need as he guided her hand to his cock.

  ‘I—oh.’ Iris’s eyes widened as her fingers closed around his cock; his skin was so soft, almost silken, but with a rigid potency beneath it that thrilled her as much as it frightened her. Moving tentatively, unsure as to what she should be doing, she stroked along the length of his shaft—and stopped as Simon gasped, a hoarse moan in his throat.

  ‘Am I hurting you?’ Iris tried to take away her hand, but Simon prevented her. He moved closer, leaning down, his hands cupping her face as his cock, still hard in her hand, rested boldly at her entrance.

  ‘No. You’re not hurting me.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps this is not a beginning. Perhaps our story was simply unfolding without our knowledge, priming us for one another… and we are simply meeting later than expected.’

  ‘I thought you said we weren’t going to speak of stories.’ Iris tried not to let his words take root in her, despite their power.

  ‘I know. I am breaking my own rule.’ Simon’s smile was as sad as it was handsome. ‘I am breaking everything. But—but it almost feels like building.’

  Iris reached for him, pressing her mouth to his, needing to taste his words. She needed sweetness, and lightness, and delight—because she knew that what was to happen now would very probably hurt. It would feel like breaking… but also, just as Simon said, it would feel like building.

  She whimpered, her mouth pressed tight against Simon’s shoulder as it began. Slow, so very slow, and oh-so-tight… tight but perfect, like a hand fitting a glove. Like something that was meant to be in all the ways that mattered—ways she never could have imagined before this moment. She could feel her body responding to the new sensations, a dark flower of curiosity blooming despite the pain… an acknowledgement that the pain, difficult as it was, was the beginning of something greater.