Slowly, slowly, slowly… and then, as if knowing exactly when to stop, Simon did. Iris lay cradled in his arms, so full of new feeling that she half-thought she might simply dissolve, like sea-foam on an enormous wave. He was so strong, so real, so here—around her, above her, inside her. Real, and here, and looking at her as if she was the most surprising thing in the universe.
‘You can continue.’ She whispered it, tightening around him, feeling another jolt of pleasurable pain. ‘Unless you do not wish to.’
Simon’s kiss on her forehead sent thrills of pleasure trembling through her. Still looking at her in apparent shock, his hands cupping her face, he kissed her once more as he began to move.
How long did it last? She didn’t know—couldn’t know. There was no past, no future, no neat narrative line. Her body in tandem with his created hours and days of their own, weeks and months and impossible, dizzying centuries—eras of endless pleasure, growing and growing with each movement of Simon’s hips.
There was no practised way to respond. No book had prepared her for the strange, primal joy of it—even the previous night, splayed in Simon’s study chair, had been little more than a minimum of preparation. She knew she was being clumsy in her ardency, too enthusiastic… but oh, how Simon shivered and moaned at each and every one of her responses, unstudied as they were. How he held her, full of tender strength, in a grip that grew more animal as his thrusts grew deeper.
Slow, fast, shallow, deep; they all seemed to happen as one, the sensations, until they grew as big as the world. A storm was building inside her, one that wouldn’t calm, no matter how much she tried to quell it. A storm full of dark clouds, and tempests, and great arcs of rainbows in a wide, lightning-lashed sky…
… And stars. A torrent of stars, white and burning around her, as she came undone in his arms.
Simon saw stars too. He saw Iris’s stars, or his; a violent constellation, one that rocked the very foundations of all he thought himself to be. He was flying, soaring, weightless… and then, as he pulled away and spent himself against her thigh, abruptly dashed to earth.
But earth was not the lowest he could go. He discovered that with every second following their union, the ground swallowed him deeper. Knowing that he couldn’t take her to bed, or take her to the altar, or… or tell her the words that were newly burning inside him, hot with starlight.
I love you. He thought the words as he gently lifted Iris back into the bath, letting the warm water soothe her as he gently sponged her clean. I barely know you, but I love you. Oh, how I love you.
He almost said the words as he kissed her, wrapping a towel around himself, leaving the room without saying goodbye. I love you, Iris Chiltern… and I cannot marry you.
At least, I thought I couldn’t.
The ball was not held on a windswept cliff, perilously close to a stormy sea lying below. The guests were not riven with internal strife; neither were they wearing masks, or black, or any other exaggerated modes of dress. No-one was weeping, or challenging someone to a duel, or flirting unacceptably with someone unsuitable—everyone was simply eating, talking, laughing and dancing, as sensible, cheerful people did at a sensible, cheerful event.
It was a fine if unremarkable ball, thrown in a luxurious and understated style. But for Iris Chiltern, standing forlorn in Daisy’s second-best dress at the edge of the dance-floor, no event had ever captured her heart more. She watched the happy movements of the crowd, her entire self burning with the truths she couldn’t allow herself to express.
She was in love with Simon Harker. She could not marry Simon Harker. And it was entirely possible that this ball, this glittering arrangement of bourgeois delight, was the last time that she would ever see Simon Harker. She buckled under a surfeit of intense pain, intense thought, intense feeling so strong she could barely stand… and yet here she was, still standing, even managing to smile. A mystery, a shock—or perhaps it could simply be called strength. Strength that came from living in the world, really living in it, instead of experiencing it through another’s words.
Even if she really did have to ride away in a carriage the following morning, her new-found confidence in her ability to survive could certainly be considered a gift. Unfortunately, whenever she caught a glimpse of Simon Harker, Iris felt the sweetness of said gift turn to ashes in her mouth.
Why wouldn’t he look at her? Was it painful for him to see her face—as painful as it was for her to catch a glimpse of his smile, his bright blue eyes, the sparse grace in his every movement? Or was he simply retreating back into the hard, unfeeling man of trade he had been naught but a few days ago, where kisses were investments and love was an idle fiction, an impossible dream?
‘Sister, I can feel you moping.’ Daisy appeared at her side, a vision in emerald, her face full of wry concern. Iris noted the interested looks from a pair of young bucks making their way to the card tables, and inwardly smiled at how little her sister seemed to care. ‘I’m beginning to feel my advice was incorrect.’
‘No. I—I am glad that I took the course that seemed most appropriate.’ Iris struggled to hold back an unruly tear. ‘I know it doesn’t look like it, but it’s true.’
‘Oh, yes. Just as Mother is glad that Carstairs is determined to be her butler and nothing else, and Carstairs is glad that Mother does not protest. What a glad family we are.’ Daisy rolled her eyes; the effect was not quite as pronounced as when Iris herself performed it, but she still managed to make it appropriately sarcastic. ‘We are never supposed to speak about any of the things that make us so very glad.’
‘We will be the miserable family alive if we do speak of it.’ Iris smiled sadly. ‘Here I am, hopelessly pining for a man who must always make the correct decision, and do the correct thing, and never waste his burgeoning business on something as absurdly foolish as a love-match—’
She stopped, wondering why Daisy had stopped looking at her. Everything had stopped; chatter, dancing, music… why everyone had turned, and was staring in what looked like shock at the centre of the room.
The centre of the room, where Simon Harker was standing. Where he had been standing until only a few moments ago—but now, as Iris looked on in utter surprise, he wasn’t standing at all.
He was on his knees. One knee, to be precise.
Assuming that she had fallen asleep, Iris turned back to Daisy. The look on her sister’s face told her that this was no dream—as did the astonishment on the faces of everyone standing behind them. From the furthest corner of the ballroom, she heard a cry of pure surprise that she knew could only have come from her mother.
‘Miss Chiltern. Iris.’ Simon’s voice cracked with emotion. ‘I am aware that this is madness, foolishness, impetuosity of the worst kind. But—but the alternative is dying, or living a life without the feelings that only you can inspire in me, which seems to me to be a fate much worse than—’
He stopped as Iris ran to him, kneeling on the polished floor of the ballroom as a litany of excited whispers spread through the crowd of guests. Letting her forehead rest against his, ignoring the scandalised cries at such a display, she smiled.
‘Yes. I will marry you. At least, I assume that is what you are going to ask me.’ She broke into laughter at Simon’s look of relief. ‘But if we are to exist happily, you must promise me something.’
Simon reached for her hands. ‘Anything.’
‘Well.’ Iris laughed again, her tears now falling freely. ‘You simply must stop being so dramatic. Why… you would think your life is a novel.’
THE END
A Sugar-Plum Soldier
by Felicia Greene
Daisy Chiltern couldn’t wait to be an old maid. As she wearily stomped along the flat, sunny path that wound through the Chiltern Estate to the bordering gardens of the Benson house, she found herself imagining her later life. It would only take two or three more failed Seasons—perhaps a scandal or two, although nothing in the least bit romantic—and she could be happily consigned t
o the wallflower chairs at every ball, ready to knit and gossip instead of searching pointlessly for a husband.
Old maids were given more freedom. They could dress carelessly, and walk great distances in inclement weather without being fussed over and offered shawls. They could decide to do any number of things, from watercolours to astronomy, and even become quite expert. If they had money—and she certainly had more money at her disposal than before, thanks to her sister Iris making a most advantageous marriage—they could live quite independently, free of irritating demands on one’s time and energy.
Daisy looked down at the cloth-covered basket she was carrying, narrowing her eyes. Yes—once she was an old maid, there would be no more errands like this. No-one would approach Daisy as her mother had that morning, pressing a basket into her hands, and telling her without preamble that Lady Benson needed honey.
Daisy didn’t care at all that Lady Benson needed honey. She didn’t care much about Lady Benson at all, pompous old stick that she was—and she certainly didn’t care about Amelia Benson, who had made the Chiltern girls her rivals ever since their first ball. She didn’t care at all about honey either, especially when she had to carry eight jars of it in her aching arms…
… But she did care about mysteries, and hidden things, and gossip. Every woman of twenty-one did. And eight jars of honey, oddly enough, could be her key to understanding just what had happened to Matthew Benson.
‘Drat.’ She glared at a bee that buzzed far too close to her face, wondering if it were going to launch some sort of attack to reclaim its spoils. Trudging a little faster, holding the basket tightly, Daisy let herself indulge in a little speculation.
It was widely assumed, both in Chiltern village and its wider environs, that Matthew Benson—technically the duke of Cleveland, although the vast majority of Cleveland land now went untended—was horribly disfigured. The papers had breathlessly reported the particulars of the accident—a friendly fire incident, involving an explosions and at least one death—and there had been much talk throughout the villages when Matthew had come home to convalesce. But after that, nothing. No celebratory balls, no gossip from the doctors who regularly visited. Nothing.
Did he stalk the halls at night, weeping for his former life; the life of a rake, full of easy pleasures and no real suffering? Or was Matthew Benson simply a shell of a man now, wounded beyond all repair, lying in a clean white bed and attended by his weeping sisters and mother? Daisy knew that such idle speculation was both unpleasant and unhelpful, yet couldn’t resist thinking about it.
With a rueful shake of the head, she began to walk a little faster as the sun warmed her bonnet. Such flights of fancy were more characteristic of her sister Iris—if anything, the mysterious Matthew Benson was the perfect suitor for her dreamy, imaginative sister. But to everyone’s surprise, most of all that of Iris herself, she had married an untitled, pragmatic man of trade after a whirlwind escapade involving a flower cart. Now, still with a faint air of surprise clinging to her, Iris was contentedly expecting her first child.
Maybe true love was an example of how mischievous the hand of destiny could be. Iris, a Gothic heroine if there ever was one, had found her happiness with a flint-eyed man who was more at home on a hunt than in a library. Daisy, then, as thoroughly practical as a pigeon in a world of peacocks, would be most ideally matched with a mysterious hero, full of passionate melancholy. Someone like Matthew Benson, if her imaginative rendering of him were in any way correct…
Ridiculous. Daisy, with a cynical click of her tongue, decided that walks taking alone could be most injurious to the mind.
The Benson house, large and crumbling at the corners like an enormous loaf cake, stood proudly in the sun. Daisy walked down the path that led to the front door, admiring the scent of the lavender plants that lined her way, bees clinging to the stalks as they hunted the fragrant nectar of each flower. If it could simply stay like this, the morning, with sunshine and lavender and no-one in the world to bother her, she would be angelically content without a doubt—
The door opened. Standing mutely in front of Amelia Benson, Daisy felt the joy of the day ebbing into the earth.
‘I say, is that—oh. Miss Chiltern.’ Amelia smiled, her eyes as cold as December. ‘An unexpected visit. How delightful.’
Daisy looked at the tall, well-made girl, blonde and dimpled and curled to be the very image of a perfect maiden, and felt her heart pierced with an unusual stab of pity. How Amelia even considered a clumsy lump like her a rival, she could not imagine. They had cheerfully hated one another in the first year or two after their coming out ceremony, with all the passion of adolescent girls with nothing else to think about… but now? What could there really be to fight about, after what had happened to her brother?
‘Goodness. What a dusty hem you have. If I arrived at a place looking so very hot and uncomfortable, I rather think I would use the servants’ entrance to save my hosts embarrassment.’ Amelia smiled wider, her voice acid. ‘I can only assume you have come with some terribly important news.’
Daisy held out the basket, reflecting that tragedy made some people harder instead of softer. Made them horrible, in fact. ‘No. I have honey. And if you wish me to go to the servant’s entrance, Miss Benson, tell me openly. My mother can confirm the new arrangement with your mother.’
She noted, with a hint of satisfaction, the sudden fear in Amelia’s eyes. Lady Benson was certainly pompous, but she knew how those of noble birth had to be treated—and a comment of such unwarranted nastiness from her daughter was sure to be punished severely.
‘Oh come, now. I was simply jesting, you silly goose. Why must you be so terribly serious all the time?’ Amelia laughed, the sound as icily elegant as the unsheathing of a sword. ‘Come inside. Before your poor face gets even more pink.’
The two women walked through the ornately decorated corridors of the Benson residence, Daisy trailing a little behind Amelia. Daisy couldn’t help sneaking glances at any half-open doors, trying to catch a glimpse of the most famous Benson, as Amelia kept up a constant stream of sweetly delivered stings and barbs.
‘The honey is, in fact, quite opportune—our pastry cook has made the disastrous mistake of eloping with a young man who makes shoes in Chiltern village. All of the servants are in disarray, hence my having to answer the door. No doubt the stupid girl will rue the day, but we poor souls in the meantime must live without sweetness. Although mother and I are not great lovers of sweets.’ She cast an arch glance back at Daisy. ‘Unlike those at Chiltern Manor.’
Daisy, who had never considered a slim figure a sign of superior moral character, managed to hold her tongue. She stayed silent, glaring at Amelia’s perfectly coiled plait, until they came to a halt at the bottom of a grand staircase.
‘I will take these in to mother directly. She’s having one of her headaches, and is in simply no condition to receive visitors.’ Amelia took the basket from Daisy, looking at the honey with a slightly raised eyebrow. ‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted.’
Without another word, she walked down one of the adjoining corridors. Daisy heard a door firmly shut, before the house settled back into silence.
No offer of tea, or invitation to peruse the books or play at cards while she waited? Amelia’s receiving skills left much to be desired. Daisy stared down the corridor in baffled offence for some moments, heartily wishing her mother was less charitable with the Chiltern beehives, before a fluttering of something white caught her attention.
It was a torn piece of paper lying on the floor, being blown about by the breeze from the open window. Daisy picked it up, turning it over in her hands, reading what was written there with a small murmur of surprise.
Matth…
Matthew Be…
The handwriting was scrawled, clearly written by a rigid, inflexible hand. Daisy reread the malformed letters, realising that this was the closest she had ever come to the Benson family secret, before something lightly batted her on the head
.
Re-adjusting her bonnet, fighting the urge to flinch, Daisy looked at the crumpled ball of paper that had just sailed over the bannisters of the staircase. Leaning down, opening up the paper, she found more of the same, painfully scrawled words.
Duke of Cl…
Matthew Be… Du…
Daisy looked upward. There was a half-open door, light streaming through the gaps in the bannisters… and if she listened intently, closing her eyes, she could hear sounds of scribbling.
Someone was writing. Someone was writing with great difficulty, it seemed. Someone who had been the talk of Chiltern for eighteen months, and now lay only a stair climb away.
It would be very impolite. It would be certain to annoy Amelia intensely. But as Daisy began to climb the stairs, she knew she couldn’t possibly remain waiting for Amelia to return with her basket as if nothing at all had occurred.
It was personal curiosity. She had no desire to share whatever she saw; to discuss something so private would be truly atrocious, even if she had avidly listened to such gossip in the past. All she wanted was to look, just once, at the man Matthew Benson had become—and see if he was close to the Matthew Benson he remembered.
She padded down the corridor on light feet, her mouth dry. Approaching the half-open door, she curled her fingers around the door-frame before she could think twice.
She hadn’t set eyes on Matthew since girlhood. Given that she and Amelia had never been friends, there had never been any reason beyond dutiful politeness to associate with the family. She had glanced at him at a ball or two, no doubt—but her mother had always been very ready to steer both she and Iris away from young Matthew, given his tendency to play the rake at any given opportunity. Daisy couldn’t remember having ever given him much thought; they lived in separate worlds, moved in separate circles. Until she had seen him in his military uniform, the day before he had left with the regiment, she hadn’t given him a second thought.
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