Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘I know, but I could not bear to think of you being neglected. And none of the housemaids will tell me anything.’

  ‘Our modiste insists on working in complete solitude. Absolutely alone.’ There it was again; the edge of chaos hidden in the sweetness of her tone. ‘And we must respect that process.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Matthew cleared his throat, reflecting that matters of process when it came to fashions were somewhat beyond his sphere of knowledge. ‘I’m sure you must be enjoying it tremendously.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Amelia swept away before he could detain her further, a little more panic bleeding through into her voice. ‘Indeed.’

  Matthew frowned. Perhaps a consultation with the modiste would indeed be necessary; he didn’t want Amelia to feel overwhelmed. But the kitchen was waiting, with plums and Laurence and Daisy, and so he let his brief moment of worry drift away on the wind.

  Upon entering the kitchens, he felt immediately soothed by Daisy’s gentle presence. Her hands directed him to each ingredient; the lightest touch of her fingertips, soft against his scarred flesh, was like feeling a rose unfurl. This time she stayed demurely at his side; Matthew thought about the first time, the time she had stood snugly in the shelter his body provided, and almost lost himself in reverie.

  This time, Laurence barely finished his usual greetings and pleasantries before excusing himself. Matthew wondered for a suspicious instant if the pastry cook had even bothered to tell them what he had forgotten, if he had forgotten anything—but lord knows, he wasn’t going to press it. The air was full of sugar, cinnamon and Daisy; he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

  Forever. He wanted to keep it that way forever. The thought frightened him; he shook his head briefly, concentrating on the mixing bowl in his hands.

  ‘Coating the plums in this mixture is child’s play for us, at this point.’ Daisy’s voice was full of discreet mirth, and what sounded like a touch of satisfaction. ‘We will have finished in moments.’

  ‘Yes.’ Matthew cleared his throat, hoping he didn’t sound odd. ‘We must search for yet another thing to talk about.’

  ‘Goodness me. What have we not talked about? Family members both living and extant, childhood games, sibling rivalries, country sports, favourite shops in both London and Bath. Dreams, fears, novels that we read too early for our age and which disturbed us greatly. Courses of study, the relative merits of Oxford, Cambridge and going into the church, the myths that congregate at Almacks… why, we have even talked about religion. And politics.’ Daisy’s quiet laughter thrilled through him. ‘All of the things that ladies and gentlemen should not, under any circumstances, discuss.’

  Not quite all. Matthew suddenly had the urge to quiz her about pleasure houses, absinthe and being tied with ropes. But as he revelled in Daisy’s voice, in the quiet pleasure her companionship brought him, only one question made itself clearly heard.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Come now. How do I look?’ Matthew tried to keep his tone jocular, but felt the atmosphere change in the room all the same. ‘I don't quite understand your reticence. You’ve been blunt about most aspects of my character, and you’ve told me how bronzed I am. Surely the rest of my appearance must face the same severe scrutiny.’

  The small, deep pause that followed had his heart on tenterhooks. He tried to keep mixing the plums with the sugar and cinnamon, aware that he was growing clumsier as the silence deepened. As Daisy began to speak, her voice a little less collected than usual, Matthew let the spoon rest in the bowl.

  ‘Do you wish me to tell you that you are ugly, your Grace? That you are a monster—something too ugly to be seen in public? Because you know that you are not.’ The well of silence at the end of her words was full of feeling; a sensibility that Matthew felt too inadequate to name. ‘You are blind, yes. You are scarred at the face, and on your hands. None of those things make you ugly.’

  ‘This opinion would make you quite the wittiest woman of the ton.’

  Daisy’s voice burned with surprising anger. ‘I am not the ton. I do not care one whit for them, if their opinions on beauty and ugliness are so profoundly distorted.’

  Matthew didn’t have the faintest idea how to reply. He barely even knew why he had asked the question. He hadn't expected the combative nature of Daisy's reply... or perhaps, deep down, he had been hoping for it. Hoping to hear a little passion in her voice, when he was concerned.

  ‘Alright. You are not the ton—I know not to insult you now, by describing you as such.’ He removed his hands from the bowl, all pretence at concentration long past. ‘So I ask you as yourself, Daisy Chiltern of Chiltern Manor. How do I look?’

  ‘And I ask you, your grace, why it matters so very much. Why must I tell you how you look?’ He had never heard Daisy sound so irritated. ‘Looks are meant to be a distraction. Sometimes they are even an impediment to a clear viewing of someone’s character. You are brave, and humble, and kind to your sister and mother, and tell wonderful stories—why must I also tell you that you are handsome? What further truth does that impart?’

  ‘Your truth. A truth I happen to care about.’ Matthew took a step towards her, the scent of lavender hanging in the air. ‘I care about it very much.’

  ‘Why?’ To his intense surprise, there was a hint of sadness in Daisy’s voice; as if she were being driven to some excess of emotion. ‘Why, if I have told you that you are good, and courageous, and full of character... why must I tell you that you are undeniably handsome, as well?’

  Undeniably handsome. The words filled Matthew with warmth—but not as much warmth as the words kind, good and courageous had. They brought him heat, and want... and a sense of impending danger.

  He had to stop the conversation now. But he was already walking, every hesitant step bringing him closer to her. And Daisy, from what he could hear, was not moving away.

  ‘And why are you so angry, Daisy Chiltern, about calling me handsome?’ He could feel the passion in his own voice now; combative, determined to avoid the very vulnerability he was begging for. ‘Or about calling me kind, brave, good... are you lying?’

  ‘I do not lie. I never lie and you know it.’ Daisy took a deep breath; Matthew leaned closer, desperate to hear what she would say. ‘And I have no qualms about calling any good person what they are—good. But... but I am not beautiful, and resent having to describe the beauty of others as if it is the only thing that matters. It is the least consequential thing about any of us.’

  ‘You are beautiful.’

  Daisy’s breathless burst of embarrassed laughter hit Matthew like a blow. ‘That opinion would make you quite the wittiest man of the ton.’

  ‘I am not the ton.’ If he leaned just a little closer, he would smell the faint edge of sugared cinnamon clinging to her fingers. He was sure of it. ‘And why does my opinion of your beauty count for nothing? Is it because I am blind?’

  ‘Of course not.’ There it was again, the sadness that made Matthew want to hold her and tend to her until it faded. ‘Opinions, feelings… sentiment… I am untutored, and inexpert, and cannot give the correct answer.’

  ‘I need no answer. But allow me this small crumb of comfort—even if I should not tell you how I feel, let me tell you that I do feel. I… I feel what I honestly thought I would never feel again.’

  Matthew waited, aching for the silence to be filled with a reply; words, any words, to cover up the moment of complete openness. But another part of him, a deeper, more well-hidden part of him, wondered what would happen if the silence simply lengthened… if it expanded, filling the room, filling the world. If it left him completely open to her.

  He heard her intake of breath. When her voice finally came, he listened with a mixture of agony and relief.

  ‘Feel what? What is it that you feel?’

  ‘... I do not know what to call it.’ Matthew cleared his throat, his tongue suddenly clumsy as it slipped over the words. He
smiled once, quickly, lost in embarrassment, before returning to a frown he hoped to God didn’t look ridiculous. ‘I… I believe I am afraid to give it a name.’

  He paused as he heard her tentative footsteps, moving a little closer. Suddenly the scent of lavender was all around him; he could hear the slight quickening of her breath, feel the tension crackling in the air around them both. If he reached out now; if he took hold of those warm, capable hands, lacing his fingers with hers, their palms pressed into one as he pulled her closer…

  ‘You’ve never struck me as a man who is afraid.’ Her voice was so close now, a slight tremor at the end of the final word. ‘Not once.’

  ‘That can’t be true.’ Matthew smiled again, wishing he could cover his face. ‘I must have told you a thousand times by now, how terrified I’ve been of everything.’

  ‘Oh, terror.’ He heard Daisy tut. ‘I’m not talking about terror. I’m talking about being terrified, and yet doing everything that you are terrified of… that, I believe, is what they call courage. And a man with courage can be afraid, yes—but never truly afraid. Because whatever occurs, he will never lose himself.’

  ‘... I did not believe I had much of a self to lose.’ Matthew’s smile faded as he said the words for the first time. He had never realised the truth of it; the secret that had wormed its way into his heart as he had lain dying, then healing, then whole in body if not in spirit.

  He hadn’t believed he was worth saving. That was the reason he had resented his current state so very much. It wasn’t that he had lost his sight… it was that somewhere deep inside himself, he had believed he deserved to die. That he had wasted so many of his days in profligacy and self-loathing, losing the rest of them wouldn’t matter so very much.

  But he wasn’t dead. He felt more alive than he had in eighteen months. And all of it, every spark of life, had come from Daisy Chiltern. She hadn’t lit the fire… she had brushed away the ash and muck that had covered the flame that still burned inside him, needing nothing more than fresh air to leap back into vibrant life.

  He could say it. He could say the words that sat waiting in his throat, a whole world of fear attached to every syllable.

  ‘I feel… yearning. Longing.’ He lowered his voice, his tone little more than a husky, half-broken whisper. ‘A longing… oh, so very great.’ He felt a shiver run down his spine; a raw, powerful awareness of the words they spoke, and what they meant. ‘I yearn to—to say things, and do things, and feel things that I fear I can no longer do, or do dreadfully badly, or—oh, you.’ He fought the urge to reach out, grasping whatever part of her he could reach; the sleeve of her gown, a handful of skirts. ‘I long for you. I yearn for you. Help… help me.’

  He eagerly listened to her long, slow breath as she exhaled, waiting for her answer with a concentration so intense it bordered on agony. How brutal it was to have to be still; to not take her in his arms with the roughness, the wildness, that raged within him like a forest fire.

  ‘... I cannot help you.’ Her whisper was oh-so-close to his ear; Matthew could feel the tension in it, the struggle, and fought to stay upright. ‘I cannot help you, because I do not know where to begin. I—I want to begin. You cannot imagine how much I want to begin, but—but I will do it so badly, and so clumsily, and my own longing will repulse you, it has to, because no-one could possibly want to be so close to something so strong and bold and desperate—’

  Her words went deeper than music; they struck Matthew deep, knitting themselves into his blood and bones with the force of iron. With a hoarse, low growl of lust-filled gratitude, he reached out and pulled her close.

  Yes. He felt profound triumph as his lips finally touched her skin, brushing against her softness until he found her mouth and claimed it. He hadn’t kissed anyone so achingly, so clumsily, since he was a callow youth with more lust than experience—but oh, didn’t every kiss in-between then and now seem like dust and ashes compared to this? Like the shadow of an angel; a whisper of a song so beautiful it broke the heart?

  Sighing harshly, unable to control the quick, savage jolt of desire that shot through him, he pulled her still closer. Her small cry of surprise, the voluptuous sigh she gave as he pressed his mouth tightly to hers, left him shaking with a want he could barely keep contained. More kisses, slow kisses, burning kisses—kisses that wouldn’t be pretty to look at, not by any means, but kisses that had Daisy Chiltern eagerly clutching at him as she leaned closer. Kisses as necessary and desperate as breathing, again and again and again, Matthew pressing her against the table as he explored her mouth. For every word that she had spoken to him—every wise, witty word, plain as day and twice as wonderful—he would kiss her back in kind.

  He let his hands move from her back to her hips, feeling the sensuous weight of her, lifting her onto the table with a decisive burst of strength. Now she surrounded him, her skirts a soft, delicious froth against his legs, her neck level with his mouth. Matthew revelled in her gasp as he moved his mouth lower, learning her body as he trailed kisses along her neck, pausing as he reached the definite ridge of her collarbone to move still closer.

  Yes. She didn’t move away; her thighs spread just a little, just enough, to let him rest against her body. He could feel her now, all of her, the fabric of her dress a boundary that only heightened his awareness of her body beneath; all softness, all abundance, all warmth. Warmth that he longed to turn into blazing, all-consuming heat… but he couldn’t take it from her. He couldn’t treat it as a workaday encounter—as if he were the rake of former days, rather than the man he was now.

  Fortunately, the rake of former days had left the new man with a fair amount of knowledge—knowledge that didn’t require sight. Matthew let his hands move away from her hips, roaming lightly over her body, his mouth slow and exacting against Daisy’s lips as he traced his fingers over the cloth of her dress. Each quivering breath she took, each small sound of surprised pleasure that left her lips, felt like the melody atop the base note of his wildly beating heart. He drifted his hands upward, pausing at the swell of her breasts as he waited, listened, hoped… and then, with a sigh of lust that he couldn’t conceal, he moved further upwards.

  ‘God’s blood.’ He hadn’t meant to say it, but how could he keep silent? She felt perfect; her breasts filling his hands, her hardened nipples evident against his thumbs. Matthew slowly stroked over her bodice, his mouth at Daisy’s neck once again, moved to new eloquence as desire made his body sing.

  ‘Never say that you aren’t beautiful.’ He kept his thumbs tight to her nipples, stiffening them further through her bodice. ‘Not when you cannot feel as I feel—cannot touch as I touch.’ Emboldened by Daisy’s sigh of unmistakeable pleasure, he reached up to tug both her dress and chemise downwards. ‘Listen to a man who knows.’

  He couldn’t wait. Reticence belonged to a different time; a different man, who didn’t know how much he had to lose. Thanking God for the first time in eighteen months, Matthew bent his head to Daisy’s breasts.

  Oh, how sweet she tasted! How soft she was, apart from the hard, swollen nubs he closed his lips over at the very first opportunity. How she stiffened and then melted in his arms as he began to suck, rolling his tongue over her skin with slow, merciless enjoyment as she clutched at him, enveloping him in the warm scent of her body. Her sweet, hushed gasps of pleasure gave him courage—as did the way her fingers tangled in his hair, keeping her mouth tight against her breasts. Matthew slowly moved his hands back to her hips, moving one hand with as much delicacy as he could beneath the fabric-filled bursts of her skirts, until his fingers brushed against the flesh of her inner thigh.

  He moved upward, kissing her neck as Daisy whimpered with frustration. ‘Show me.’ The same words that he had said the day of their first lesson came back to him now, imbued with new meaning. ‘Use my hands.’

  At first he thought he had gone too far. He waited, his fingers curled and ready at the meeting of her thighs, for Daisy to tell him to stop—and had to hold
back a growl of pure relief as her warm, sugar-scented palm brushed softly against his own. He waited as she kept his hand still, steadying herself, finding the courage… and then, with a shy eagerness that made him grip her all the harder, she moved his hand upwards.

  God help me. The soft, silken patch of curls under his fingers was hot to the touch; she was waiting for him. Ready. Matthew forced himself to wait for her invitation, concentrating intently on the contours of her body as desire leapt in him like a lightning-strike. When her fingers finally moved, gently parting her lips for him, he couldn’t resist a low moan of pure want.

  ‘There.’ He slowly, deliberately ran one finger along her dripping entrance, revelling in the way her fingers jumped and tightened around his. ‘What a good teacher you are.’ He found her bud, tightly furled and throbbing, gently kissing it with the roughened pad of his fingertip as Daisy gasped. ‘Such expertise.’

  ‘Stop talking.’ Her husky, laughter-laden voice in his ear was an unexpected pleasure. ‘Just keep doing that. Please.’

  Matthew had to smile. Such a Daisy thing to say. What else could he do but obey?

  He sighed in lustful happiness as he began to stroke in earnest, lost in the shivering delight of Daisy’s body. This was a rhythm he knew well; this was a melody he could re-learn with Daisy, making a symphony of it. Long, slow, careful stroking of her most intimate space, his thumb fluttering over her bud, waiting patiently as Daisy’s gasps became sighs, then whimpers, then begging moans for more. He could stay for hours, here—days, if life would permit him. A whole lifetime, if just one could be enough.

  But now was enough, for now. Now was enough to feel the tension slowly filling Daisy’s body; the quivering of her thighs, the insistent pressing of her mound against his fingers. She had found her rhythm, the one pulling her towards her peak, and he could do nothing but follow her. Follow her, and feel grateful beyond measure for what he was about to see.

  ‘Ah!’ There it was; that small, broken cry of something coming undone. Matthew moaned in response, moving his fingers faster, Daisy’s face pressed against his neck as her muffled cries of pleasure soaked into his skin. Yes, yes, yes; she was his now, wild and drunk with contentment as she rested against him, her mound as hot and wet as a rose in summer.