Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Ah!’ She was breaking; no, she was breaking free, an ecstatic smile on her face as she twitched around his cock, drawing him deeper. Jean watched the pleasure crash over her, finding words again as the waves hit him full-force.

  ‘Je t’aime.’ He whispered it in her ear as bliss overwhelmed him; Amelia’s hands were tight on his thighs, keeping him deep inside. ‘Mon dieu. Je t’aime.’

  Amelia came back to herself slowly, not quite knowing where she was. Perhaps she was dead; only heaven could mean such peace, such tranquillity. She certainly hadn't felt both emotions in such great abundance for some time.

  She was sore. Pleasantly sore; aching. As precious seconds passed, revelation dawned in fits and starts. Eyes widening, her breath suddenly very shallow indeed, Amelia remembered what she had done in intense, highly-coloured detail.

  She didn't feel guilty. Not in the least. That had to be the most surprising fact of the morning; she, Amelia Benson, had ruined herself, and didn't care a whit for any of the consequences. Then Jean moved, pulling her closer with a sleepy growl, and Amelia relegated her lack of guilt to the second most surprising fact of the day.

  She still felt the panic that came to her whenever she woke. Her throat still fluttered; her mind still cluttered with all of the battles she had to fight, and win. But Jean's still, grave presence, even in sleep, kept her tethered to the world. She no longer felt as if she were drifting ever higher, trying desperately to keep her feet on solid ground.

  He was more than a rock. He was a home; a safe space, where she had never been asked to be anyone other than herself. Amelia closed her eyes again, snuggling into the curve of Jean's body, allowing herself to feel the comfort he offered.

  Yes. Everything was ruined. But not here, in this precise moment, half-dressed and love-addled, wrapped in blankets.

  Love-addled? Her panic raised an eyebrow.

  Yes. Love-addled. Amelia frowned. That was certainly the largest problem she had, but could be put in a drawer and not allowed to mar such a splendid moment. Jean would wake, and make his excuses, and leave her... but not now. Not in this exact instant.

  'Amelia. You are panicking.' Jean's quiet, serious voice brought her abruptly back to reality. 'I can feel you panicking.'

  There was no point hiding it; he could feel every inch of her, his arms wrapped around her chest as her heart beat wildly. 'Yes. Of course I am panicking. I am awake.'

  'Yes.' Jean's low rumble of laughter brought an answering smile from Amelia. 'My Amelia, and her panic. I shall treat it as a sort of pet. Perhaps a dog?'

  Amelia couldn't help but laugh. 'No. Dogs rarely panic—they're cheerful animals. Perhaps a goat? Malodorous, ugly, braying very loudly when there's no call for it... yes. A particularly horrible goat.'

  'But your goat, Amelia. Your goat.' Jean's lips rested on the nape of her neck, directly on the patch of scarred skin where she scratched. 'And so I will love the goat, and cherish the goat, and admit the goat when it demands entrance... but I will not feed the goat. And in time, the goat will bore of the game and wander away.'

  Amelia swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. 'How much time?'

  'Oh, let's see. A marriage, and a honeymoon, and a lifetime together. A long lifetime, if I cook. Or even better, Laurence.' She felt Jean smile against her skin. 'A lot of time, and space, for the goat to wander very far away.'

  Amelia paused. Turning slowly, gently moving Jean's arms, she stared into his green eyes with wordless shock.

  She couldn't have heard correctly. Such things were not said; not to her. Love, and contentment, and acceptance, were never handed out as simply and sweetly as this. This was a trick; or worse, this was the truth, and she would have to reject the only love-match she would ever feel because her family desperately lacked for money...

  'I can see you are listening to your goat. He is loud, but ignorant - he lacks the facts of the matter, so do not listen to him.' Jean frowned, even as his mouth twitched in a smile. 'He is braying, you are to be poor, and he is poor, and nothing in the world will ever be alright again... but perhaps he is wrong, Amelia.'

  'I wish he were wrong.' Amelia blinked, horrified to find a tear waiting to fall. 'I am in desperate need of money.'

  'And the Season begins in two days, and you have the gowns of the House of LeClerc.' Jean reached up, wiping away the tear that threatened to fall. 'Which means that by the month's end, I will be one of the ten richest men in Bath - every woman will flock to the man who made such divine gowns. How could they not, with a muse as stunning as mine?'

  'But it could all go wrong. So horribly wrong.'

  ‘Yes.’ Jean kissed her forehead. ‘But it could also go horribly well.’

  It had taken begging, pleading, and outright offers of bribery on the part of both Jean and Lawrence before Jonquil had even considered the idea of pretending to be a seamstress, let alone expressed a positive view regarding it. In fact, quite a lot of choice words had been said on the long, uncomfortable carriage ride between Bath and the Benson residence—but as Laurence maintained, placidly eating pastry after pastry as morning turned into afternoon, there was really nothing else for it.

  Matthew Benson, along with his new wife, would be returning that very afternoon. Jean could introduce himself as the mysterious modiste without trouble—but not as the mysterious modiste who had been visiting Amelia unaccompanied, every day, for more than a fortnight. That would lead to angry words, and pistols at dawn, and all sorts of other uncomfortable things.

  ‘I cannot even sew. I despise sewing.’ Jonquil was still crumbling as she stepped out of the carriage, followed by Jean and Laurence as they looked up at the Benson house. ‘This is never going to work.’

  ‘It will work, because it has to.’ Jean looked anxiously at his sister. ‘All you have to do is say that you have shown Amelia the gowns, and then I take the lead.’

  ‘Oh yes? And when is the fact that you’ve fallen in love with her going to be raised? Now? Next week?’ Jonquil stamped her foot, her eyes flashing. ‘Why can you not organise these outbursts of emotion?’

  ‘You almost stabbed a man who touched your leg in the theatre.’

  ‘That was not emotion.’ Jonquil sniffed. ‘I assure you that I was extremely calm.’ She followed Jean as he began to make his way towards the servants’ entrance, still grumbling. ‘Calm. Cool. Very collected—why, I could have murdered him, and remained perfectly tranquil throughout…’

  As a scowling Jameson led them through the house, Jean wondered why he could hear raised voices. Not angry voices, just raised ones; as if someone needed to make their meaning clear. A male voice, too; it had to be the brother, who had apparently returned to a situation he hadn’t been expecting.

  Jean wondered, for an alarming moment, if Amelia had decided to confess everything. He knew the way back to the servants’ entrance fairly well, but wasn’t sure how quickly he could run back to it if being chased by Amelia’s incensed brother; the man was blind, as far as he knew, but he would know the house much better than Jean. He would also be much angrier than Jean.

  Jameson led them to the source of the increasingly agitated voices; the morning room, with a firmly shut door. With a weary roll of his eyes, he opened his mouth—until Laurence gently took his arm.

  ‘Listen.’ He removed an envelope from his waistcoat pocket; the rustle of banknotes was evident. ‘Announce us as I’d like, if you would be so good. With no questions asked.’

  Jameson bristled, as if ready to take offence, until Laurence had given him the envelope. With a cursory look at its contents, the butler suddenly stood to attention.

  ‘Your Grace… Monsieur Martin has arrived.’ Jameson spoke as impressively as he could as he knocked on the door, following Laurence’s whispers. ‘Monsieur Martin, his good friend the… the mysterious modiste, and… ugh.’ He looked at Laurence with barely concealed annoyance as the pastry cook smiled. ‘Her brother.’

  With his lip curled, clearly disgusted at the deception—
but his hand still clutching the envelope of notes—Jameson stalked away as Laurence gently opened the door. Jean, peering over him, looked at the domestic scene within.

  Amelia was stood in the middle of the room, dry-eyed and quivering. A man with a length of black cloth concealing his eyes—that had to be Matthew, her brother—was wildly gesticulating, a woman who appeared to be his wife standing patiently at his side.

  ‘Visitors. Monsieur Martin, mysterious modiste, brother of mysterious modiste—I cannot, at all, bring myself to care about why you are here.’ Matthew gestured impatiently; Jean, Laurence and Jonquil stayed at the threshold of the door. ‘Welcome to the zoo. I am much too exercised for the usual proprieties—be silent, and leave when the embarrassment becomes overwhelming. Amelia, for the last time, why on earth did you tell me nothing of this?’ He sighed as he shook his head. ‘This can all be solved, or managed, but not alone! Especially not by you?’

  ‘And how would you have solved and managed the money, or Mother, or any of the problems I have encountered? You were so saddened, Matthew! I think Daisy has helped you forget how much of—how much of a beast you were, when you came back from the regiment. At first you were incapable, and then you were simply unwilling.’ Amelia stamped her foot; Jean couldn’t help but feel a small thrill run through him. How beautiful she was when she was furious. ‘You cannot tell me that you were in a fit state to hear these things a year ago. Or a month ago, before you met Daisy!’

  ‘I…’ Matthew kept shaking his head, but his shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, sister. I promise you that these cares will no longer be yours alone. Please, please, allow yourself some carelessness. You have cared far too much, for far too long.’

  ‘No.’ Amelia took a step forward. ‘I have something else to say.’

  ‘What? Good Lord, what else have you been silently suffering through without saying a word? Are bats living in the library? Has a hermit taken possession of the garden?’

  ‘A little less dramatic. Or not. I have fallen in love with the modiste.’ Amelia looked at Jean, swallowing nervously. ‘We are to be married.’

  There was an extremely pointed silence. Jean looked at Amelia, his mouth falling open, as Jonquil chose precisely the wrong moment to stage-whisper.

  ‘You see? I did not need to come at all. I have ruined the hem of my skirts for nothing.’

  ‘Amelia.’ Matthew, his brow tightly furrowed, spoke very carefully indeed. ‘Are you feeling quite well? Because passionate friendships between women are fine things, very commendable, but—’

  ‘Monsieur LeClerc is the modiste. Not Mademoiselle LeClerc.’ Amelia’s head was held high; only Jean could see her trembling. ‘I assure you that I am perfectly serious. As is he.’

  ‘I… oh, God’s blood.’ Matthew reached out, ascertaining that an armchair sat behind him, before dramatically throwing himself into it. ‘God’s blood, and brain, and balls.’

  The silence seemed even deeper after that. Eventually Laurence gave a weary sigh, leaning against the door-frame.

  ‘If it helps, I can make an excellent fruit cake very quickly.’ He shrugged. ‘A whole celebratory luncheon, if we hire some strapping lads for the day. We’ll only have a month to organise, after the banns, but something can be done.’

  ‘And money will soon be flowing.’ Amelia spoke triumphantly. ‘Monsieur LeClerc’s gowns will be the toast of the Season. He will be the most celebrated man in Bath by the end of the Marcourt Ball.’

  Jean had always had the utmost faith in his abilities—but he had never heard them sound quite so fragile. Matthew, fingers digging deep into the arms of the chair, looked as if he had swallowed a lemon.

  Then, to Jean’s surprise, Matthew’s wife spoke in a tone of calm decisiveness. He couldn’t remember her name; Rose, perhaps? Something floral. Whatever her name was, her voice was soothingly reasonable.

  ‘Well, then. We have a course of action. A ball, a marriage, and more people to care for Lady Benson—I can speak to my sister, and my mother. They will have the names of nursemaids worthy of the task, and can be taken on as soon as they are found.’ She smiled. ‘I am sure Iris will be happy to offer funds, until Monsieur LeClerc establishes himself. Lord knows Simon is always grumbling that he lacks ways to spend his money’ She looked at Jean, her eyes warm and welcoming. ‘I know that will be very soon indeed.’

  ‘Oh, well then. Excellent. All settled.’ Matthew massaged his forehead, the length of black cloth around his eyes only accentuating the grim set to his mouth. ‘Is there any particular reason you decided to add this particle of scandal to the tower of urgent matters, Amelia? Could it not have waited until a more tranquil moment?’

  ‘Not really. You were going to be dreadfully angry anyway.’ Amelia paused. ‘I presumed you were already angry, and decided not to make you angry twice.’

  ‘I am not angry. I am worried. I am worried for you, and the terrible tasks you took on as your own burdens…’ Matthew trailed off, leaning back in his chair. ‘And more than a little worried that everything will go terribly wrong.’

  ‘Now now, my love.’ Jean watched Matthew’s wife stroke his hand. ‘Things have been known, sometimes, to go well.’

  Sometimes, things go well. Sometimes only pleasant things happen for a day, or two days—or even a whole week, when it came to Amelia Benson.

  Seven days occurred in which nothing terrible happened. Matthew did not disown her; her mother’s decline was now a shared grief, rather than a private shame. Jean, instead of slipping quietly through the servants’ entrance, was now openly invited to the house. The Marcourt Ball happened, all six hours of it—six hours in which she did not sicken, or faint, or make some terrible faux-pas.

  All had gone well. Astonishingly well. So well that Amelia had begun to privately worry about how well things continued to progress—until, with a sigh, she decided to stop feeding her goat.

  Seven days after that, after her spectacular success at the Marcourt Ball, seven more days in which, to her increasing surprise, nothing terrible befell her, she found herself hurrying down a breezy Bath street as Jean guided her to a small, anonymous door.

  'Finally, a visit to your studio! But why such secrecy?' Amelia laughed, holding her bonnet to her head as a gust of wind threatened to steal it. 'We are to be married. Almost everything we do together can be done in the light of day.'

  'Almost.' Jean looked at her, his green eyes full of smouldering humour, and Amelia had to look away as she laughed again. 'I am making quite the Parisian out of you.'

  'Sir, how dare you.' Amelia stomped her foot, smiling as Jean began to open the door of his studio. 'I am English to the core, and liable to blush at any hint of scandal.'

  'Says the woman who met with me alone for two weeks, slipping in and out of her clothes with naught but a screen to protect her...' Jean gently led Amelia through the door, kissing her forehead as soon as they were out of public view. 'If all English women are like this, I may have sealed my fate a little too early.'

  'You are an unrepentant scoundrel.' Amelia tried to keep the laughter in her voice, even as an echo of panic trilled in her ears. She knew that Jean could not have possibly meant it; he was the most attentive suitor a woman could wish for. And yet...

  'My love.' Jean paused, one eyebrow raised. 'Did I say something to wake the goat?'

  'Yes.' Amelia nodded gratefully. 'Yes, you may have.'

  'I see. Go away, goat.' Jean folded Amelia into his arms, his lips resting against her forehead. 'Go away. And as you go, remind Miss Benson that she is the most perfect woman of my acquaintance—both past ones, and any to be had in future.' As Amelia basked in the warmth of his embrace, he gently pushed her chin upward. 'And tell her that I have something to show her.'

  Taking her hand, he let her through the studio. Lengths of fabric lay discarded on each workbench, along with pin after shining pin, the seamstresses were no doubt enjoying their Sunday afternoon outdoors before the intensity of the working week began. Amelia looked wi
th pleasure at the half-formed trains and sleeves she saw amongst the colourful chaos, still not quite believing that thanks to Jean's gowns—and her wearing of them—an enormous number of talented artisans would be gainfully employed for long beyond the Season's end.

  She had been so sure of failure at the Marcourt Ball. She could still remember the sudden itch of the velvet; the way the gown had suddenly seemed wrong for her, too tight, too loose, too misshapen… too much. Too much for the frightened, weak woman she was.

  She had almost refused to get out of the carriage. It had taken Jean’s hand, Jean’s green eyes, Jean’s patient words—and most of all, the words he had whispered in her ear.

  We will win the day. And if we don’t, we will love each other just the same.

  After that, everything had been easy. So easy, in fact, that she had danced seven dances before she had realised that every woman in the room was staring enviously at her dress. Before she had embraced her brother, glowing with happiness, and heard him whisper begrudgingly that she sounded happier than she had in years.

  'I fail to see why whatever I must see can only be shown in private, as lovely as privacy is.' Amelia stopped, her eyes widening. 'Unless you have brought me here to—'

  'No. All of the surfaces are far too hard, and the fabrics are too delicate to be thrown onto the floor to form a bed. Believe me—I have considered the matter.' Jean's small smile was almost more scintillating than the idea itself. 'And I hope that many people see what I have made. I do. But... but you must be the first. And you must give permission.'

  'I see.' Amelia watched as Jean took a small key from around his neck, unlocking the small, anonymous door at the back of the studio. 'I... oh. Oh, goodness.'

  She stepped forward, the vibrant fabrics of the main studio forgotten. She stared at the mannequin in the centre of the room, struck dumb by the delicate, snow-white masterpiece that barely touched the ground.

  A wedding dress. Her wedding dress; Amelia knew it without asking. No-one else could wear this; the fragile dream of a gown held together with stitches so minute she could barely see them. No-one else could wear the lace veil that flowed like a waterfall; the border lined with…