Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  Unspoken words hummed beneath the surface of the conversation. Lydia leaned closer, telling herself that it was to examine the painting more closely—but really, if she were honest, to examine Andrew’s face.

  It was kind face. That was what she had always deliberately missed before; she had always thought of him as smug, or weak, because thinking of him as kind would cause too many problems. If she thought of the Earl of Conbarr as kind, other words crowded in behind it; handsome, gentle, witty. Attractive.

  But Andrew couldn’t be attractive. Not under any circumstances. Because if Andrew was truly attractive, the most attractive man she had ever known, and if she, Lydia Hereford, tried to attract him using nothing but her own imperfect self, and if she failed… and if he left…

  Oh, such a defeat would mar her youth. Possibly her entire life.

  ‘Now that I think about it…’ She spoke more quietly than usual, almost stumbling over her words. Andrew turned to look at her; Lydia looked downward, unable to meet his eyes. ‘… I am terribly fond of clover.’

  ‘Clover?’ Andrew’s voice had an edge of delicate, cautious enquiry. ‘Why clover?’

  ‘Oh, well—it’s easy to dislike, really.’ Lydia smoothed out a non-existent wrinkle in her skirt. ‘I disliked it for years. It ruins lawns, and stains one’s clothes more horribly than grass, and goodness knows one cannot eat it. It attracts bees, which sting, and cows, which will eat the entirety of the kitchen garden if one does not shoo them away…’

  Andrew’s tone was a little more grave than before. ‘You make clover sound insupportable.’

  ‘I believed it was.’ Lydia paused, struggling to find the words. She couldn’t look up; the risk of looking into Andrew’s eyes was too great. ‘But… but I cannot imagine a garden without it. Everything manicured and smooth, and—and lifeless. It would all be so dreadfully dull.’ She bit her lip, wishing she could find a loose thread on her gown to pick at. ‘And… and the scent of the flowers is so very sweet, if one ventures close enough. Sweeter than anything.’

  They looked at one another for a long, trembling instant. Then, with a passion-filled violence that shot through the room like a flame, they were in one another’s arms.

  Lydia almost couldn’t speak through her tears; they came so suddenly. ‘Please don’t go.’

  ‘My God, do you think I wish to go?’ Andrew’s voice trembled. ‘I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you from the first. But—but I am weak, and stupid, and you in my arms was a thing too glorious to stop.’

  ‘You should have told me.’ Lydia buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing silently. ‘You should have told me from the first, from the very first, and I—and I would never have kissed you.’

  ‘I cannot wish you had never kissed me. Do not ask me to wish it away.’ Andrew held her fiercely, uncomfortably tight. ‘I wish… I wish I was dead.’ His whisper tore Lydia’s heart in two. ‘I cannot stay here, and I cannot go with him if it means leaving you here.’

  ‘I know.’ Lydia wept, her tears soaking the linen of Andrew’s shirt. ‘It feels so unspeakably foolish, to—to throw away something that we have only just discovered. As if a flower has bloomed in the dark, and we are to pick every one of its petals off before it can be properly admired.’

  ‘All of your similes are far too elaborate.’

  ‘My goodness. The nerve of you.’ Lydia laughed softly, despite her tears. ‘And how would you describe our current state of affairs?’

  ‘As if someone is stabbing me repeatedly in the heart.’ Andrew shrugged hopelessly.

  ‘Less elaborate. Perhaps slightly melodramatic.’ Lydia rested her head against Andrew’s shoulder, breathing in his scent. ‘But accurate.’

  ‘I could not sleep last night.’ Andrew muttered the words, his lips tight against her hair. ‘I could not sleep, because you were not there. You are meant to be beside me, and when you are not, things are wrong.’

  ‘What am I meant to do, if you are far away?’ Lydia felt her tears coming again. ‘I would wait, of course I would wait, for ten years if I had to, but—but I don’t want to wait. A part of me has been waiting for more than a year. It will not be denied anymore.’

  The idea came to her softly, sweetly, like an unexpected kiss. Blinking away her tears, Lydia looked at Andrew with a sudden, tremendous certainty.

  ‘I will come with you.’ Yes; it even sounded right as she said it. ‘I will come.’

  Andrew was still for a long, disbelieving moment. When he finally leaned forward, his face drawn with tension, Lydia jumped.

  ‘I cannot let you.’

  ‘You cannot let me do anything, just as you cannot make me do anything.’ Lydia nodded, doubly sure. ‘Yes. I will go with you.’

  ‘A ship is no place for a lady.’

  ‘A ship is no place for a gentleman, and you fail to be anything else.’ Lydia folded her arms. ‘I will have to be a little less of a lady until we reach dry land.’

  ‘The voyage will be dangerous.’

  ‘Lord Westlake told all of us at dinner that the voyage would be disappointingly safe.’

  ‘The climate will be difficult. The food will be tasteless. It—it will be perilous, and uncomfortable, and very possibly damaging to your reputation.’ Andrew coloured. ‘It is far too great a proposal.’

  ‘I know.’ Lydia tried to keep her voice from trembling. ‘But… but I rather feel that you would do the same for me, if our respective positions were reversed.’

  It was little more than a hunch. A small kernel of certainty; of trust in Andrew Balfour, despite what had occurred. But as Andrew leaned closer, his hands moving to cup her face, Lydia knew that she had said the correct thing.

  ‘You would do it?’ Andrew’s hands caressed her face with utmost tenderness, his eyes full of a kind of wondering joy. ‘You would come with me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia nodded, blinking away yet more tears. ‘Of course. The alternative is breaking a promise to a friend, and I wouldn’t have you do that, and—and really, when one thinks about it, it’s something of a blessing that the voyage isn’t set for the polar regions, although that’s something of a foolish thought because really, you are a flower—painter, what on earth would you paint in the polar regions—’

  ‘I love you.’

  Lydia stopped, startled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I love you.’ Andrew nodded. ‘I—forgive me. I simply had to say it.’

  ‘I see.’ Lydia felt a fresh wave of tears coming; happy ones, this time. ‘And if I were to say that I loved you too, and wished to accompany you wherever you go?’

  Andrew’s reply only made her heart beat all the more rapidly. ‘I would spend the rest of my life working to deserve you.’

  Lydia rolled her eyes, smiling. ‘Frankly, Lord Balfour, I had assumed you would work to be worthy of me whether I go with you or not.’

  ‘Of course! I—Lord, you really do pick the most ridiculous times to be pedantic.’ Andrew’s voice hummed with laughter. ‘I would. That much is certain. But—oh, Lydia, are you really saying that you could not wait for me here?’

  Her name on his lips sounded like a blessing. Lydia took Andrew’s hand, stroking her thumb over his palm, trying to communicate as clearly and unequivocally as possible.

  ‘Have you been listening to me at all?’ She frowned. ‘Of course I could wait for you. I would wait forever. But I do not want to wait for you. Have I ever, once, in our entire period of knowing one another, done anything that could be described as patient?’

  ‘No.’ Andrew’s eyes were full of feeling. ‘No, you have not.’

  ‘Then marry me, Lord Balfour. Marry me tomorrow, or next week, on-board ship with Lord Westlake looking on—but marry me, and soon.’ Lydia smiled. ‘And do not, for goodness’ sake, leave me now… please.’

  In a swift, frantic moment that blazed like sunshine, their lips met. Lydia had half-expected the urgency, the desperation with which their bodies met, would fall away if things were ever decided
between them. That, she knew now, had been foolishness. There was no sense of calm in Andrew’s hands, his mouth; instead there was the same delicious mixture of joy and panic, as if treasure had been found on a sinking ship. There would never be enough time, not even in a thousand years, to give Andrew all she needed to give—to take all she needed to take. Every moment of pleasure had to be seized with both hands.

  ‘Why is it, whenever you’re near to me, my pencils and paints lie in ruins?’ Andrew’s whisper was hot on her neck as he picked her up, his strength as effortless as it was surprising. ‘My life falls out of its old order, and into a new one.’

  ‘Because I remind you of what is important.’ Lydia sighed with pleasure as the cool bedroom wall thumped against her back. Andrew’s hands gripped the undersides of her thighs, holding her aloft, his hardness brazen against her. She shifted her hips; Andrew growled, muttering something that sounded like blasphemy. ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘I love you.’ The fire in Andrew’s voice, the blazing heat of it, was better than music. ‘Never change—or change, damn it, I’ll love you all the same.’

  ‘Say it again.’

  Andrew kissed her neck; Lydia gasped, straining her hips forward. ‘I love you.’

  Everything seemed to happen so very quickly—Lydia hoped that Andrew felt it too; the strange, intoxicating feel of the minutes sliding into one another, time ceasing to follow an ordered path. One minute they were fighting with buttons and cuffs, Andrew’s breeches an immense irritation—and then, mysteriously, there was naked skin exactly where it needed to be. There was Andrew, pressed tight against her, big as the world… there was Andrew, sliding slowly, deeply, inside her.

  Time stopped. There were no more seconds, no more minutes; there was only sensation, so perfect that Lydia didn’t know how she could contain it. Just on the right side of pain, it danced there, holding still for an eternity… and then Andrew moved, ever so slightly, and Lydia was back in the world.

  ‘I will never want to frustrate any other woman for as long as I live. Anger a woman, plague a woman, irritate a woman—only you.’ Andrew’s smile was effortlessly wicked; Lydia whimpered as his thumb drifted over her bud, his thrusts minute but definite. ‘You are so very beautiful when I torment you. I will never stop being hungry for it.’

  ‘A lifetime of torment? What a promise to give to a lady.’ Lydia smiled, breathless, her back arching as Andrew slowly rocked his hips beneath her. ‘You know I will torment you twice as much. I will make it my life’s work.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Andrew’s teeth grazed her earlobe, his thumb moving in slow, maddening circles around her most sensitive place. ‘More wildness. Especially in public. Then I can spend all night disciplining you.’

  ‘Our marriage is going to be the most exquisite—ah!—torture.’ Lydia leaned against Andrew’s shoulder, taking comfort in the feel of him as the pleasure continued to build. ‘How the ton will pity us… how they’ll pity me, above all… has there ever been a pair who speak more than we do when doing things that are meant to be wordless?’

  ‘No.’ Andrew laughed softly. ‘I cannot imagine it. But that only makes us more wonderful than everyone else.’

  ‘What a nice explanation.’ Lydia gripped Andrew’s shoulders, sighing as he moved deeper inside her. ‘I do so enjoy being wonderful.’

  Everything was becoming too intense; too shining, too glittering, too soaked with pleasure. It was like the afternoon in the garden, but more; Lydia wondered, half-crazed with the sheer bliss of it, whether she could come apart at the seams… no, she would be here, caught between flying into pieces and sinking to the ground, for as long as Andrew wished it. She was at his mercy, deliciously powerless—oh, how astonishing it was, how greedy her body was for him, almost as hungry as her heart.

  ‘Lydia.’ Andrew’s strained whisper anchored her to the moment. ‘I love you.’

  Yes. Lydia felt herself tightening around him; his voice, his closeness, was the key to all of it. ‘Say it again.’

  ‘No.’ Andrew thrusted deeper; Lydia cried out, dangerously close to coming apart completely. ‘I want you to say it. Say it to me.’

  ‘Let me…’ Lydia couldn’t find the words to say what she wanted; she needed to finish, more than she had ever wanted anything before. ‘Oh, please, let me…’

  ‘Not until you say it.’ Andrew gently nipped at her earlobe. ‘Say it, and I come with you. Together.’

  Lydia opened her eyes. She needed to look at Andrew; needed to feel surrounded by him, a part of him, before she could say the words.

  ‘I love you.’ Lord, that was it; that was what she had craved, what made her whole. ‘I love you.’

  To Andrew’s immense surprise, Lord Westlake accepted he and Lydia’s proposal with neither questions nor complaints. If anything, his loudly proclaimed exclamations of contentedness—why, it’ll be a feather in our cap, having a woman on board, not like those other poor bastards mired in ridiculous superstition—were so fulsome and frequent that they almost seemed forced.

  Andrew did wonder, for a brief period of reflection, why on earth the baron seemed so relieved by he and Lydia’s announcement. He also wondered why, whenever Westlake gave a particularly ringing endorsement of their union, his eyes would slide over to Henrietta Hereford as if seeking approval. It was certainly a confusing business, with elements he was undoubtedly missing—but he had Lydia, bright eyed and busily scoring lines through a growing number of packing lists, and that was the only element Andrew needed to be sure of.

  The Hereford sisters, to his relief, had needed even less convincing than Westlake. Henrietta had given a brisk nod, as if she had organised the whole business, before trapping Lydia in a hug that expressed the depth of her emotion to all who had witnessed it. Agnes had responded with a flurry of smiles and clasping of hands, her face full of love and anxiety in equal measure—and Anne had pulled Andrew into a sisterly embrace, smiling in a way that had made him deeply suspicious.

  ‘You already know.’ Andrew had said it without thinking. ‘Henry told you something.’

  ‘Of course he did. I am his wife, after all.’ Anne’s laughter, obscurely comforting, had filled the room. ‘He was most pleased with himself. Of course, I told him not to count one’s chickens… but then, my scoundrel has always been lucky.’

  ‘You are his wife, my lady.’ Andrew had bowed, his heart full. ‘He is clearly the luckiest of men.’

  ‘Speaking of my husband, he appears to have arrived.’ Anne’s eyes had lit from within as she spied Henry making his way across the room, and Andrew’s soul had swelled with recognition of their love. ‘I believe he wishes to speak to you.’

  At this point, Andrew’s memory grew dim. He couldn’t remember the exact pleasantries he and Henry had exchanged, or the precise amount of goodwill that had flowed between them. What he had concentrated on, with a growing bewilderment that became shocked clarity, was the rain-spattered document in Henry’s hand.

  When Henry had finally held the piece of paper up to the light, it was with a smiled that seemed to encapsulate he and Andrew’s many years of friendship. He spoke, still smiling, as the excited conversation filling the room became a hush.

  ‘You’re awfully lucky that I remember the archbishop from his younger days, Balfour. Do you know how difficult it is to get a special license for someone else?

  After that, the days went by in a blur. Andrew could only remember them in distinct, shining flashes; the smell of the flower-filled church, the sound of the priest saying words that had never been significant until that very moment. The way the wind had caused Lydia’s dress to blow about her as they had walked into the cheering crowd of family and friends, giving her the air of a summer cloud scudding across the sky…

  … The nights, on the other hand, he remembered very clearly. Lydia’s body, glowing in the candlelight; Lydia’s lips, whispering things in his ear that still managed to make him blush… Lydia’s hand clutching the bedclothes as he pleasured her, a new
ring shining on her finger.

  Yes. Andrew would remember the nights, he knew it, until his very last breath.

  The wind blew harshly over the deck of the ship, ruffling his coat, but the sun warmed him in the very same moment. Andrew couldn’t resist smiling as he surveyed the handkerchief-waving crowd, noting the bright figures of Anne and her sisters as they waved frantically in the midst of the assembled throng.

  ‘Our cabin is charming.’ Lydia’s enraptured voice floated over the deck; Andrew turned, his heart already beating faster. ‘A delightful place—easily one of the largest, I imagine. Lord Westlake could not have been more accommodating.’

  ‘I am glad you like it.’ Andrew took her hands in his; they were warm, vivid, just like the rest of her. ‘I am glad you are here.’

  ‘Only glad?’ Lydia tossed her head in grave, mocking offence. ‘As usual, Lord Balfour, you assail me with your extravagant charms.’

  ‘And as usual, Lady Balfour, you correct my faults with singular severity.’ Andrew pulled her closer; it wasn’t done in polite society, he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘I remain unsure as to why I am pulling you across the world with me. I must be an absolute glutton for punishment.’

  ‘I am astonished that you still see this little jaunt as you taking me on some sort of adventure, my love.’ Lydia smiled. ‘I was sure that by now you would have seen the truth of it—I am taking you. Whatever adventure unfurls itself before me, you will be following at my heels.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense.’ Andrew smiled. ‘Pure foolishness, as usual.’

  Secretly, of course, he knew that she was right.

  THE END

  A Baron with Bluebells

  Richard Westlake crept carefully across the deck of The Valiant, as moonlit sailors snored in their grimy hammocks. He was meant to be asleep—everyone important was asleep, even the grizzled, one-eyed captain who had brought them to within a stone’s-throw of English shores—and the poor lone sailor at the wheel knew better than to spy on the man responsible for their voyage.