Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  This kiss was light; light and sweet, sweeter than anything she had ever felt. Not a violent display of passion, not an overwhelming rush of sensation—a perfect thing, as perfect as a flower, and it was all for her. Susan closed her eyes, lost in the utter joy of it, full of a contentment that didn’t ebb away when the kiss ceased.

  ‘Open your eyes.’ Oliver’s voice was full of knowing humour. ‘Or I shall worry that I have put you to sleep.’

  Susan blinked, smiling. ‘I do not think that I shall ever sleep again.’

  ‘Sleeping requires closing your eyes.’ Oliver looked at her, his palm warm against hers. ‘Perhaps I shall have to kiss you every night, for many hours, until you are dreaming soundly.’

  ‘I should like that.’ Susan said it with a soft note of surprise. ‘I believe that I should like that very much. But… but we cannot.’

  She looked at him, suddenly full of panic. There was no way Oliver could kiss her to sleep every night; he lived at Rowhaven, and she at Longwater. There was no question of asking him to move here—the large mammals alone would ensure she never had a moment’s peace again—and even though she knew it was customary for women to move, to make the household, the thought of being far from Longwater made her want to be sick—

  ‘Susan.’ Oliver’s voice brought her gently back to earth. ‘You are already thinking too much. Stop it.’

  ‘I cannot stop it. One must think very hard, to try and construct an impossible thing.’ Susan looked narrowly at Oliver. ‘I am attempting to keep my life at Longwater, and build a life with you. It is a difficult task.’

  Oliver’s sudden, delighted smile made Susan realised she had forgotten to articulate an important step in her reasoning. ‘Build a life with me?’

  ‘Oh, goodness. Yes. I had rather assumed. I am in love with you, you see—at least, I believe I am. From what I have seen of other people in love, and from thorough self-assessment.’ Susan swallowed, the idea of her feelings not being returned spreading through every part of her like pitch-black water. ‘Which I now see that I should have told you before, because I understand that this now seems somewhat sudden—’

  She stopped, her words dissolving into a sigh, as Oliver kissed her again. It was longer this time, the kiss, and imperceptibly richer; the difference between a tea-rose and a full-petalled, fragrant red one. Susan, who normally hated being interrupted by anything, found herself drowsily making an exception to her rule.

  ‘I love you too. Quite madly.’ Oliver rested his head against her shoulder; Susan breathed in the warm, clean scent of him, thinking dizzily that this was the only person, the only person in the world, whom she wished to embrace in this fashion. ‘A fortunate state in itself, and blissful when returned.’

  ‘Good. I am very glad.’ Susan wondered if there were better words to express her joy, but Oliver seemed content with whatever she said. ‘But how are we ever to live together? To do all of the things that people in love do?’

  Oliver looked up at her, his face quizzical. ‘Do you want to do all of the things that people in love do?’

  Marry again? Move into a single household… attempt to have children, even though the idea of being a mother seemed as distant as the moon? Even with Oliver by her side, such things seemed so foolish to Susan as to be ridiculous.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, feeling oddly liberated. ‘No. I do not wish to do most of them.’

  ‘Then we shall not. We are both long past the age of building households—we each have our own, and we will keep them both.’ Oliver spoke quietly, looking up at the stars. ‘I shall continue my research with animals, and you shall continue to construct this dazzling garden. I have Olive, and you have your brother and a herd of sisters-in-law… why should we give anything up, when everything can be kept?’

  ‘I find travelling very difficult. Very difficult indeed.’ Susan looked down at Oliver, choosing her words carefully. ‘But I think I could go to Rowhaven for you, sometimes. Perhaps on a regular basis.’ She paused. ‘I think.’

  ‘I could come here, and stay here, and we could return to Rowhaven together. I could accompany you whenever and wherever you wish to go.’ Oliver sighed contentedly. ‘As long as I can kiss you to sleep, whenever you are near.’

  ‘And I could… well. I could do many things, I think, if you were beside me.’ Susan paused. ‘How curious.’

  ‘What is curious?’ Oliver looked up. ‘Loving someone?’

  ‘No.’ Susan stared, forgetting herself. ‘Knowing that I could do many things.’ She smiled. ‘I had forgotten that I could do many things.’

  Her words merited another kiss, although she wasn’t entirely sure why. When it had finished, her cheeks and lips flushed with the pleasure of it, Susan looked down to find Sheba sitting silently closer to her than before.

  ‘I have been accepted by your bird.’ She looked at Sheba, who stared placidly back. ‘That is fortunate.’

  ‘Exceedingly fortunate.’ Oliver studied Sheba for a moment, the bird clearly enjoying the attention. ‘In a competition between Sheba and yourself, I fear the creature with the six-foot wingspan would win.’

  ‘There would be no competition.’ Susan looked narrowly at Oliver. ‘Unless you kiss the bird to sleep.’

  ‘I do not.’ Oliver smiled. ‘But what shall I do, when I am in Rowhaven and you are in Longwater, and I cannot kiss you to sleep?’

  ‘Well, you are certainly not to kiss any of the animals you study.’ Susan spoke sternly, until Oliver’s face softened her tone. ‘And… and you are to read my letters. I am going to write you ever-so-many letters.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Oliver sighed happily. ‘I delight in reading your letters.’

  ‘How very lucky for you.’ Susan gently tucked a strand of Oliver’s hair behind his ear, tidying it. ‘Writing to you may be my favourite thing to do.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Oliver’s hand caressed her face, moving to her lips. ‘Your favourite?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Susan moved closer, a small smile on her lips. ‘Perhaps my second favourite.’

  THE END

  Bad Dukes Club: The Complete Bad Dukes Collection

  The Duke and His Debt

  ‘Bale?’ Lord Wetton's voice washed through the cigar room like a cold bucket of water. ‘Where are you? I need you.’

  His Grace the Duke of Portman, Richard Maldon, looked acidly at His Grace the Duke of Salcotte, James Selby. Selby looked up from his newspaper with a small sneer, rolling his eyes as His Grace the Duke of Colbrooke, Henry Grancourt—who made a motion of throwing his cigar at the wall.

  ‘Bale?’ Lord Wetton’s voice rang through the room again, louder and more maddening. ‘Come on, Bale. If you’re here, shout. I’ve been wandering hither and thither for Lord knows how long.’

  His Grace the Duke of Longbrooke, Christopher Harding, turned around. He looked with slightly pitying eyes at His Grace the Duke of Mordene, Victor Bale. Victor Bale, who was preparing to announce where he was despite not wanting to more than anything else in the world.

  ‘Try to be polite, chaps.’ Victor took a deep breath, wishing the mere idea of Lord Wetton didn’t inspire so much anxiety. ‘Or a little less vile, at any rate.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Maldon threw his newspaper over his face. ‘If he tries to speak to me, I’ve been deeply asleep all evening.’

  Selby adjusted his newspaper, looking pointedly at Victor. ‘I have no intention of speaking to that man. His very presence is enervating.’

  ‘He’s a tit.’ Grancourt interjected noisily, cigar now clamped firmly between his teeth. ‘One more speech about his hunting prowess, and I’m going to tell the man he’s a tit.’

  ‘Now now.’ Harding shook his head gently, but his eyes had a hint of the weary frustration that appeared on most people’s faces when they had to deal with Lord Wetton. ‘Bale… the curtains are quite thick, if you wish to hide behind one of them.’

  If only. Victor tried to smile, but knew that he was just about managing to grimace. ‘You
know I can’t hide, Harding. And I’m hardly going to run.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll have to see what he needs.’

  ‘God’s blood, Bale. You’re too noble for your own good.’ Grancourt blew out a reflective puff of cigar smoke. ‘You’ll put the name of the Club to shame.’

  The Club’s actual name was Simpkins; a wood-panelled haven of gentlemanly silence in a London rapidly filling with the worst kind of loud, braying buck. It provided a perfect bolt-hole for gentlemen who were sick of their households, wives, or business concerns—and some, like Victor, who wished simply to remove themselves from the world at large. Grancourt, however, was not referring to Simpkins—from the look he gave Victor, a touch of sly humour under his gruff expression, he was referring to the name that the rest of the ton had given to Victor, Maldon, Selby, Grancourt and Harding, friends of long association.

  The Bad Dukes Club. The name had a certain style, Victor had to admit—but it seemed to promise so much more than it could possibly deliver. It was name that spoke of derring-do, duels and world-class debauchery… but really, the reality was somewhat more pedestrian. Five dukes, none of them particularly old or mad, but considered largely unmarriageable by disappointed mothers of eligible daughters.

  Maldon was bad because he was brazen; his second house in Regent Street was widely rumoured to be the most expensive brothel in London, despite him never confirming or denying the gossip. Selby was bad because he was boring—the man seemed determined to avoid any ball, tea-dance, picnic or grouse shoot that he was ever invited to, often disappearing for weeks on end. Grancourt was bad because he loathed the very idea of courtship, while Harding was bad because he had given up on the ton after his wife had died…

  … And Victor? Well. The reasons why Victor was a Bad Duke, more specifically an Unmarriageable Duke, were written all over his face.

  He quickly picked up his mask, putting it on before Lord Wetton entered the room. The slim black silhouette, made by a discreet tailor at great expense, hid the worst of the angry scars that covered half of his face—only his eye could be seen, and barely. As for the scars that covered half of his body, well, a modest shirt and forgiving style of breeches could conceal those.

  There wasn’t even an exciting story behind them. Victor often wondered if that was the worst part; scars that came with adventures normally left people more curious than disgusted. His scars, unfortunately, came from a common source—a dark, empty street, a sudden tumble, and a ferocious dog that had escaped from the bear-pit.

  At seventeen years old, there was little hope of his body healing to perfection. At twenty-seven, a vicious pattern of scars weaving their way over his otherwise healthy body, Victor had almost learned to accept his new state; it did, however, come with truths that would never be easy to swallow.

  He would never marry. More accurately, he would never be able to marry for status, which brought practical joys, or love, which brought spiritual ones. At most a woman could take pity on him, but Victor could think of nothing worse than being pitied. He would never be a part of the vibrant social fabric of the ton, never be a source of pleasurable gossip… he would always be spoken of in hushed tones, like a plague or a war.

  He would also, for the rest of his earthly days, be entirely in the debt of the man who, passing by, had managed to save Victor’s life. Victor could remember almost nothing of the accident, or its aftermath; all he could remember, and even then with no real clarity, was a firm pair of hands dragging him along by the shoulders.

  That pair of hands—fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it—had belonged to Lord Wetton. Lord Wetton, who seemed to understand even more thoroughly than Victor just how wonderful a service he had performed. In fact, for ten years, he had asked favour after favour—and the favours seemed to show no sign of stopping.

  Lord Wetton had a peculiar talent for choosing favours that Victor found disagreeable, or frustrating, or both. He always had need for a precise amount of money that would require careful counting, or a particular type of cigarillo that warranted a visit to a shop far beyond Victor’s usual bounds, or the loan of a horse that would arrive back at the stables parched and panting. This favour was bound to be at least as uncomfortable and irritating as any of the others.

  ‘Bale. Thank goodness.’ Lord Wetton entered the room, smiling. ‘I need you to help me talk to a lady.’

  The most important thing, of course, was to know who the lady was. Victor, looking at Lord Wetton’s unpleasantly wheedling face, had a suspicion—but hoped against hope that he was wrong.

  Then again, when had hope ever worked for him?

  ‘Allow me to guess the current object of your affections.’ His tongue felt thick in his mouth; he cleared his throat, forcing himself to say the same with a tranquil air. ‘Isabella Thurgood.’

  ‘By Jove, you’re right.’ Lord Wetton smiled, puffing out his chest. ‘Although it’s hardly a difficult pick. Half of London’s after her, and the other half are planning to—the only ones left are you lot.’ He gestured to the assembled dukes. ‘What on earth is wrong with all of you?’

  ‘Too prim.’ Maldon lay back in his chair, his cigar smoke trailing in the air. ‘I like a tiger, not a house cat.’

  ‘Too known.’ Selby ruffled his newspaper, looking narrowly at Wetton. ‘I don’t particularly like my business feeding the ton’s appetites.’

  ‘It would require courtship, wouldn’t it?’ Grancourt tutted. ‘Sounds awful.’

  ‘Mad. Mad as mice, the lot of you.’ Lord Wetton winced as he looked at Harding. ‘Apart from you, old chap. Sorry.’

  All Harding did was gently nod his head, but Victor could feel the depth of rancour in the simple gesture. Harding’s wife had died a decade ago—but from the look in the older man’s eyes sometimes, especially when the fire was dying, the tragedy could have taken place the week before.

  ‘Anyway. The field is thinned—the young crops like me have a chance.’ Wetton looked appealingly at Victor. ‘Do say you’ll help me, old chap. You’re terribly good with words. I’ve heard you composing letters for some of the other bucks.’

  Victor smiled weakly. As much as he had enjoyed teaching the younger men how precisely to compose letters that would bring smiles to the faces of their paramours, rather than widened eyes and disgusted expressions, he had certainly never expected to use those skills to aid Lord Wetton. Especially aiding Lord Wetton in wooing Isabella Thurgood.

  Isabella. The woman he had watched in pained awe in any number of ballrooms, hidden in a dark corner as she had glittered and spun her way through dance after dance. Isabella, who he had heard skilfully conversing with any number of ardent admirers. Isabella, who had come into her spectacular fortune thanks to an inheritance that no-one was expecting, least of all the woman herself…

  Isabella, who had looked at him once, before looking away.

  ‘Thank you for the compliment.’ Victor caught a glimpse of Grancourt shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. ‘I take it you want a letter?’

  ‘No. I’ve thought of something much more spectacular.’ Lord Wetton’s chest was as puffed up as Victor had ever seen it. ‘At eight o’clock this evening, to be precise. You are to meet me at Hotton’s, we shall share a chop, and then go onto further mysteries!’

  ‘Goodness. A chop and mysteries.’ Maldon looked at Lord Wetton, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t know how Bale will bear it.’

  ‘If you were any good at words, Maldon, you would be invited.’ Lord Wetton went blithely on, seemingly unaware of Maldon’s evident sarcasm. ‘Go on, Bale. Say you’ll do it.’

  ‘Wetton.’ Victor already knew he was going to agree; he had to, after all. ‘You have failed to tell me exactly what it is that I’ll be doing.’

  ‘I have told you! Mysteries.’ Lord Wetton’s smile faded a little; Victor could tell he was becoming irritated at his indecision. ‘Come now, Bale. Say yes.’

  With a steadying breath, Victor held up his hands. On the edge of his vision, he saw
Grancourt grimace dramatically. ‘Of course, Wetton.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Lord Wetton barely bothered to show gratitude; his face had all the smugness of a cat in front of a bowl of cream. ‘At eight then, at Hotton’s.’ He winked at Victor. ‘Bring your best compliments.’

  He sailed out of the room, leaving Victor with one hand pressed to his forehead. After waiting an appropriate length of time, the men around him collapsed into general attitudes of frenzied annoyance.

  ‘I told you. The most astonishing tit.’

  ‘Did you know he never pays at Hotton’s? Poor Sally has a bill the length of her forearm that she can’t get him to pay.’

  ‘Mysteries.’ Maldon snorted. ‘The only mystery is how on earth he’s still allowed in this place. I doubt he’s ever paid his bill here, either.’

  ‘He hasn’t.’ Harding put on hand on his chin; his grave eyes now had a touch of sparkle to them. ‘But his father pays, you know. I’ve never seen a man so determined to spoil his child beyond all hope of redemption.’

  ‘Oh, I know. It’s almost embarrassing.’ Grancourt tutted. ‘Perhaps it’s because Wetton is so utterly mediocre. It’s as if his father knows there’s a lot to make up for.’

  ‘Not utterly mediocre.’ Victor looked around at his friends, swallowing. ‘He rescued me, remember.’

  There was a short period of deeply embarrassed silence. Then, as one, his friends began loudly speaking over one another.

  ‘When I said mediocre, I was of course referring to a kind of unassuming humility—’

  ‘Of course, it’s entirely possible that he’s completely paid up here—’

  ‘Never really believed Sally Hotton anyway, the girl’s a notorious liar—’

  ‘It’s quite alright.’ Victor smiled at his friends as he got up out of his chair. ‘It appears I now need to rearrange my evening. And, of course, you do all now owe me any number of expensive fripperies.’

  ‘Without a doubt.’ Grancourt smiled back. ‘Make a list.’