Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Well, my lady, yes—but then again, no.’ Lord Wetton stepped forward, his chest puffing expansively; Isabella’s eyes widened. ‘I believe we have both reached a point of such exquisite agony, such immense pain thanks to such forceful repression of our deepest sentiments—’

  They were, of course, Victor’s words. Isabella could never imagine Lord Wetton saying something so eloquent. Extravagant words, loud words—words which Isabella knew beyond a doubt were deeply inappropriate for any public gathering. It was the kind of lavish, overly-affectionate expression of love that a gentleman made in private to his lady… and from Brenda Hartwell’s look of ecstatic, malicious glee, the watching ton could hear every word.

  Isabella wondered if it would cause further commotion if she yawned. Then Lord Wetton carefully knelt, and all thoughts of yawning abruptly ceased.

  ‘And so, my lady, we come to the crux of it.’ He smiled with the confidence of a man sure he was onto a winner. ‘I beg you, Miss Thurgood—do me the utmost honour of agreeing to become my wife.’

  Isabella paused, aware that the room had fallen all but silent. She looked into Victor’s eyes, trying desperately not to laugh.

  ‘... No.’ She said it loudly enough for everyone to hear. ‘Oh, goodness no. Absolutely not.’

  As the room exploded into astonished talk, Lord Wetton falling back as if someone had scalded him, Isabella reached for Victor’s hand. He took it at once, pulling her scandalously close; the room, if at all possible, grew louder still.

  ‘Well. I have all-but ruined us socially in one fell swoop.’ Victor gently stroked his finger along her palm. ‘And Lord Wetton may never recover.’

  ‘From your expression, I gather that he deserved it.’ Isabella smiled. ‘I think he may call you out.’

  ‘Not if he doesn’t want his reputation to be more ruined than it already is.’ Victor’s smile hardened a little. ‘But I’m sure he’ll do something in… oh, seven seconds?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Isabella pretended to think. ‘Will a public kiss lasting seven seconds ruin my reputation completely?’

  With Victor’s lips on hers, and Brenda Hartwell’s shocked gasp, she had her answer.

  THE END

  The Duke’s Desires

  The brothel in Mayfair hummed with discreet early-evening activity, the carefully-curtained windows providing no glimpses to curious outsiders. When a cry of outrage rang through the house, sending a flock of pigeons flying to a more welcoming roof, the well-paid courtesans immediately began to eavesdrop.

  ‘How dare you speak to me in such an impertinent fashion? How dare you presume to speak with me here?’ Lady Abington, wife of one of the richest men in England, scowled at Ellen Brooke with all the dignity she could muster—alas, not much dignity, given her half-dressed state. ‘You—you are atrocious in every respect!’

  Ellen Brooke, a governess of ten years’ standing, looked coolly at her mistress. Letting out a small sigh, she tried not to raise her eyebrows.

  Lady Abington had always been the flighty sort of employer. Ellen knew that she, Ellen Brooke, sometimes had a difficult effect on people; she was a little too honest, a little too plain-speaking, which made the famed forked-tongues of the ton feel as if they were being examined. She was also a little too perceptive; perceptive enough to find Lady Abington in this house of ill-repute, based on little more than overheard snatches of conversation and a hastily-scrawled address on the morning-room table.

  Still; Lady Abington, with her pursed lips and daring gowns, was becoming more than a little difficult. Ellen heard the slight gasp from one of the passing servants, as well as the sudden silence in the nearby rooms, and realised with a flash of humour that bad manners were just as unacceptable in brothels.

  ‘It is William, my lady.’ She bobbed a small curtsey; one that she knew Lady Abington would find irritating in the extreme. ‘He has been taken ill. He is calling for his mother.’

  William had, in fact, come down with nothing more serious than a slight chill—but Ellen felt slighted, and made sure to look a little more concerned than the actual situation warranted. He also wasn’t calling for his mother… but Lady Abington had been rude, very rude, and Ellen wanted to see the moment of alarm in the woman’s eyes.

  Was she cruel? Probably. That was another reason she had a difficult effect on people; she was good, rather than nice, and people prefer nice people to good people. Ellen watched Lady Abington hurriedly rush back into the bedroom, the half-open door revealing acres of candlelit silk and velvet, and wondered not for the first time if working for the Abington family was the nadir of her thirty years of living.

  Probably not. Learning that her family was neither rich nor titled had been a low point, as had realising that her father intended to educate her brother and not herself. But Ellen had simply refused to eat until she was offered a place alongside Bran and his books; she could not refuse to eat until Lady Abington was nice to her, or until she felt less as if she was falling slowly into an abyss…

  ‘You have brought shame upon me by coming here, and shame upon yourself.’ Lady Abington, hastily attired and with her bonnet askew on her head, strode out of the bedroom with a snarl. ‘I do not believe I have ever been so roundly insulted by someone in my service.’

  ‘I came to inform you that your child was sick.’ Ellen heard her own voice with an inner wince; she had never been able to keep quiet, not when true injustice was taking place. ‘There is no insult in my presence. Any shame attached to where we currently stand is carried by the person who brought us both here.’

  She looked at Lady Abington, hoping that the woman wouldn’t put two and two together. By the widening of her mistress’ eyes and the flaring of her nostrils, Ellen confirmed that she hadn’t been so lucky.

  ‘You are dismissed. Sacked. I am sacking you.’ Lady Abington swept past her, the effect somewhat marred by her shawl snagging on the corner of a picture-frame. ‘Sacked!’

  She sailed down the corridor, vanishing into the gloom. Ellen, pale and grim, stood by the bedroom door with tightly folded arms.

  After a short time, a man emerged from the bedroom. Tall, fair-haired, innocent-looking despite his bared chest and unusual surroundings, he looked at Ellen with real sympathy.

  ‘She didn’t happen to settle her bill, did she?’

  Ellen forced herself to recover from the man’s state of undress. ‘I doubt it. Unless she is going downstairs to discuss her accounts.’ She looked at the man with a raised eyebrow. ‘Does one have a place for accounts, in an establishment like this?’

  ‘Maldon normally handles it.’ The man looked Ellen up and down with an appraising eye. ‘Now that you’ve been released from your employment… have you ever considered becoming a discipline mistress?’

  Ellen frowned. ‘Is it like being a governess?’

  ‘Well… similar.’ The sound of footsteps on the stairs had the man hurriedly closing the door. ‘Think on it.’

  Ellen could hardly remember how to think anything at all. As the bedroom door closed, the footsteps growing louder, she tried to gather her fleeing thoughts.

  How on earth was she to live? How on earth were her parents to live, now that their daughter had lost her income? Bran worked hard, but vicars of small country villages rarely made as much as a London governess… oh, Lord, her sharp tongue had ruined everything. Now she was standing in London’s most infamous brothel, cold and worried and surrounded by people who had both conversations and lives far, far beyond what was acceptable or appropriate…

  The footsteps came to a stop. A low, deeply masculine voice filled the corridor.

  ‘How on earth did you come to be here?’

  Ellen turned around. As she looked into the green eyes of Richard Maldon, His Grace to all the lower orders and ‘that disreputable, brothel-keeping duke’ to everyone else, her mouth went very dry indeed.

  Everyone knew about Richard Maldon. Everyone knew the rumours, at least. Ellen had heard a lot of valets and footmen spea
k admiringly of the man’s business acumen; he managed to run one of the most infamous pleasure-houses in England and still be invited to all of the balls… she had heard many housemaids and cooks sigh rapturously over the man’s tall frame, his verdant eyes, and the faint air of piratical disrepute that clung to him like musk.

  Looking at Richard Maldon now, dressed in nothing but a loose linen shirt and breeches, she had to conclude that the housemaids and cooks had been correct to sigh. The man was ostentatiously handsome. So handsome, in fact, that it was almost irritating.

  ‘I came in through the side door. The door with the young man outside.’ She swallowed, wondering how Maldon managed to look more dangerous clothed than the man in the bedroom had while bare-chested. Something in the face, perhaps. ‘He asked if I was a helper for Mrs. Stroke, and I decided to let him believe I was.’

  ‘Bloody Jack. No more whisky for him tonight.’ Maldon drew closer, looking at her; Ellen squared her shoulders, determined not to shrink from his gaze. She had seen him arrive at several balls that Lady Abington had given, prowling through the shocked crowd—but oh, how different this felt. ‘And you are not a helper for Mrs. Stroke.’

  ‘No. No I am not.’ A sudden flash of realisation came to Ellen. ‘Is… is Mrs Stroke a discipline mistress?’

  Maldon’s eyes widened. ‘How on earth do you know what a discipline mistress is?’

  There was no point lying to the man; his stare seemed to reach deep into Ellen’s core. ‘I do not. But everyone I have come across in this establishment seems to have mentioned one. They seem important.’

  ‘They are important.’ Maldon’s gaze moved over Ellen again; Ellen realised she was holding her breath. ‘Lucrative, certainly. You… you are aware of where you are, yes?’

  This was becoming a conversation that Ellen, for all her ability to call a spade a spade, didn’t wish to pursue. Taking a deep breath, letting any tendrils of curiosity wither on the vine, she spoke to Maldon as calmly as she could.

  ‘I came here to find my mistress. Lady Abington. Her son has been taken ill—not seriously, but enough to warrant finding his mother. Her Ladyship is always absent from the house on Thursday evenings, and so I made it my business to seek out where she goes.’ She looked around the ornately decorated corridor, smelling the fug of perfume and roses that filled the air as if for the first time. ‘She did not take kindly to me finding her.’

  ‘I see.’ Maldon leaned against the wall; Ellen tried not to let her eyes travel from his feet to his head. There was an air of potency to the man, a hint of scandal in the way he carried himself; that was why he was spoken of in hushed, disapproving tones in respectable circles, along with the establishment he ran. ‘And yet… you are still here.’

  Was he telling her to go? Ellen didn’t think so. If she wasn’t mistaken, there was a touch of curiosity in his eyes—the same curiosity that she felt, somewhere deep and nameless inside her.

  Her next words came as a surprise, even to herself. ‘I am seeking new employment.’

  The surprised, amused curve to Maldon’s lip seemed to make the corridor warmer. ‘Less that five minutes after being removed from your previous post?’

  Ellen swallowed, trying to sound courageous. ‘I do not believe in waiting for life to find me.’

  ‘Admirable.’ The compliment sounded almost wicked when spoken in Maldon’s voice. ‘And… where exactly would you be seeking employment?’

  Ellen quickly glanced at the bedroom door, thanking God that she wasn’t the sort of woman who blushed. ‘I—no. Not that sort of employment. I can write any number of letters, balance any number of books. Tea, introductions, cleaning. All sorts.’

  ‘We have a cook who makes excellent tea, and chambermaids who leave everything very clean.’ Maldon sounded as if he were musing over the prospect, his eyes a dizzying green as they caught Ellen fast. ‘But letters, ledger-keeping… yes. Yes, that would do.’

  ‘Would do?’ Ellen blinked. ‘Do for what?’

  ‘Your employment.’ Maldon shrugged. ‘That is, of course, if you wish to take the position.’

  The word position sounded unaccountably scandalous. Ellen, thinking rapidly, bit her lip.

  ‘The house next door to this one is a well-established charity. Widows, orphans and so on.’ Maldon’s voice was a little more delicate. ‘Many people who work here are publicly said to work there. It makes future opportunities more likely, and present circumstances easier.’

  Ellen nodded. As much as she despised people who blindly followed convention, there was much to be said for appearing to work somewhere respectable. Even if Lady Abington’s house had felt a lot less respectable, and a lot more poorly-run, than the establishment she was currently in.

  ‘And you would be paid much more than whatever your mistress offered.’ Maldon raised an eyebrow. ‘How much did she offer you?’

  Ellen couldn’t resist a small smile. ‘What if I simply name a number much higher than my actual wage?’

  ‘Then I would pay it, of course.’ Maldon’s answering smile sent tiny, invisible flames through Ellen. ‘With my compliments for such quick thinking.’

  ‘Good.’ Ellen paused. ‘Am I employed, then? Were you searching for someone possessing my skills?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maldon’s smile grew wider. ‘It is an astonishing stroke of luck.’

  It was not, under any circumstances, an astonishing stroke of luck. Maldon rolled his eyes to himself as he lay in bed, dawn light already creeping under the curtains as the brothel indulged in its first hours of rest.

  Why on earth had he done it? Why on earth had he offered a job that didn’t need doing to a woman that didn’t need to be there?

  His cock, stiff against the blankets, provided a possible motive. A very convincing motive. Maldon, gritting his teeth, swore violently into his pillow.

  He, of all people, did not make decisions based on desire. That was a privilege that his clients indulged in; he could not be anywhere near as impulsive with his pleasures. Ever since he had begun the brothel—and Lord, he hadn’t even needed to do that, he had more money than he knew what to do with—he had decided to keep business and pleasure fiercely and completely separate.

  This meant, in many respects, a far less debauched life than many of his contemporaries. He barely smoked, didn’t drink except socially, and certainly never went to any of the women he hired. Not that he had moral exceptions to the women who plied such a trade; in their own way, they were far more professional than he was. Maldon, rather than pay someone to simulate intimate desire, preferred to admire such women for their business acumen rather than treat them as commodities.

  This meant that the pleasures of the bedroom, even though he was very well-versed in them, were not pleasures he frequently indulged in. He was surrounded by erotic exploration from dusk to dawn, organising it, managing it… but rarely, very rarely, indulging in any of the pleasure himself.

  This new desire, as strong as it was, didn’t feel very much like pleasure. Maldon, unable to stop his hand from sliding under the blankets, gripped himself tightly as he mused.

  Was it the way she looked? He couldn’t deny that Ellen Brooke had something. That was what she had written on the scrap of paper he had offered her after their encounter outside the bedroom; Ellen Brooke, in a neat, tight hand.

  Perhaps it was the way she carried herself, erect, as if expecting a disaster to befall her if she allowed herself to relax. She was neither young nor old, although definitely not a girl. Her complexion was pale but slightly weathered, her eyes large and dark in her determinedly serious face… and her voice had trembled slightly when she spoke to him. As if she had seen him before, and knew of him.

  Had he seen her before? Maldon couldn’t remember her face; he knew he would have remembered her if there had been any sort of formal meeting. Lady Abington was the worst kind of client; she shunned him at balls, but knew she had to invite him if there was any chance of securing a room at the pleasure-house. Maldon knew
that she would certainly never have introduced him to any of her staff.

  Staff. The word moved guiltily through him, making him wince. But surely, in the private darkness of his bedroom, he could forget the boundaries between them for one single, blissful instant of pleasure.

  She was intelligent. He could tell that from her quick answers; her ready wit. Not to mention the fact that she had gained entrance to the pleasure-house; a feat unmatched by the nosiest of newspaper-writers. Dark-eyed, and clever, and straight-backed, and dressed in one of those plain, severe dresses that made one think irresistibly of the body beneath.

  Confined. That was the the word that came to mind, thinking of Ellen Brooke. A woman confined to plain dresses, pinned hair; a small, scraped-together life, when she was clearly longing for so much more. A woman who craved excitement, sensation; a woman aching for something, something indescribable, something that Maldon knew he could give her…

  … He could not give her a tenth of what he wanted. He could give her nothing at all, apart from employment. But Maldon, stroking his cock with more and more urgency as night became morning, briefly let his mind break free.

  Ellen Brooke, her hair unpinned. Ellen Brooke, half-undressed. Ellen Brooke stripped, her dark eyes drunk with pleasure, begging for more.

  ‘Well.’ The smiling blonde man that Ellen had met outside the bedroom poured a cup of tea, handing it to her. ‘How have four weeks of debauchery been?’

  ‘Oh, Sergio. Leave the poor lady be.’ Matilda Weatherbrooke, a blonde, buxom lady of pleasure whose charms were as evident as her ready smile, winked at Ellen. ‘With all of the letter-writing and oil-buying she’s been having to do, I imagine debauchery is the last thing on her mind.’

  Ellen, not knowing how on earth to answer, smiled. She sipped her tea, looking around at the impeccably clean pleasure-house kitchen with a faint sense of unreality.