Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  Maldon burst into unexpected laughter. Just like Ellen to make such a comment; that dry, slightly biting wit that concealed a powerful mind. Just as all of those severe, plain dresses concealed a body that he couldn’t stop thinking about.

  ‘Did you see the woman with him?’ He tried to look back at his ledger, but couldn’t resist watching Ellen think. ‘Fair-haired. Full-figured.’

  ‘No. I am afraid I did not.’ There was a slight, definite pause. ‘Is she very beautiful?’

  Did that small space between the phrase and the question mean jealousy? Maldon realised, to his dismay, that he rather hoped it did. Swallowing, looking at Ellen’s determinedly placid face, he decided to be completely honest.

  ‘Yes. At least, she is considered to be by the people that pay for her company. If we are speaking of personal tastes, then…’

  He stopped. This conversation was straying into territory that should not be trespassed onto, as an employer speaking to someone in one’s service. Ellen would no doubt change the subject, or interrupt.

  Ellen’s voice was slightly quieter. ‘… Yes?’

  A footstep into the dark. Maldon felt himself stiffening beneath the desk, and inwardly cursed his lack of self-control.

  ‘She… she is a little too simple. Warm, and happy, and always smiling. Like a blanket.’ He watched Ellen’s small smile, his body awakening to her with every breath. ‘I prefer something a little more prickly. Dark-haired… frowning, probably.’

  ‘Oh.’ A note of surprise crept into Ellen’s voice. ‘Like Mrs. Stroke?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’ Maldon’s cheeks flushed as he thought of the discipline mistress. ‘Not at all.’

  There was a long, loaded pause. Maldon tried not to look at Ellen; what a pity the words of the ledger seemed completely devoid of meaning, compared to the conversation they had just been having.

  Eventually, Ellen shifted slightly in her seat. ‘From what you tell me of the woman Lord Winchester employs, she does not fit my impression of a farmer’s wife.’

  ‘I quite agree.’ Maldon relaxed; they were on safer ground here, though not by much. ‘But they have associated with one another in this fashion for as long as I have had this establishment. It appears they share a profound connection—one deep enough to overlook any small inconsistencies, at any rate.’

  ‘I see.’ Ellen nodded slowly. ‘They… they must have formed quite an attachment.’

  They were back on dangerous ground again. How did this keep happening? Maldon, resting his head on his chin as he looked at Ellen, knew that he wasn’t strong enough to resist.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it. How… how attachments form.’ He watched Ellen read, his voice laced with a hint of pain that he couldn’t conceal, however much he tried to marshal his sentiments. ‘To those that you do not expect.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ellen’s eyes didn’t lift from the page, but Maldon saw her body tense. She bit her lip, speaking quietly. ‘To people that you know are violently unsuitable, sometimes.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Completely unsuited in every respect.’ Maldon swallowed. ‘And yet—’

  ‘And yet it doesn’t feel as if the attachment is unsuitable.’ Ellen paused; Maldon watched her eyes dart over the same words, again and again, and felt his heart racing. ‘Not when one is alone with them.’

  ‘Yes.’ The silence between words was an aching gulf. ‘We… we have seen how such passion flowers, when people are alone together.’ A vicious spear of feeling pushed him onward. ‘Not… not even just passion. A kind of—’

  ‘Intimacy.’ Ellen turned to look at him. ‘I believe the word would be intimacy.’

  They looked at one another, the crackling fire only emphasising the sudden silence. Maldon knew he could cross the room in less than ten steps; less than ten steps would be enough to pull her into his arms, to kiss her, to whisper all of the things that burned in his breast with constant, agonising energy…

  … Less than ten steps would ruin her, and ruin himself into the bargain.

  ‘But it would be wrong, of course.’ Ellen’s voice sounded hollow. ‘Wrong to do anything about it.’

  Maldon wondered if his heart had ever sunk so far down in his chest before. ‘Quite. Not everyone can come to a place like this. More often than not it is simple infatuation, and infatuations fade with—with time.’

  ‘Yes. Not everyone can… can permit themselves to take such liberties.’ There was a heavy, dark pause as Ellen sighed. ‘Even if…’

  ‘Yes?’ Maldon couldn’t stop himself asking the question. Couldn’t stop himself leaning slightly forward, the dying sun painting Ellen a rich gold with its dying rays.

  ‘Even if they want to.’ Ellen’s eyes stared unblinkingly into his. ‘Very much.’

  Damn it all. He was going to do it; there was no stopping it, this avalanche of feeling. He had been holding himself back for a month now; he was hard, his skin hot beneath his clothes, his mouth aching for hers…

  He stepped forward. Ellen slowly rose from her chair, her eyes still fixed on his. She reached up; Maldon couldn’t resist a small, fierce sound of repressed desire as she began to remove the pins from her hair.

  There was the sound of running feet; a female giggle, far too close to the study door. Maldon took a step backwards; Ellen’s pursed lips, her grave eyes as she quickly pinned her hair back up, made Maldon’s mouth twist with sour, brutal frustration.

  ‘I have to leave.’ He spoke without thinking; he had to get out, had to escape his own appetites before they ruined her. ‘Leave here, I mean. There’s been some trouble with my mother. I will leave within the hour.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ellen’s reply seemed to come from a place of deep shock. ‘That… that is something of a surprise.’

  ‘Yes. Yes it is.’ Maldon, staring at her, could hardly believe the words had come out of his mouth. ‘But—but here we are.’

  They looked at one another for a long, painful moment. There were no more running feet, no more sounds of laughter, but the moment had been ruined as surely as if someone had entered the room. Maldon watched Ellen withdraw into herself, hurt slowly settling into the harsh line of her closed mouth, and felt like the world’s most wretched human.

  ‘I… Of course.’ Ellen’s blank, impersonal tone gave no hint as to what she felt of his sudden outburst. ‘I hope that your mother is well.’

  ‘Yes. It’s—it’s nothing serious.’ What a stupid lie; he had never let his passions rule him to this extent. Maldon tried to look away from Ellen, but couldn’t. ‘But I must attend to her. You know well enough what needs to be done here in my absence.’ A throb of guilt compelled him to keep speaking. ‘Your wages will be doubled for this period, of course.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ellen’s slightly wounded look let Maldon know that he had offended her deeply. Why on earth had he spoken of money? ‘Of course.’

  ‘I will be back soon. A—a week, perhaps.’ Maldon looked at the flash of shock in Ellen’s eyes, and wondered how on earth he would manage to spend a week without her. ‘Perhaps less.’

  ‘I see.’ Ellen nodded slowly. ‘I… well. You know that I shall take good care of everything here.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maldon swallowed. ‘As—as if it were your own.’

  God, why did he say these things? Now he was imagining the place as hers, as theirs… and he knew, knew from Ellen’s sudden intake of breath, that she had glimpsed the same, impossible future.

  ‘Goodbye, Your Grace.’ Ellen spoke softly, turning away before Maldon could reply.

  ‘Yes.’ Maldon turned. ‘Goodbye, Miss Brooke.’

  He almost wished that he had closed the door on a sour note. A feeling of rancour, or hatred, on Ellen’s part would make leaving easier; make him want to apologise, to crawl on his knees, a little less. But once again, as always, their goodbye had been filled with the trembling, shining sense of something unspoken but potent. Something that was edging closer and closer to their daily speech, reaching an inevitable explosion…

  Maldo
n paused on the stairs, looking back up to the study. Then, with a sudden shake of his head, he moved to the front door.

  There was no way to lie about his behaviour; to conceal what he was doing from himself. He was running away, running away from Ellen Brooke, because he was too frightened to let what should happen, happen.

  But it couldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen at all. As Maldon stepped into the dusk, blinking at the sudden change from candlelight to sunlight, he steeled himself for a night’s uncomfortable carriage ride—and some painful, jolting hours of forgetting.

  The Maldon Estate sat like a smug, golden-hued toad in the middle of the gently rolling countryside. Maldon, gazing upon the house in sleepless frustration as the carriage approached at break-neck speed, had never felt less excited to see his childhood home.

  He normally loved coming here, didn’t he? He looked at the imposing walls, the towering clouds of roses and honeysuckle that lined the door, and shook his head to himself as the coachman dismounted. He had always loved returning, loved it inordinately, considering it a breath of fresh air compared to the candlelit existence he preferred in London…

  Ellen loves honeysuckle. She always strokes the corner of the curtain in the study—the part that has the honeysuckle pattern.

  Maldon grimly shook his head, pushing more coins than necessary into the coachman’s hand as he got out of the carriage.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Bollocks to all of this.’

  The sound of excited footsteps interrupted his increasingly gloomy train of thought. Maldon arranged his features into something approaching excitement as his younger sister happily approached.

  ‘Brother dearest!’ Poppy Maldon, trailing joy and excitement in her wake in the manner of a flower trailing scent, ran enthusiastically into his arms. ‘What a wonderful surprise! Mother barely knows what to do with herself since she received the letter—she has told the cook to make everything you like, and it has been ever so much of a job trying to remember everything you like—’

  ‘Good.’ Maldon absent-mindedly kissed his sister’s forehead, noticing with a surprise how much she had grown. Soon Poppy would be in the thick of her second Season, fending off any number of suitors—and avoiding whispers of her degenerate brother. ‘I am sure I will like anything that is put in front of me.’

  ‘She will be so glad.’ Poppy grinned. ‘Why, this will be the most enjoyable lunch.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maldon nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Unless you have something to tell us, brother?’ Poppy’s smile faded as she looked at him. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No.’ Maldon banished the name Ellen from his mind. ‘Nothing at all.’

  He tried not to think of Ellen as he bathed, shaved and dressed, focusing on the silent figure of his valet instead of the tall, plainly-dressed figure that kept surfacing in his mind’s eye. He almost managed it once, or twice… but as he was sitting down at the table for luncheon, looking at his mother’s happy face as she insisted he ate more than was good for him, Maldon found himself wishing that Ellen was at the table too.

  A ridiculous thought. An intrusive thought; he had come to escape his malady, not indulge in it. Maldon ate grimly, concentrating with extreme seriousness on his mother and sister’s discussion.

  ‘I am afraid the conversation will be particularly feminine today, dear brother.’ Poppy ate a delicate forkful of peas, smiling wickedly. ‘I would have prepared an array of dull facts on animal husbandry and land management, but we were not informed of your impending arrival.’

  ‘I am sure your brother is more than capable of providing insight on even the frivolous of topics.’ The Dowager Duchess smiled indulgently. ‘What has occurred?’

  ‘It is Emma. Poor, sweet Emma Pett.’ Poppy sighed. ‘She has fallen desperately in love with a most unsuitable gentleman, and we are all trying to tell her to have a little care for her heart.’

  ‘Goodness.’ The Dowager Duchess gently placed her fork on her plate. ‘Is she at least eating?’

  ‘Barely. No hot foods—the poor girl has been existing on ices and spoonfuls of butter. She has become quite insensible.’ Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘The man is a perfectly nice vicar, but Emma has managed to convince herself that he will turn her down because her father is enormously rich. I personally believe that he would welcome the idea of a wealthy wife, a man cannot live by bread alone and all that—’

  ‘So there is a difference in class?’ Maldon knew it was rude to interrupt, but something compelled him. He sipped his glass of water to break the sudden tension, attempting to speak normally. ‘Matches like that can be dreadfully difficult.’

  ‘Of course they are. No-one doubts it. Not even people from the same class manage to have love-matches—with some exceptions.’ Poppy looked glowingly at her mother, who regally inclined her head. ‘But I rather think that if anything is to be done about such sentiments, discussion is warranted. Not pining in silence and reducing the contents of one’s dairy to scraps.’

  ‘Discussion.’ Maldon laid down his fork, food forgotten. ‘How would they discuss such a thorny subject without wounding one another?’

  ‘I hardly know. Emma doesn’t either.’ Poppy ate another pea. ‘I believe letters would be the most eloquent, clear way of doing it. I have already told her that such moping is useless when we have no idea what her father thinks of the whole business. He could welcome the poor man into the fold, or send him away with a single word.’ She shrugged. ‘I rather think he’ll send him away, but no matter. Things should still be clarified.’

  ‘One rather hopes that they would be able to resolve such a matter in person, with the help of a skilled chaperone.’ The Dowager Duchess sighed. ‘What a thorny state of affairs.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Maldon was well aware that he was straying into dangerous territory, but something spurred him onward. ‘Mother… speaking in the most general of terms, how would you react to news of such an attachment on Poppy’s part?’ He paused, swallowing. ‘Or mine?’

  ‘Where there is a difference in class?’ The Dowager Duchess looked gently at her son. ‘Richard, if you are attempting to tell me that—’

  ‘No. No, of course not.’ Maldon knew he sounded more irritated than normal; he attempted to calm himself, avoiding his sister’s stare. ‘But… but if it happened to Poppy, or to me. What would you do?’

  The Dowager Duchess paused for a moment, clearly thinking through the matter. When she spoke again, there was a hint of something in her voice that Maldon couldn’t quite interpret.

  ‘My reaction to such a state of affairs would differ, depending on who came to me with it. Poppy’s state is more precarious than yours—and before you protest, we all know that it is so.’ She looked at Poppy, who nodded. ‘She must depend on your charity, dear, as much as we both know you will give her everything she wants. Her husband, then, must be able to keep her in the lifestyle to which she has become accustomed. He must also be a little more respectable than her scoundrel of a brother.’

  The insult, although spoken lovingly, hit Maldon like a blow. He looked at Poppy, who shrugged with a glint in her eye.

  ‘As for you, Richard…’ The Dowager Duchess hesitated. ‘You have much more freedom in your choice of wife. You have no need to acquire more of a fortune, given your late father’s luck in that regard… and goodness knows, you have never been all that consumed with your reputation in the eyes of others.’ Her narrow stare flayed Maldon to the soul. ‘You have near-complete freedom, given that I and your sister are hardly the interfering sort of woman. All I can request, if an elderly lady such as myself is allowed to make requests of her children, is that you do not become involved in such a hopelessly muddy situation as Emma Pett. I value clarity very highly, in matters of the heart as well as of the purse.’ She paused, a small smile on her face. ‘And I doubt we would have enough butter to sustain the both of you.’

  Clarity, then. That was the important thing; being clear in one’s de
alings, even if exactly what one wanted to achieve was unclear even to oneself. Maldon, letting the conversation flow on without him, considered what it was that he wanted.

  He didn’t want to run away. He wasn’t the fleeing kind; it was Ellen who had inspired this in him. A fear of hurting her, of making her unhappy—stupid, really, but it was there. And by vanishing to the countryside, leaving her alone to run his establishment, Maldon knew that he had left her more confused than anything else.

  Clarity. He nudged his food around on his plate. If he were to be very clear in his own heart about what he felt for Ellen Brooke… what was it, exactly, that he felt?

  Lust. That was evident. Lust that moved in him as powerfully as a tidal wave. Behind the lust, though, there was something deeper; something almost painful, trembling, making its way towards daylight however much he tried to keep it concealed…

  ‘Richard?’ His sister was looking at him again, brow furrowed. ‘Did you hear what mother just said?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Maldon forced a smile. ‘Metropolitan concerns, you know. Interfering with my attention.’ He leaned across the table, gently grasping his mother’s hand. ‘Excuse my inattentiveness. I… I believe I will have to return to the city, once we have finished here.’

  ‘Leave already?’ The Dowager Duchess looked at him, mildly alarmed. ‘You have barely arrived! I have already told the maids to prepare your bedroom!’

  ‘Then we can save them a job.’ Maldon squeezed his mother’s hand, ignoring the way that Poppy was looking for him. ‘And I shall return as soon as possible, for a much longer time.’

  He began to eat his food with a little more spirit as the conversation picked up haltingly. He still didn’t know exactly what he would say to Ellen, or how the conversation would unfold—but as his mother had said, clarity was everything. He would simply have to offer up his sentiments, as confusing and complex as they were, and see some way to untangling them… and he would have to forget, of course, how utterly strange it was that he was thinking about doing this at all.