‘It pleases me greatly.’ Ellen brought his hand to her mouth; Maldon gasped as she ran her tongue over his fingertips, briefly closing her lips over his thumb. ‘It gives life to any number of wants.’
‘Whatever you want, or desire. Whatever you crave, in any form, at any strength—we can and will explore it.’ Maldon slowly rocked against her, gritting his teeth as he sank deeper inside her. So hot, so snug around him; had he really ever imagined that he could live without her? ‘Again, and again, until you are satisfied.’
Ellen’s murmur against his skin was like fire on silk. ‘I desire everything. I want to explore everything.’
God, I have never loved anyone more. ‘Then we shall make a start as soon as possible.’
‘I love you speaking to me when you are inside me.’ Ellen kissed him, her face alive with pleasure. ‘I love how your voice sounds.’
‘You said that I—ah!—spoke entirely too much.’
‘Yes.’ Ellen looked pensive for a moment, before smiling wickedly as she tightened around him. ‘When you are not inside me, you speak too much.’
‘Christ, Ellen.’ Maldon hid his smile against her neck, grazing his teeth on her skin as he felt a violent tug of lust. ‘You’ll kill me.’
‘I do not think I will.’ Ellen smiled wider. ‘Or rather, I think I shall tire you thoroughly before you finally succumb.’
That was quite enough play. Maldon, with a strangled sigh, gave into the desires of his body with a deep, powerful thrust.
It wasn’t like last time, like the Viewing Room, he already knew that—but the passion he felt now, in the final stretch, was almost beyond reckoning. It was almost like mating; a kind of claiming, as beasts did, except Ellen was claiming him as thoroughly as he was claiming her. Still clasped together, still mostly dressed, still looking into one another’s eyes… Maldon knew he was going to finish quickly. Knew he would never feel bored or jaded when inside Ellen Brooke, no matter how often they did this over the coming lifetime they would share.
‘I love you.’ He spoke it into the wheeling, starlit void as his pleasure overcame him; he felt Ellen shiver, heard her moan as she followed him. It didn’t matter, in this moment, if she replied with words; Maldon could feel her response in her body, her beautiful, fragile body, and it made his heart ache with love and longing. ‘I do.’
They slowly sank down together, clothes rumpled. With a sigh that Maldon knew in his bones came from contentment, Ellen idly pulled a stray pin from her hair.
‘Will we ever manage to make our way to a bed?’ Her fingers gently crept to Maldon’s hair, tousling a lock. ‘So far, we have been unsuccessful at finding one.’
‘We are disreputable brothel-keepers, my love. No-one expects beds of us.’ Maldon gently withdrew from her; Ellen’s gasp was quieted with a kiss. ‘We can use one on our wedding night, but only to irritate people.’
Ellen’s smile warmed him to the core. ‘And during the marriage?’
‘Only when we are so enormously old that our legs can no longer support us. And when you are with child, of course.’
‘Of course.’ The slight catch in Ellen’s voice, the new delight in her smile, made Maldon feel as if he were floating. ‘Although the women in my family become very sturdy when they are with child. I doubt I’ll need coddling.’
‘Sturdy? My God, the erotic connotations are endless.’ Maldon laughed, batting away Ellen’s hand as she attempted to slap him. ‘What an accomplished seductress you are.’
‘You jest, and yet here we are.’ Ellen leaned to rest against her shoulder, her dark hair tickling Maldon’s nose. ‘I have trapped a duke. Permanently. The women living on this street should come to me for lessons.’
‘The only lessons you’ll be giving will be enthusiastic instruction in the amorous arts, with a single willing gentleman. That would be me.’ A deeply intriguing thought came to Maldon. ‘Unless you wish to expand your education on that score. But that can come later.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ Ellen sighed happily against his shoulder. ‘I have never been so happy in my life.’
‘Neither have I, my love.’ Maldon kissed her shoulder, grinning. ‘I believe I am even happier than you… not least because I get to tell Grancourt that another Bad Duke is leaving the fold.’
THE END
The Duke and His Duty
The knock at the bedroom door was quiet but persistent, waking Poppy Maldon from a light, troubled sleep. She looked blearily at the darkness outside her window, wondering why on earth someone wished to disturb her so soon after everyone had gone to bed, before pulling on her robe with a frustrated sigh.
It wouldn’t be Martha, her maid—all of the staff were celebrating in their own fashion, after the successful wedding of Poppy’s brother. Neither would it be Richard himself, or his new wife; Poppy had a fair idea of what was required of newly-wed couples on their first night of marriage, and knew her attendance was not needed. It could be any one of the wedding guests, given that Maldon House had opened its doors to receive everyone for the nuptials—why, it could be Matilda, her particular friend, even though her exact role in her brother’s unusual business was somewhat unclear…
‘Miss Maldon.’ The voice was low, cut with an urgency that had Poppy’s fingers slipping as she tied her robe. ‘Open up.’
That, at least, was a voice she recognised. Recognised quite well, in fact. Why Poppy felt a small shiver as she went to the door, opening it, she couldn’t possibly say.
‘Your Grace.’ She looked up into Henry Grancourt’s square-jawed, scowling face, not quite knowing what to do. ‘This… is most irregular. Is there a fire?’
Grancourt looked back at her with a glare that bordered on impudence. He held up his hand, showing Poppy the small, half-unfurled peony bud that lay in his palm. ‘No, Miss Maldon. This is irregular.’
Was the man in his cups? He didn’t seem it; he wasn’t swaying, and his blue eyes were as clear and cutting as ever. She had never seen him drunk; Grancourt had been friends with Richard for most of his adolescence, and all of his adulthood, and had never been caught so much as tipsy. Poppy, peering at the flower, was half-sure the man had taken leave of his senses.
Her eyes widened as she recognised the bloom.
‘Yes. I know it was you.’ Grancourt took a step forward; Poppy, not wanting to move, stood stiff as the border of the man’s waistcoat almost stroked the tip of her nose. ‘And… and you are going to take it back.’
The game.
Poppy blinked, wondering what on earth she was going to do.
It had been one of the foolish, empty-headed parlour games, played in the evening, that characterise any grand celebration; an excuse for young, unmarried women to pursue the gentleman of their choice, ducking the shrewish gazes of chaperones and grandmothers alike as they ran hither and thither through the house. Poppy, ever-ready to be the beating heart of any social whirl, had eagerly agreed to a game of blind-man’s bluff—and had been positively tickled pink when Grancourt, despite fierce protestations, had been cajoled by Richard into putting on the blindfold.
She didn’t know why it was infinitely more exciting to be chased by Grancourt that by everyone else. Presumably because the man was always so determinedly unsociable; he seemed to loathe any form of merriment, skulking in corners or absenting himself whenever fun was required. Poppy, radiant in yellow, had made a particular point of running just slow enough for his fingertips to barely graze her shoulders before vanishing in a shower of giggles and frantic footsteps.
She still wasn’t sure how he had managed to corner her. She was normally so good at hiding; she had chosen an old storeroom for the purpose, a little way away from the morning-room. As a crowd of excited ladies had fluttered by—all of them seemed to be quite keen on being caught by Grancourt, it was as if they didn’t understand the game at all—Poppy had placed herself on the threshold of the storeroom door, next to a vase overflowing with white peonies.
She had held her breath as Gra
ncourt had approached, his steps unsure, the blindfold firmly fixed over his eyes. To Poppy’s surprise, he turned his head; it was as if he had sensed her presence, caught her scent on the air. As if he were hunting her…
… She wasn’t sure why she had thought of hunting. It was only a game after all; Grancourt, even though he was tall and broad and darkly gleaming in the manner of a well-fed wolf, was only Richard’s friend. But Poppy, standing at the entrance to the storeroom, had felt a wave of something that danced quite close to fear.
Working on instinct rather than reason, she had reached out and plucked a peony from the vase. Moving towards Grancourt with a silken rustle of skirts, she had slipped the fresh, green-smelling bud into the pocket of his waistcoat—and fled, with a delighted burst of laughter, as his hands grasped ineffectually at her gown.
‘Take it back.’ Grancourt’s tone had always hovered on rudeness when addressing her; now the hostility was open. ‘I will not ask you again.’
Poppy folded her arms. The feeling was back; what she had felt in the storeroom, but stronger. A kind of dizziness, a weak, languid feeling in her extremities, a quiver at her core. ‘No.’
Grancourt’s eyes narrowed. ‘What did you say?’
‘No.’ Poppy heard her own strident, stubborn tone, half-astonished at herself. ‘I will not.’
‘Why not?’
In truth, Poppy had no idea why not. ‘Because I see no fit reason to take it back.’
‘Because I do not want it. That is reason enough.’
‘Reason enough to disturb me alone, at such a late hour?’ Poppy saw a new furrow of recognition on Grancourt’s brow, and nodded with a flash of triumph. ‘I thought so. This is perfectly silly.’
‘Now you are being foolish, because you believe you have won something by giving me this.’ Grancourt held the peony bud aloft; the effect was more absurd than it was threatening. ‘Take it back.’
‘I shall not!’ Poppy, aware that she was raising her voice, softened to a whisper. ‘I would rather die a thousand deaths.’
‘You are perilously close to achieving the first of the thousand.’ Grancourt was practically snarling; Poppy stared defiantly back, knowing that the man’s bark was infinitely worse than his bite. He was easily the gloomiest of Richard’s friends, but never actually furious. ‘Just take it, Miss Maldon, so I can sleep in peace.’
‘How on earth is a flower-bud disturbing your sleep?’ Poppy huffed dramatically. ‘Are you really so utterly devoid of merriment that even the smallest bloom disturbs the darkness?’
She knew as she finished speaking that a small but important line had been crossed. Grancourt’s legendary lack of sociability was something to jest about, yes—but not condemn. Condemning it, in fact, revealed just how personally Poppy had always taken his lack of celebratory spirit.
She opened her mouth to apologise. Before she could, with a flash of something raw in his expression, Grancourt leaned forward.
With deft, delicate skill, he slid the bud of the peony into the half-pinned coils and whorls of Poppy’s hair. Poppy bit her lip, not knowing why she felt the urge to gasp as his fingers briefly paused at her temple, the pad of his thumb hot against her skin.
‘There.’ Perhaps Poppy was the one who had taken leave of her senses; she was sure she heard a tremble in Grancourt’s voice. ‘Goodnight.’
Poppy swallowed, wordless. With another look, a look that burned, Grancourt turned on his heel and began walking down the darkened corridor.
For a moment, Poppy was sure that she couldn’t move. The feeling that had assailed her before had only grown in strength, fixing her to one spot. Her face tingled where Grancourt had touched her, throbbing with a sweet, insistent spark that flickered through every one of her nerves—had she she ever been aware of her nerves before? Aware of how they could feel, if stimulated?
Poppy Maldon had always prided herself on being a creature of instinct. Dramatic, impetuous; capable of vast sensibility, as well as passion that could shake a world. It was her instinct, far more wise than reason, that pushed her to follow Grancourt down the corridor as he strode away.
‘What?’ Grancourt turned, stilling, his expression now one of open surprise. Poppy, as she approached, saw shards of light in his blue stare that she had never thought to notice before. ‘Miss Maldon, what is it now?’
Poppy didn’t know how to remind him that he had been the one to find her. She didn’t know how to explain what she felt, either; it didn’t seem like something that could be readily expressed in words.
Her body knew exactly what to do, though. Her hands knew exactly how to reach out, grasping the collar of his coat; her feet knew how to draw closer still, until the buckskin of Grancourt’s breeches slid to a halt against the soft wool of her robe. Her breath knew what to do, stilling in glorious anticipation as she reached upward…
… With closed eyes and a violently beating heart, she kissed him with untold strength and minimal skill. Grancourt gasped; Poppy greedily drew him closer, moving onto her tiptoes, before abruptly pulling away with a startled cry.
This was the problem with being a creature of instinct. One’s instincts, strong as they were, could lead one into terrible trouble.
‘There.’ Her voice was shaky, but resolute. ‘Now I have given you something that you cannot return.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Matilda Weatherbrooke leaned forward, her coffee and roll forgotten. ‘You did what?’
‘You heard me perfectly well.’ Poppy lowered her voice, more than aware of just how crowded the dining room was becoming. Breakfast was never a formal affair at Maldon House, given the amount of guests and their various quirks when it came to morning dining, but there were more than enough wedding guests to make such revelations deeply unwise. ‘I kissed him.’
She watched Matilda pause, casting a worried look at the door as Richard entered the room with his new bride on his arm. Poppy had never seen her brother look so happy; she was sure that his sparkling eyes and happy, welcoming smile would rapidly vanish if he was to learn of her indiscretion.
‘I believe you must join them at their table, dear.’ Matilda gently but emphatically gestured to the table where the Maldon family sat. ‘I am only here as a guest thanks to Ellen’s machinations. I am sure your mother does not wish to see you associating with staff.’
Poppy wondered if staff was the correct word to use for Matilda. Her brother’s illicit trade as a brothel-keeper wasn’t exactly common knowledge, but well-enough known in elite circles—and Poppy severely doubted that Richard’s new wife, Ellen Brooke, had in fact been working as a governess when she had stolen his brother’s heart. Ellen moved and spoke with a gravity that spoke for her much more eloquently than any of the rumours swirling about her did, but one could never really tell… and from the look on Brenda Hartwell’s face throughout the nuptials, a mixture of shock and spiteful glee, Poppy knew that the parts of the ton that considered themselves the moral arbiters of London were preparing to cast the Maldon name even further outside of respectable circles. Matilda’s presence at the wedding, her plainest dress still infinitely finer than anything a respectable woman would wear, certainly hadn’t helped the family maintain the appearance of normality; neither did her manner, so full of irrepressible, arch gaiety that some of the greener girls had been openly shocked by the ways in which she phrased certain expressions.
Matilda worked in the pleasure house. Poppy knew this, Richard knew this—why, she was fairly sure that her mother knew it, or at least suspected it. The Dowager Duchess, gentle and reserved in her manner at all times, had certainly looked at Matilda with something approaching surprise when she had seen Poppy giggling with her. Her friend had been spoken of, with deliberate vagueness, as a ballerina… and really, it was entirely possible that Matilda had been, at some point in her history. Poppy was certainly far too polite to ask.
Matilda was her friend. That was the important thing; a true, happy, constant friend, who had been so ever since the
first banns had been read for Richard and Ellen. A friend who had a vast wealth of experience that Poppy could only guess at, despite their ages being similar—and the only friend, out of all of Poppy’s very many friends, who would have something of any usefulness to say when it came to kissing Henry Grancourt.
‘Let me have a little more time with you, Matilda dear.’ She looked at her with piteous eyes, hoping it would be enough. ‘You are the only possible person who can tell me why on earth I did such a strange thing.’
‘If I stay much longer you will attract unkind comments. Your position was less than assured when it was only your brother’s job sparking talk—now that he has married outside of his class and brought people like me into the drawing room, you must pay very close attention to your associations.’ Matilda’s voice, although kind, had a hint of steel to it. ‘Please release me as soon as you feel able.’
‘I shall.’ Poppy took a quick sip of coffee, trying to marshal her thoughts. ‘I… simply do not know why I kissed him. Henry Grancourt, of all people.’
‘Henry Grancourt. The man you see so very frequently, thanks to his friendship with Richard. The unattached, wealthy, titled Henry Grancourt, who you have known since adolescence.’ Matilda gently raised an eyebrow. ‘Can you really not see why kissing him seemed like a good idea, Poppy?’
‘Of course not. I am not sure at all why I did it.’ Poppy took a sip of coffee, considering. ‘If anything, I am normally especially horrible to him, and he is especially horrible to me in return.’
‘Yes. I have noticed this.’ Matilda had an odd look on her face, as if attempting not to smile. ‘Poppy, do remind me to discuss this phenomenon with you at a more appropriate juncture. Now, alas, I had better remove myself.’
‘Of course.’ Poppy squeezed Matilda’s hand, hoping that Brenda Hartwell was looking. That would teach the girl to be so confoundedly snobbish. ‘I will see you in London, yes?’
‘Undoubtedly.’ Matilda smiled; Poppy smiled back, the kindness in her friend’s face strengthening her. ‘Now go to your family, and eat up.’
Private Passions Page 96