Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  He stopped, panting, as Harding’s hand fell onto his shoulder. Harding, the most unassuming member of the Club, had a grip harder than iron; Grancourt felt the strength the man kept so assiduously hidden, and found himself regretting his words.

  The room fell into an abrupt, thoughtful silence. Grancourt, watching the assembled dukes with a wary scowl, saw pity take the place of scorn.

  Ugh. He rolled his eyes. Pity was infinitely worse than scorn.

  ‘In love with her?’ Bale raised an eyebrow. ‘Well. That explains why you’re telling us all this.’

  ‘Yes. That would have been an unaccountably stupid decision if you weren’t in love with her, come to think of it.’ Selby sighed. ‘Although I fail to see how we can be of any practical help. Apart from forming a human shield when Maldon comes to kill you.’

  ‘Maldon will not be coming to kill me, because Maldon will never know.’ Grancourt shook himself free of Harding’s grip, settling back into his chair with a sigh. ‘I… I am going to have to eat these words, and these sentiments. Eat my own heart.’

  ‘Perhaps travel would be a good remedy.’ Bale looked at him with slightly melancholy eyes. ‘Isabella and I had a glorious time in Italy—although, of course, that country is built for lovers.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Grancourt scowled. ‘Is there a country built for morose bastards who deserve to moulder in solitude?’

  ‘Any one of the colonies. Or the wetter portions of France.’ Harding spoke with quiet authority. ‘But… but all might not be lost, you know. There could be a way of ascertaining the girl’s feelings.’

  Grancourt shook his head. ‘They have been ascertained.’

  ‘Ah.’ Harding looked at him with wary curiosity. ‘And…?’

  ‘The word she used was experiment.’

  Another mournful hush fell over the group. Grancourt, looking around at the stricken faces of his friends, smiled bitterly at the sudden sense of kinship.

  ‘Goodness.’ Bale shook his head. ‘A very low blow.’

  ‘Almost to the toes.’ Selby shivered. ‘Sad, really. Poppy… well, she has certainly become a wonderful young woman.’

  ‘End that thought right there, or I’ll end you.’ Grancourt savagely kicked a small embroidered cushion from the chair.

  ‘Certainly a tragedy, if you think about it.’ Harding sighed. ‘Well… we will be here, Grancourt, if you need a listening ear or helping hand. And our silence goes without saying.’

  ‘I would hope so.’ Grancourt scowled, a half-formed hope rising in his chest. ‘I… I suppose there would be no point whatsoever in going to Maldon, and making my feelings plain, and—’

  ‘Good God, are you mad?’ Selby looked at him, astonished.

  ‘Terrible idea, Grancourt. Truly atrocious.’ Bale shook his head.

  ‘I often preach the middle path.’ Harding shrugged. ‘But even I would advise against such a course of action, in the strongest possible terms.’

  Grancourt, nodding, let the hope die in his breast.

  ‘Yes, Grancourt.’ Bale gently patted his shoulder, the consideration in his touch almost more than Grancourt could bear. ‘Poppy’s brother will not, under any circumstances, be informed of the situation.’

  ‘Well.’ Matilda sipped her tea with an air of intense reflection. ‘I believe you will simply have to inform your brother of the situation.’

  The atmosphere in the kitchen of the Maldon townhouse was quiet and restrained; completely different from the luxurious, decadent air of the pleasure-house, but Poppy had no way of knowing it. Curled up in a chair in abject misery, left alone by her sympathetic mother after complaining of a headache, Poppy had requested Matilda’s company—hoping against hope that her cunning friend, who had arrived at the servant’s entrance with a false limp and a tongue tripping over with questions, would be able to unpick the vast, ugly knot she had made of the whole business.

  Alas, Matilda’s advice was unpleasant even to hear. Poppy’s head already ached abominably thanks to the whisky; the idea of telling Richard about anything that had occurred the previous night made it throb with agonising pressure.

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ She closed her eyes, slowly shaking her head. ‘Absolutely no part of me wishes to tell Richard.’

  ‘I know.’ Matilda reached out, gently squeezing her hand. ‘But when one considers that the alternative is Grancourt telling your brother what has happened… if you tell him, dear, then there is considerably less chance of a duel.’

  A duel? Poppy looked bleakly at her teacup, wishing that she could read the dregs of the leaves swimming in the liquid. It was only meant to be something playful… a scientific experiment, as she had so unwisely said.

  Even that had been a lie, really. It was much easier to say experiment than it was to say instinct. To call it an exploration, when it had felt like… like…

  Like something she had always wanted to do, and never admitted to herself.

  Like the most wonderful thing in the world.

  Like coming home.

  ‘Matilda.’ Poppy spoke delicately, not wanting to smother the fragile thought before it could take wing. ‘Might I… might I be in love with Henry Grancourt?’

  ‘... Yes, Poppy.’ Matilda sighed the profound sigh of a teacher who has coaxed the correct answer out of a reluctant pupil. ‘Yes, I rather believe you are.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poppy nodded, carefully arranging the new knowledge into previously overlooked corners of her mind. Yes, it made sense; oh, what a goose she was! ‘And… and might Henry Grancourt be fond of me?’

  ‘I do not believe he is fond of you.’ Matilda rolled her eyes. ‘I believe he is spectacularly in love with you, and has been for some time.’

  ‘I… I see.’ Poppy put a hand to her mouth, her face crumpling as tears began to well up. ‘And… and I have ruined it, all of it, with my hasty words and hastier actions.’

  ‘On that score, I am much less certain.’ Matilda patted her hand as Poppy wept, her voice both soothing and bracing in equal measure. ‘Men are very fixed when in love, dear. It would take a tremendous amount to change the sentiments of His Grace—hasty words on your part would have been a blow, certainly, but not a fatal one.’

  ‘I hurt him.’ Poppy shook her head, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I never wish to hurt him. I never wish to cause him any true pain.’

  ‘And he must be told this. In a clear fashion—perhaps a letter would be the best way to express sentiments, at this point.’ Matilda patted her hand, releasing her as she took another sip of tea. ‘I would write one immediately.’

  Poppy wrinkled her nose. The thought of writing a letter to Grancourt seemed so… cowardly. Especially after all they had shared.

  Sometimes her instincts got her into trouble. Still, in moments like these, she was more than willing to listen to the small voice inside her that could never be truly silenced.

  ‘Writing to him does not seem adequate.’ She was surprised at how definite her voice was; Matilda blinked, clearly unsettled at the change. ‘I believe I shall have to speak to him in person. But… but perhaps my brother would benefit from reading of developments rather than hearing them. It could prevent unsightly reactions from affecting any of us adversely.’

  ‘Poppy, that sounds like quite a cunning solution.’

  ‘No. It sounds like sisterly wisdom.’ Poppy wiped away the last of her tears, nodding decisively. ‘I would appreciate some friendly wisdom to accompany it. How am I meant to speak to His Grace, alone, unchaperoned? You can hardly feign another wounded limb.’

  Matilda sighed, apparently unrepentant. ‘It is something of a conundrum.’

  ‘A conundrum that will be solved forthwith.’ Poppy nodded again, rising from the table as she pushed her tea cup away. ‘Not now, but soon… now, I am going to write a note and leave it for my brother.’

  Hand on chin, stirring her cooling tea, Matilda watched Poppy leave the kitchen with a reflective air. She waited for some minutes, smiling faintly, before turning
in her chair.

  ‘You can come out.’ She addressed the empty air. ‘I know you were listening.’

  ‘You cannot possibly blame me.’ Ellen Maldon, Duchess of Portman, guiltily came out from behind the small door that led to the pantry. ‘She would certainly never tell me what happened. I am a curious soul.’

  ‘I would have told you everything.’ Matilda sighed as Ellen sat, reaching to pour her a cup of tea. ‘And it is probably beneficial that you did listen. You can remove whatever foolish note Poppy is intending to write, before your husband reads it and ends up running his friend through with a bayonet.’

  ‘Alas, I cannot bring myself to destroy a letter. Far too brutal an act.’ Ellen shook her head. ‘However, I shall certainly be delaying its discovery for as long as possible.’

  ‘A wise choice.’ Matilda looked at her friend, her pity for Poppy struggling against her exasperation at the situation. ‘Although not likely to make this atrociously wrinkled thing smooth.’

  ‘I know that only you will consider what I am about to say with neither censure nor judgement.’ Ellen paused. ‘I… I am rather tempted to simply take her to Grancourt’s house and leave her there. Until some sort of arrangement is made between the two of them.’ She looked at Matilda with slightly guilty eyes. ‘Somewhat shocking, no?’

  Matilda, who had been rolled up in a carpet naked and delivered to any number of sophisticated addresses in order to approximate an erotic encounter between Cleopatra and a paying Caesar, tried to look as if such a suggestion was anywhere near shocking. ‘Well. It would rather depend on if Grancourt can be trusted.’

  ‘Grancourt?’ Ellen’s wry smile reminded Matilda why she was such a close friend. ‘You know Poppy much better than I do, dear, and I know her brother. I know the Maldon family type. If there is a helpless party here, it is Henry Grancourt.’ She sighed, a practical twist to her mouth. ‘I am sure that if Poppy told him in no uncertain terms how she actually felt, this nonsense could come to a happy conclusion.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Matilda lowered her voice. ‘But how would it be arranged?’

  ‘My husband will be given his favourite dinner tonight, and complimented so lavishly that he will not think to look over his correspondence until tomorrow morning.’ Ellen smiled. ‘That should be more than enough time for a marriage to be decided.’

  ‘Ellen.’ Matilda laughed, thoroughly shocked. ‘It will cause the most terrible scandal.’

  ‘The sister of the brothel-keeping, governess-marrying duke, marrying a family friend?’ Ellen laughed. ‘Oh, Matilda. It will be the most staid thing to happen to the Maldon name in quite some time.’

  By the time Grancourt returned to his townhouse that evening, the tree-lined square was filled with moonlight. He paused on the corner to tip his coachman as he finished his cigar, trying to keep brisk and grim, even though a small but important part of him wished to sink to the roadside and weep.

  He had never admitted wanting to weep before. That was for other men; men who had sentiments, and expressed them. Men who hadn’t spent the best part of the day being counselled by their friends on how to renounce a hopeless, foolish love, that had nevertheless become the foundation on which his life was built…

  A carriage went by; one that he vaguely recognised. Maldon’s carriage? Grancourt tensed, staring at the vehicle as it clattered by, wondering if Maldon had come to learn of his indiscretion… but no, it wasn’t stopping. Even if it had been outside his house, as if waiting for him.

  Trying to shake the sensation that something was wrong, he moved to go inside. He let Jameson take his hat and coat, staring at the butler’s determinedly blank expression until the man finally gave up.

  ‘There is a visitor for you, Your Grace. In the drawing room.’ He sniffed significantly. ‘There were two, but the other lady left a little before you arrived. She said she would be back shortly, but…’

  ‘But what?’ Grancourt stared, frowning. ‘But you have your doubts? Who on earth is waiting for me?’

  Jameson didn’t flinch. ‘If you will recall, Your Grace, it is meant to be my evening off. When my master is not late arriving.’ He had the decency to blink as Grancourt scowled, but rallied. ‘I will take my leave forthwith.’

  Grancourt, not knowing if he should sack the man or shake him by his shoulders, watched Jameson in complete confusion as he walked away.

  Why wasn’t he getting any answers in his own house? Who on earth was waiting for him in the drawing room, unchaperoned?

  The burst of hope came before he finished the thought. Grancourt swallowed it, ignoring the sudden weakness in his limbs as he moved towards the drawing room door.

  He opened it. The sight of the small, fragile figure in the centre of the candlelit room, dwarfed by the cold splendour that surrounded her, made his heart rise to his throat.

  ‘Ellen will not be returning.’ Poppy looked at him, her voice determinedly brave. ‘She was going to stay with me, but I insisted that she did not. She… she will, of course, come if I request it. I know that this should not be done, but… but I rather feel that we are beyond should. Are we not?’

  Grancourt couldn’t speak. He nodded once, jerkily, looking at Poppy with hungry, suspicious eyes.

  ‘I must apologise for what I said. In the inn. I… I believe a worldlier woman would have understood the state of things, and said something adequate to the task. I, of course, am not worldly in the slightest. I fear that I have been abominably coddled, and have spent too many of my tender years with an eye to my own comfort rather than looking about me, and—and I have rather a tendency to ride roughshod over the sentiments of others, given that I am always so…’ Poppy swallowed, her voice small in the large room. ‘So concentrated on my own self. So blind to the feelings of others, as well as my own feelings.’

  She reached up to her hair, pulling something free of a tightly-pinned curl. Holding it up to the candlelight, she took a step froward; Grancourt, leaning closer, saw the object clearly.

  It was the peony bud. The bud that he had returned to her. Dried brown, light as a feather, it quivered in her fingers.

  ‘But you see… I feel too.’ Poppy swallowed. ‘I feel very deeply, very deeply indeed, even if it seems as if I—’

  Grancourt couldn’t bear to leave her there any longer, shivering in the vast expanse of the drawing room. With swift, almost angry strides he went to her, gathering her into his arms as she gasped, her loosely-pinned hair tumbling over his arms as she threw her hands around his neck.

  ‘I love you. I should have told you from the very first.’ He spoke hoarsely, his lips pressed to her temple. ‘I was the worst sort of coward, not telling you.’

  ‘Indeed you were.’ Poppy sighed, her breath warm on his his cheek. ‘If you had told me, I would have known I loved you in kind without ever needing to hurt your feelings.’

  ‘You cannot possibly love me. You are far too perfect to love a vicious old brute like me.’ Grancourt shook his head, still holding Poppy tightly.

  ‘You bathed with ducklings, Your Grace. You are the furthest thing from a vicious brute that I know.’ Grancourt felt Poppy’s smile against his skin. ‘And I know I have told you how silly you are when you try to tell me how I feel, and what I wish. Why you cannot simply believe that I love you, I do not know.’

  ‘You are unpractised in the ways of the world. You are too young to give such a defining declaration.’

  ‘I am the sister of London’s most notorious brothel-keeper. Quite why people insist on treating me as if I am a sheltered baby bird, I do not understand. Perhaps because, on some level, I welcome it.’ Poppy sighed, shaking her head. ‘But I will no longer accept it. Not if it means that you deny me my feelings, and consider my love a passing fancy.’

  ‘I cannot consider your love as anything else.’

  ‘Why?’ Poppy lifted her head, a look of uncanny perception in her eyes. ‘Because it would make you happy, Your Grace? Because it would make you joyous, and you cannot quite r
emember what joy feels like?’

  Grancourt opened his mouth, and closed it again. He looked at Poppy, one eyebrow raised, as she stroked a finger along the line of his cheekbone.

  ‘Yes. I thought so.’ She nodded. ‘If you cannot allow yourself to feel happy, Your Grace, such a problem is not my concern. But if you decide to choose a more courageous path, then know that I—’

  She stopped, her words dissolving into an ecstatic sigh as Grancourt kissed her. Kissed with all the power he possessed; all the love, all the understanding, all the longing that had become a deeper part of himself than he had ever wanted to admit.

  ‘Never leave me.’ He gripped her tightly, suddenly beset by fear. ‘Never die, never leave me. Be with me forever.’

  ‘You ask things of me that I cannot promise, Your Grace.’

  ‘Henry.’

  ‘You ask things of me that I cannot promise, Henry.’ Poppy idly curled a lock of his hair between her fingers; the soft tug of pain at his scalp thrilled Grancourt more than he could admit. ‘But I am beginning to trust my own powers. If anyone can cheat both death and time… why should it not be me?’

  God, she was so self-possessed. As if she had found a part of herself in their brief period of separation; a piece of a puzzle that completed her. Not Grancourt himself—he was far too humble to assume that he was the missing piece of anything or anyone. Something indefinable, and exquisite.

  He kissed her again. Kissed her with such passion, such raw need, that he almost sank to his knees with her in his arms.

  ‘You said I could command you to do anything under the sun.’ Poppy looked at him, flushed, breathless. ‘I am commanding you now. Ruin me here, and quickly. Or I feel as if I shall break into a thousand pieces.’

  ‘Poppy, love, I am not going to ruin you quickly. And I am certainly not going to ruin you here.’ Grancourt gathered her into his arms. ‘I am going to ruin you slowly and thoroughly, in my bedroom, on what will be our bed.’ He pressed his forehead to hers, not quite believing that he was saying the words. ‘Do you permit me?’