Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Please. Allow me to speak.’ Matilda knew she was being rude, but Harding’s face didn’t change. If anything, he only looked more patient. ‘I am not speaking of our… our encounter. I am speaking of the nature of my work, and my life. I must apologise, most sincerely, for the way in which I have marred your reputation. Not to mention the memory of your first wife.’ She hung her head, hardly knowing what else to say. ‘I… I will humbly accept any limits you wish to place upon my movements, or my associations. It is the very least that I can offer you.’

  The words sounded wonderful as she thought them, and considerably less so as she said them. As she watched Harding’s face change, Matilda knew she had made a mysterious and devastating error.

  ‘You have assumed many things about me.’ Harding was looking at her with such gentleness, such infinite softness, that Matilda wanted to scream. ‘You assume that I offered to protect you that night because of some misplaced desire to save you from your chosen work, or need to—to possess you. To punish you in some way for how the night evolved. Both of those are utterly untrue, and I resent the implication.’ He paused. ‘You also… you also assume that my marriage was happy. It was not. Not in any way.’

  ‘I—I apologise.’ Matilda knew her cheeks were flaming; she focused on the pattern of the carpet, willing herself not to cry. She wanted to cry so very much; she wanted to fall onto her knees and beg him to forgive her… why did it have to be this man, this man in particular, that made her feel things in such an exaggerated fashion?

  ‘Thank you.’ Harding sighed; the sound was measured, as if concealing some greater emotion. Matilda, feeling a tear beginning to slide down one cheek, wondered how it was possible that the man still sounded genuinely thankful for her apology. ‘And… and please do not think that because my marriage was unhappy, I offered my protection to you as a form of—transaction.’ His pause was slightly weightier this time; he was clearly choosing his words carefully. ‘You are not beholden to me in any way within the confines of this house, or outside of it. I have never cared much for the ton’s whispers, and—and they are much less important to me than your happiness, and your independence.’ He paused again. ‘Whatever form that independence would take.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Matilda looked back up at Harding, her guilt suddenly pushed to the side to make way for confusion. ‘Are you telling me that I could continue working at the pleasure-house, if I so chose?’

  ‘Not under your married name. Perhaps with some measures taken to conceal your appearance—a mask, or more darkness than is usual. I am not precisely sure how such arrangements function.’ Harding’s gaze was unaccountably serious. ‘But I would not dream of daring to tell you that you could no longer work, or dictate the work you were allowed you do. I was born with money—you were not. It would be the height of hypocrisy to insist that you denied yourself the only form of independence left you you.’

  Matilda blinked. Slowly bowing her head again, looking at the carpet with new, wide eyes, she wondered how on earth she was meant to reply.

  Was he lying? Was it a masterful attempt at manipulation? Her instincts were normally so good when it came to men… but looking at Harding, Matilda could only conclude that he was telling the truth.

  A completely honest man. Her instinct whispered to her, seductive, compelling. You, my girl, are luckier than you know.

  ‘How exactly do you feel about the idea of me continuing to work at the pleasure-house?’ She watched Harding turn to look at her, a shiver running through her at his expression. ‘’What are your precise, unvarnished sentiments?’

  ‘My sentiments on that subject, as I have already told you, are completely irrelevant.’

  ‘They are not. You are my husband.’ Matilda had to take a breath after she said the word husband; the reality of it, the weight of the word, still astonished her. ‘I allow you the liberty of expressing your sentiments. Consider it a gift.’

  ‘... Do you really wish to hear them?’ Harding’s face had a rawness to it, a vulnerability, that made Matilda’s chest constrict. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Matilda nodded. ‘I do.’

  Harding paused again. Matilda watched the man arrange his thoughts, wondering if she had ever met someone so determined to not be misunderstood. She bit her lip, knowing that she was blushing, as he moved closer.

  ‘I have watched you for a long time. Ever since young Poppy Maldon began her association with you. I have watched you, as discreetly as I possibly could, because I can imagine how brutal it is to have men press their attentions upon you because of a mistaken belief that your work is your life. I have watched you weather the coldness of the ton, and watched your… friendship… with James Selby, a long-standing friend of mine.’ Harding’s face tensed a little; Matilda yearned to stop him, to interrupt, but found that she couldn’t. ‘Despite knowing that such an activity could only hurt me, I watched you. And, much like anyone who watches you for more than an instant, I have longed for you. For your company, and for more.’ His eyes burned. ‘Make no mistake.’

  Matilda couldn’t speak. She stood transfixed, a deep throb travelling from her head to the tips of her toes, as she let Harding continue talking.

  ‘I did not lie to you. I offered to protect you that night for exactly that reason—your protection. Nothing more.’ Harding’s hands slowly curled into fists. ‘And although my… my sentiments concerning you are strong, and constant, they are my burden to bear. Not yours.’ He leaned closer; Matilda heard his breathing change. ‘I will never press my attentions upon you. You will have my protection, and if you wish it, my friendship. Nothing more than that.’

  ‘You… you still have not answered my question.’ Matilda tried to keep her voice steady. ‘How would you feel about me working at the pleasure-house?’

  ‘Matilda…’ Her name in Harding’s mouth felt impossibly shocking. A precious, unbelievable gift. ‘Please.’

  It wasn’t that he was refusing to answer. Matilda saw that now. He couldn’t answer, not without betraying some inner moral code… and that agony, that conflict between how Harding felt and what he said, only made him more frustrating—and, to Matilda’s weary surprise, more attractive.

  Her husband was a very attractive man. And as his wife, Matilda had never felt further away from him.

  Slowly, moving as gracefully as she could, she smoothed down her skirts. She made her way over to Harding, deliberately slowing her steps, making sure that he could see her for several long, interrupted seconds as she approached. She walked well; clients had told her this, men of every description. But then, they told her all sorts of things, knowing that they were meant to…

  Harding had never complimented her in the traditional way. He had only told her that he wanted her… but that sentiment, spoken in Harding’s low, reserved tone, had seemed more complimentary than any of the flowery verses of admiration she had received from other gentlemen.

  ‘And what do we do now?’ She spoke softly. Harding looked at her; his gaze was open, but blank. As if he were holding something back. ‘The evening is almost over. It is time to snuff out the candles.’

  ‘I stay in the library to read, most nights. I find the silence soothing. Especially after a day like today.’ Harding’s eyes darted to her hair, her waist; Matilda had to restrain a smile, knowing that her appearance was having an effect. ‘I believe I will retire there.’

  ‘And I? Your wife?’ How strange it felt, saying that word; how pleasant. So pleasant that it frightened her. ‘Where do I go?’

  ‘I… I have had the guest bedroom prepared. There is a fire, and new linens, and your clothes have been placed there.’ Harding didn’t flinch, even as Matilda blinked. ‘I hope that you will sleep well.’

  Oh.

  It was to be like that.

  Matilda knew that it made sense. Knew that a truly honourable man, as Harding was, wouldn’t say things that were not reinforced through action. He had offered his protection, his friendship, and nothing more
, hadn’t he? Well, then a separate bedroom was perfectly logical. The only illogical reaction was her fierce, uncontrollable disappointment at the news.

  Any other courtesan plucked from the jaws of ruin would be dancing a jig. Matilda, biting her lip, felt like weeping.

  Perhaps he was concealing something darker. Perhaps he considered her tainted, or unclean, despite his desire for her; she had met many men of that type. With a small, impulsive shiver of horror, Matilda tried to consider the evidence as doubts began to claw at her. He didn’t seem disgusted by her… he had certainly had no problems touching her, that night in the garden…

  There was only one real way to find out.

  ‘But I am still so dreadfully awake.’ She reached out a hand, gently, idly running a finger along the cuff of Harding’s shirt. The man’s reaction was immediate; Matilda noted his tension, the change in his breathing, and knew with a glorious rush of triumph that Harding welcomed her touch. Wanted it, in fact. ‘What if I wish to stay here a little longer?’

  ‘You… you are more than welcome to do that.’ Harding stepped forward; Matilda restrained a small sigh of pleasure as his scent washed over her. His face was so mild, but he carried the wild, dark scents of pine and musk. Almost as if he had two selves, one of them kept carefully concealed. ‘This is your house, now. You may do whatever you wish.’

  ‘Whatever I wish?’ Matilda ran her finger along Harding’s sleeve, careful not to touch his skin. She didn’t need to; the sparks crackling in her touch made her feel as if she were running her hand along his naked body. ‘Are you telling me that I may do whatever I wish, Your Grace?’

  ‘You…’ There was a touch of raggedness to Harding’s voice. A raw quality that Matilda eagerly noted. ‘You always can. Always.’

  Matilda knew how desire sounded. How it looked; how it seemed to reduce a man to his most base, animal self. Harding, fully dressed, speaking to her in that low, intimate voice as the firelight illuminated his face, seemed to contain more want in him than any of the lascivious men she had encountered over the course of her career.

  She had always wanted him. Ever since she had seen him on the steps of Maldon House. Matilda, her exploratory hand moving to grip the collar of Harding’s shirt, wondered when she had last allowed herself to feel genuine, unprofessional desire.

  She didn’t want to frighten him with her kiss. She judged it perfectly; a slow, lingering brush of lips, almost sombre in its lightness. Innocent, in its way… but as Matilda felt Harding tense, a rippling thrill running through the both of them, she learned that the most innocent kiss she had ever given could make her feel more wanton than she had ever felt. Especially as Harding wrapped her arm around her waist, slowly but surely pulling her closer to him, his harsh exhalation letting her know that such closeness was something he had longed for.

  Many men had longed for her. Matilda knew it, in an abstract way. But in Harding’s arms, her hands wrapping around his neck as she deepened the kiss, she realised with a swift, agonizing throb of sentiment that none of those men had ever mattered. Holding back a sigh, letting herself rest against him as she parted her lips, she began to let herself slip away… but stopped, almost falling, as Harding stepped backward.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ His voice was polite, still, but he was breathing hard. ‘Why are you kissing me?’

  ‘I…’ Matilda swallowed, trying to choose a suitable answer from a mind that felt full of fog. He would never believe her if she told him how much she wanted him; how she had dreamed of him long before now. ‘I thought it would be the most satisfying form of thanks.’

  From the way Harding’s face fell, she knew she had made a terrible mistake. Removing his hand from her waist, his eyes downcast, he took a decisive step backwards. ‘I have already told you that there is no need to thank me in this fashion.’

  ‘No, I…’ Matilda shook her head, trying not to sound desperate even as she fought the urge to reach out to him. ‘That was not what I meant.’

  ‘I rather believe it was.’

  ‘Perhaps the things you believe about me are as false as the things I believed about you.’ Matilda knew it was a wild shot in the dark, but it appeared to hit home; Harding’s face changed. ‘You do not appear to have considered that.’

  ‘I have not.’ Harding shook his head, his gaze moving up to Matilda’s own with a touch of ruefulness. ‘But… I lack the strength, and perhaps the wisdom, to attempt to unpick my beliefs tonight.’

  Matilda folded her arms, hugging herself as she nodded. In her haste, her panic, she had neglected to consider an important point; Harding was no doubt as exhausted and confused by the events of the previous week as she was. A spur of the moment rescue, a scandalous marriage, the chaos and prejudice of the ton on all sides… why, he had to be at his limit, just as she was.

  There was no sense in pushing him. Making him confront things that were no doubt deeply buried. Matilda thought of Elsa, the mysterious first wife that Harding never spoke of, and couldn’t help a small shiver of pain.

  ‘Forgive me.’ She bowed her head. ‘I shall go to bed directly.’

  ‘As I said, the house is yours. You may go where you wish.’ Harding paused. ‘I… I shall be in the library, as I said, if you need me.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Matilda nodded, her head still bowed. A spur of rebellion made her keep speaking. ‘I shall attempt not—not to need you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Harding’s voice echoed with what Matilda had felt in his kiss. ‘…Likewise.’

  A day away from the city. That was what Harding had suggested over breakfast; an abundant breakfast, and a good one, with burnished rolls and hot coffee served by a furiously blushing Jonquil. Matilda, bleary-eyed and wishing her body would adjust to daylight hours rather than the nocturnal schedules of the pleasure house, had dismissed the idea as a pleasant morning frippery… but some hours earlier, sitting awkwardly in a carriage opposite Harding as London slowly vanished from sight, she reflected that she would have to begin paying more attention over breakfast.

  She had not slept well. Not at all. After a week of emotional exertion and an evening of uncomfortable honesty, she had been far too confused to sleep. At least the rocking of the carriage kept her somewhat alert, as did her curiosity about where exactly they were heading.

  ‘Not to be overly curious. And not to disturb the journey.’ She looked at Harding cautiously as he turned to her, crisply handsome in the morning light. ‘But may I ask where we are going?’

  ‘I am honestly surprised that you have not asked where we are going before now.’ It looked as if Harding was concealing a smile; Matilda wistfully concluded that it only made his face more attractive. ‘Why have you waited until now to ask me?’

  ‘I…’ Matilda decided, with a short sigh, that honesty was the best policy. ‘I am still unsure as to how curious a duchess can be.’

  ‘You may always ask me anything you like.’ Harding’s grave tone made Matilda feel silly for doubting him. ‘If anything, I should apologise for not offering more information. I have been too reticent.’

  ‘No, Your Grace. The fault was mine.’ The familiar title slipped off Matilda’s tongue without thought; she held a hand to her mouth, blushing.

  ‘At some point, Matilda, you are going to have to stop calling me Your Grace.’ Harding smiled, a touch of shyness in his weathered face; Matilda could tell he liked it, conversing with a woman, even if he wasn’t used to it. ‘Call me Christopher.’

  ‘But I do not like Christopher. Other people must call you Christopher, sometimes, and I do not wish to be like other people.’ Matilda moved a little closer; she had always enjoyed this, the dancing interplay of conversation. ‘So what shall I call you?’

  ‘None of the diminutives for Christopher strike me as particularly pleasant.’ Harding’s eyes were so cautious; Matilda felt a throb of tenderness assail her as she gently moved closer. ‘I believe you would have to choose something completely different.’

  ‘Perha
ps I shall call you Harding. Your friends call you Harding.’ Matilda batted her eyelashes, wrinkling her nose in a way she knew was amusing. ‘Am I not your friend?’

  Harding’s tone stopped her in her tracks. ‘You… you know I am a friend to you.’

  A friend, but no more. A friend who longed to be more, but would not permit himself to act upon it; even if the person he longed for was his own wife… Matilda knew that she had never met a man so honourable, and so profoundly frustrating.

  How could she convince him that her sentiments were real? That what she felt for him was more than gratitude, or tenderness, or comradely warmth, or lust?

  People thought that he was weak. Just because he didn’t fight in illegal duels, or gamble away his fortune, or make his way through every pleasure-house in London… just because he was quiet, and reasonable, and fond of staying indoors. People spoke of him as if he were the dullest man in the world; the least exciting member of what had been known as the Bad Dukes Club, by virtue of his quietness and his widowhood.

  People were wrong. Matilda knew it deep in her bones. Harding’s strength was not the flashy sort; it was deep and pure and true. He was steadfast, and constant, and utterly trustworthy; in a rapidly changing world, he was a steady as a rock. He paid no heed to what people thought of him, but always considered the needs of others… that strength, that goodness, was worth more than all the glamorous danger in the world.

  And Matilda, through an astounding quirk of fate, was married to such goodness. And Harding, thanks to the circumstances of their marriage, refused to believe that she wanted anything to do with him that went beyond the barest politeness in public.

  A deep wave of unhappiness suddenly assailed her. Moving back to her place, noting the slight frown on Harding’s face, Matilda looked out of the window with a sigh.

  ‘We are going to Bath.’ Harding sounded as if he were trying to appease her.

  ‘Oh.’ Matilda had never been to Bath, and had always wanted to go. How strange that she was visiting it as a married woman, a duchess—an unhappy duchess. ‘How.. . how wonderful.’