Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  She had never looked more beautiful. Harding had seen her many times, guiltily sneaking glances at her out of the corner of his eye at the few balls she had attended. Matilda had always clung to the walls, keeping as far away from scrutiny as she could; Harding’s heart had bled for her, knowing how frightened she had been that her reputation would damage her friends. Now, as a duchess, she could walk in daylight… and although London was full of gossip when it came to them both, Bath at the turn of the Season was quiet enough to walk unimpeded.

  He hadn’t visited Bath in years. Visiting the city with Elsa had marred the place for him; made the shining streets seem like a den of iniquity. Now, walking down a quiet street in the delicious wintry sunshine, Harding realised that Matilda’s mere presence was brightening the city brick by brick.

  Remembering that he was not her husband in the true sense of the word was becoming exceedingly difficult. It was hard not to look at Matilda smile as he pointed out places of interest, or hear her softly express her opinions, and feel a rush of sentiment that blotted away the circumstances of their marriage as neatly as ink in water. His favourite moment had to be the tailors; Harding had heard of the House of LeClerc, it was meant to be one of the most well-appointed dressmakers in England. But it took Matilda’s rapt sigh of delight as she took in the glittering sign, the wind tousling her hair, for Harding to feel as if he had given her a gift of true and lasting value.

  ‘Really?’ She looked at him with such open, eager admiration that Harding felt his heart skip a beat. ‘May we go?’

  ‘Of course’ Harding smiled. ‘I thought you might like to.’

  Matilda’s smile was everything. ‘Thank you.’

  Four hours later, hours in which Harding smoked innumerable cigars and quietly opened an account with the crisply professional clerk, Matilda emerged from behind the embroidered screens with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. It had taken Harding’s absolute insistence for her to choose more than one dress, to be made and sent to London forthwith—as well as a deep purple gown, made for the indebted wife of an earl, which Matilda looked so divinely pretty in that the dressmaker declared it officially hers.

  Now the streets welcomed them as they walked along the Royal Circle, the light an impossible gold as it shone on the stone of the houses. Matilda’s arm was soft as it rested against his own, her smile radiant; if this was all he could hope for, Harding reflected, the smell of frosted grass and perfume in his nose, then he would be the happiest man on earth. The happiest man alive.

  ‘Look.’ The voice was full of quiet amusement, coming from a little way behind them. ‘It’s that whore, and the fool she tricked into marrying her.’

  Harding felt Matilda tense beside him. The lance of pain that shivered through him went through her too; he felt her tremble, suddenly, before she deliberately turned her face away from his.

  Harding kept his pace slow, deliberate, casting a casual glance backward. Yes, that was the man who had spoken; the man with an expensive cravat and cheap coat, his friend laughing furtively beside him. They were only a little way away from a secluded alleyway… it would only take a moment. Matilda would barely notice he was gone.

  He could be hurt. In a way, he was used to being hurt. But if someone hurt Matilda, correction was required.

  For a few moments, Matilda simply did not register Harding’s absence. She was too busy reeling from the cruel, casual comment she had overheard. When she finally came to her senses, shivering as the temperature dropped, she realised with a shock that Harding had slipped away.

  In the next moment, a mysterious sound emerged from the nearby alley. A sort of hard sound, as if the breath had been knocked from someone. Matilda, eyes wide, peeped around the corner of the building as she saw a man collapse against the wall of the alleyway.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The man’s voice was a high, terrified whisper. ‘I’m sorry, alright?’

  ‘My feelings are not of any importance.’ Harding’s voice, full of dark fury. Matilda watched, astonished, as he gripped the man by the collar of his coat. ‘My wife’s feelings, however, are of utmost importance. You hurt her feelings.’

  ‘And I am sorry for that!’ The man’s whisper became a whine. ‘More sorry than you know!’

  ‘You should be.’ Harding’s knee went up; Matilda watch the man collapse, his hands covering his groin. ‘Now remove yourself. Before I decide more punishment is required.’

  The man began half-hobbling, half-crawling away, vanishing into the distant darkness of the alleyway. Matilda watched Harding re-adjust his coat, his breathing harsh, before she moved towards him with her breath caught in her throat.

  He had looked so angry. That was what moved Matilda; more than the chivalry of the act itself, or the way in which Harding had defended her honour. It was the memory of how bestial he had looked, the raw aggression fuelling the rapid, brutish way in which he had thrown the man against the wall, that had her quivering with an intoxicating mixture of fear, embarrassment and adoration.

  No man had ever defended her honour. No man had ever considered her worthy of defending; no man had ever been so deeply, personally furious at the thought of someone impugning her reputation. Harding hadn’t done it in service of his own ego, his own comfort; he had done it because he knew she had been hurt by the man’s cruel words.

  That meant everything to Matilda. More than she had ever imagined. It meant so much, in fact, that she seized Harding’s hand in the middle of the lamp-lit alley, impetuously covering it in kisses.

  Any passer-by could see her, if they cared to look. Let them look. Let them watch her caress his palm, pressing her lips fervently to his knuckles, only stopping as Harding gently lifted his head with his other hand.

  ‘You deserve nothing less.’ His voice had not returned to his usual calm; there was a husky anger to it, a deep frustration that thrilled Matilda to her core. ‘Why can you not believe that you deserve everything in the world?’

  ‘How can you ask me that?’ The chill of the evening moved deep in Matilda’s bones, the gathering gloom making her voice seem small and wretched. ‘How can you ask me why I cannot believe, why I choose to doubt, when you insist on doubting my sentiments? When you will not accept that I feel more for you than simple gratitude?’

  Harding’s fraught silence was more upsetting than words. Paying no heed to the freezing air or nearby crowds, Matilda gripped the collar of Harding’s coat as she pulled him against the smoke-stained wall of the alleyway.

  ‘I am waiting for you. I have been waiting for you. Do you think you are the only person in the world who watches? Whose eyes linger—who lets their fantasies run away with them? Is it really so ridiculous, Christopher, that I have longed for you in much the same way that you have longed for me?’

  For a brief, intense moment, she believed that he finally understood. There was a dawning realisation in Harding’s eyes; a sudden fierceness in his hands as they moved to her waist, holding her tight as he pressed his body against hers… but then, as if the wind had changed, the moment went.

  ‘Give me time.’ There was such anguish in Harding’s voice. ‘Please.’

  ‘We have our entire lives.’ But as Matilda said the words, she wondered if even that would be enough time.

  The carriage ride back to London was as silent as a grave. Too much had been said, felt, expressed; Harding couldn’t remember ever having had such a violent outburst of emotion. Even when he had taken his revenge on Lord Featherstone, he had felt nothing more than a cold, clinical fury… but Matilda’s hands clinging to his collar in that filthy alleyway, adrenaline still rushing through his veins…

  He would have taken her there. Taken her against that wall, with all the passionate attention he could muster. But once again, with horrible, atrocious precision, his doubts had assailed him in a way that had made it impossible to go any further.

  Would he ever truly believe that she wanted him? That it wasn’t all a sort of master manipulation; a way of appeasing him
, or ensuring a comfortable future? He loved her so completely, so utterly… why, why, could he not trust her?

  He knew better than to blame Matilda’s work, or her choices, or herself. The fault lay with him. And staring into Matilda’s deliberately guarded face as the carriage slipped back into the smoky metropolis, Harding knew that the lack of trust came from a pain that lay deep within him.

  It had to be Elsa. Elsa’s lies, Elsa’s lovers… Elsa’s laughter, when he had discovered that she was pregnant by one of the men. Then by another. The children that he had never managed to discover, despite spending untold amounts of money on scouring London for foundlings…

  … Yes. The fault lay, at least a little, with Elsa. But she was dead, dead of a sudden chill and creeping fever, and had been in the ground for years. Only part of the fault for present behaviour could lie with a woman long dead.

  Despite his unsettled mind, Harding couldn’t help but be thankful for the understanding that lay between him and Matilda as they arrived home. There was no need for idle conversation as they each went to their rooms, conducting the small, idle pieces of business that made up an evening at home. It was only as Harding was walking to his study, ready to lose himself in a night of whisky and books, that a sigh attracted his attention.

  The bathroom door stood half-open. Harding could hear faint sounds of splashing, the crackling of a fire; domestic sounds, ones that he closed his eyes to hear more clearly. It had been so long since this house had been full of such simple, homely pleasures… he knew he lived too simply to make things as welcoming, as beautiful, as Matilda could. She carried goodwill in the palm of her hand, making everything around her lovelier by the sheer fact of her presence.

  Matilda. Matilda, bathing. Harding tried to push away the thought, the temptation… but oh, he was too tired, too exhausted in every respect, not to give in to the base desires of his body. The aching need in his heart to at least think of her.

  She was his wife. She kept saying it; they were, in almost every respect, husband and wife. Harding, closing his eyes as he stood stiffly in the corridor, wondered how long he would have to keep feeling guilty whenever he thought of her.

  There was another, slightly quieter splash, followed by another long, low sigh. The sigh inflamed Harding; he had felt Matilda sigh against him, sigh against his lips. Any sound that meant she was relaxed, or content, or happy in any way; those sounds made him hard, painfully hard, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  He should close the door. Someone could pass by and see her, or hear her; the thought of the household staff taking pleasure in the sight of her, the sound of her, was more than Harding could bear.

  Moving as silently as he could, he went to the bathroom door. He stood in the honeyed firelight that spilled into the corridor, ready to close the door… but what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

  Matilda, naked. He had imagined her naked; of course he had. He was only human. But the reality of her lush, ripe body as she lay stretched out in the copper bath, the shape and colour of her, was more blindingly beautiful than Harding had ever permitted himself to envision. She was floating in the clear, steaming water, the tips of her stiff, flushed nipples just visible above the surface as she curled one arm over the top of the bath. The blonde shadow of curls between her legs, all at once subtle and blatant, sent a throb of lust through Harding that damn near brought him to his knees.

  She looked… sad. Her eyes were closed; as Harding watched, his previous reticence forgotten, he saw an exhausted line form between her brows. She was plainer here than she was in drawing rooms; there was no artifice, no need to please anyone. She was being entirely herself.

  She was beautiful. She was beautiful in drawing rooms, and she was beautiful here. Harding understood her need to be bright and glittering; he certainly did not judge her for it, or condemn her, even if he preferred that she did not use her arts upon himself. But he had to admit that here, naked, wet, she was the most wonderful being that Harding had ever laid eyes upon.

  God, he wanted her. He wanted to walk into the room, clamber into that bathtub without a thought for his clothes, and sink himself inside her without a word. Wanted to lose himself in her, drown himself in the pleasures he knew she could give him. He would kiss the flush on her cheeks, kiss the dark roses of her nipples again and again, kiss away every sign of tension or unhappiness that he saw in her lovely face - kiss the moans and sighs from her mouth, adding more of his own…

  But he would never know, ever, if that was what she truly wanted.

  Swallowing, fighting a sudden wave of self-loathing, he turned away. A sound stopped him from walking away; a quiet sound, a slow breath, a murmur that he recognised.

  ‘Oh, Christopher.’

  Had she seen him? Harding turned back to the half-open door, an apology rising in his throat. He knew he didn’t have to apologise, no societal restriction, but still… but as he looked at Matilda, her arm still dreamily flung behind her head as the luxurious weight of her hair floated in the bathwater, he saw that her eyes were still firmly closed.

  ‘Christopher.’ Matilda said his name again; breathed it, as if whispering to herself. Her eyes were still firmly closed; Harding realised with a growing sense of wonder that she was thinking of him, imagining him, as she lay naked. ‘Oh…’

  She sighed again, long and low. Harding’s cock pressed painfully against his breeches, rigid, demanding that he keep looking. Leaning one hand against the threshold, the other hand moving reluctantly to his breeches, he gripped himself through his clothes as he watched her.

  Matilda shifted a little in the water. Harding bit his lip as he saw her reach up to stroke her neck; her fingers travelled downward, along the curve of her shoulder, stroking over her collarbones with a light, damp touch. The same touch that he would use if he ever permitted himself; was she imagining his fingers, his touches? A touch that spent a teasing, frustrating amount of time caressing her face, her neck, when other parts were calling to him… yes, this would be how he did it with time to spend. He would revel in the look of pleasurable annoyance on Matilda’s face; was she imagining him above her, his body covering her own?

  ‘Christopher…’ There was as much pain in Matilda’s voice as there was pleasure. ‘Please.’

  Harding gripped himself tighter. She had said she wanted him; he had discounted her sentiments, believing that she felt compelled to say them by circumstance. But now she was alone, alone and unadorned, free of any conventions or restrictions that were placed upon her—and she was begging him all the same. Begging him for something that he hungered to give her.

  He held his breath, watching as Matilda’s hand drifted lower. It wasn’t the practiced, gliding movement of someone accustomed to being watched; it was halting, as if she were rediscovering her own pleasure. Her palm briefly lingered at her shoulder, her upper arm, as if reassuring herself… and then, as her tongue dampened her lips, Matilda slowly brought her hand to her breast.

  ‘Yes.’ She stroked her fingers over her flesh; Harding watched, transfixed, as she pinched her nipple. Goose-flesh rippled over her skin; Harding bit his tongue, knowing that he would cry out if he didn’t. A high pink flush was building at the base of Matilda’s neck; she pinched her nipple again, harder, as Harding watched. With a small whimper, a kind of broken sigh, she moved her hand further downward. ‘Yes, Christopher.’

  He wouldn’t only use his hands. He would use his tongue, his teeth; he would make her moan, rather than whimper. Harding, barely realizing that his hands were shaking, moved to tug his breeches downward as he watched Matilda’s hand slide over her stomach. As his fingers touched his bare cock he had to stifle a growl; it had been a long time, a very long time, since he had been so close to finishing as soon as he took himself in hand.

  He watched her hand glide between her thighs, parting her slick curls, stroking with rapt, dreamy regularity as she sighed. He stroked his cock in time with her fingers, so completely lost in her that the enorm
ity of what he was doing escaped him. Let her come; let her come with his name on her lips, as if it was his hand between her legs, coaxing all her pleasure forth as he kissed her—

  Matilda’s eyes opened. The stare lasted for a single, shocked instant, burning away Harding’s fantasies, before he turned away with a harsh, broken sigh.

  ‘Christopher.’ Her voice was urgent, following him as he paced away. ‘Christopher—please.’

  He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t go back and face her, having pleasured himself in front of her like a thief. Harding, re-dressing himself with shaking hands as he reached the safety of his bedroom, briefly rested his head against the door as he viciously reprimanded himself.

  This had to change. Had to end. He would not watch his wife from dark corners, stealing her pleasure… he would be man enough to meet it, and match it.

  Tomorrow. He would do what needed to be done tomorrow. Harding hoped against hope that it wasn’t already too late.

  It was strange, visiting the pleasure-house as a lady—especially in the morning. Matilda automatically went to the hidden back entrance, the place where the workers usually congregated, before realising that she could stand at the front door like a lady of quality. Of course, ladies of quality were careful not to be seen at Maldon’s pleasure-house; Matilda, knowing the workings of the place better than any scientist, had carefully chosen the perfect hour to call. No-one, even the gossip-mongers that had decided to shadow her movements, saw her in the early-morning light—only one lord, staggering out of the place with an aching head and an empty wallet, who would have had difficulty recognising his own mother.

  Despite wanting to see her friends, Matilda knew that these precious hours of sleep were needed for her former comrades. Besides, there was only one person that she wished to see.

  Maldon’s office, as always, was lit and occupied. Matilda wondered about the wisdom of knocking, decided against it, and entered the room without announcing her presence. Maldon, hunched over papers, looked at her with wide eyes as she sat opposite.