Private Passions Read online

  Carstairs bowed. When he spoke again, his voice was so quiet that Cora barely heard it. ‘Impossible.’

  Oh. Cora sat stiff in her chair, hardly daring to take her tea as unspoken impressions washed over her. She had been so consumed with her own challenges for the past days—for the entire period of her employment, if she were honest with herself—that she had never paid all that much attention to Carstairs. Carstairs, who looked at Lady Chiltern as if sneaking glances at a queen… and Lady Chiltern, shyly looking back at him. Lady Chiltern, who looked forlorn as he left the room.

  Goodness. But then, what was surprising about it? Carstairs was a well-looking man, Cora supposed, and Lady Chiltern was in her prime. Her marriage to Lord Chiltern had been no love-match; their lack of affection had been common knowledge. And now there were two adults, together in a fine house, able to see and talk to one another whenever they pleased…

  … And so many rules to obey. So many limits and boundaries to their discourse; no real way of expressing feeling, or understanding if feelings were returned. Cora looked at Lady Chiltern’s sad eyes, reflecting that a title could very well be a cage.

  ‘Care is a fine and noble thing.’ She took a sip of tea, trying to sound innocuous. ‘And we must always remind ourselves to take care… because sometimes, all we really want is to be careless.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lady Chiltern picked up her cup, pausing as she held it in her hands. ‘All we want… the only thing.’

  Yes. Cora took another sip of tea, her heart full of James Ashcroft despite the protestations of her mind. The only thing.

  As afternoon faded into evening, Ashcroft House fell into a most unusual silence. The house, normally bustling with activity, acquired a certain calm… a calm that turned into barely repressed panic in the scrubbed environs of the old Ashcroft kitchen.

  This is ridiculous. The refrain kept sounding in Ashcroft’s head as he took in the candlelit kitchen, two mixing bowls standing side by side next to carefully portioned amounts of flour and butter. More ridiculous than anything he had ever asked of a woman—and looking back, he had made some pretty sizeable requests.

  But this was Cora. That was what brought an air of normality to the scene, strange as it was. How many bets had he made with Cora as a child; how far they could both jump, how high they could both climb… this, unusual as it was, felt close to a continuance of their former friendship. Before he had ruined everything.

  He jumped as the door opened. All optimism vanished as Ashcroft saw Cora’s face; her frown, her wary eyes. Placing her coat and bonnet on a nearby chair, she turned to him with mutinously folded arms.

  ‘If the range is hot, let’s begin.’ She went to the bowl of water that stood on the table, picking up the bar of soap that lay next to it. ‘I cannot be here any longer than necessary.’

  ‘Alright.’ Ashcroft bowed, almost laughing at the faint bob of a curtsey Cora gave in return as she washed her hands. However rude she felt like being, Cora Seabrooke was unfailingly polite. ‘Let’s begin. I hope you remember watching Cook work.’

  ‘I remember everything, your Grace.’ Cora tied the linen apron Ashcroft had left on the counter around her waist, smoothing it down. Her voice had a new, sharper edge to it that Ashcroft wished he could soften. ‘Every single thing. I remember it.’

  Ashcroft had no adequate reply. He bowed again, slightly more deeply, turning to his mixing bowl with a heavy heart.

  With a brisk, practical efficiency that only emphasised how unreal the situation was—baking, by candlelight, with a woman he’d been ceaselessly thinking of for nigh-on three days—both he and Cora began to prepare their biscuits. Ashcroft waited for the familiar rush of comfort that the ritual brought him, the ease of mind that came with rhythmic movement, but found to his dismay that he felt more agitated than ever.

  How many minutes had passed? Five? Fifteen? He wasn’t keeping correct track of time; time didn’t seem to matter, when Cora was next to him. He was clumsy as he poured the flour; clumsy as he cut the butter into cubes…

  She was wincing. Wincing as she feathered the butter into the flour; were her hands stiff? She was in pain, that much was clear. Ashcroft stopped what he was doing, openly watching her struggle, trying to find the most gentle combination of words to enquire as to the problem.

  Oh, damn gentleness. Cora would hear the truth in whatever he said, however oafishly it was put. She was, and had always been, the strongest woman of his acquaintance.

  ‘Miss Seabrooke, you are wincing. It’s plain that something is causing you discomfort.’ He wiped his hands on a dishcloth, turning to Cora. ‘I refuse to continue until you tell me what is wrong.’

  ‘Fine. Don’t continue. That way I’m sure to win.’ Cora kept feathering the butter into the flour, her face turned away from his. ‘No biscuit tastes good when it’s still in the mixing—ah!’

  She stopped, resting her wrists on the edge of the bowl, her expression pained. Ashcroft waited, not trusting himself to touch her.

  ‘I…’ Cora finally laughed to herself, an edge of bitterness in her voice. ‘I have pains in my hands, sometimes. After needlework, or knitting. If I ever baked, I’m sure I would have already known this would happen.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’ Ashcroft’s heart throbbed in his chest, aching. ‘We can—’

  ‘If you are going to tell me that we should stop, please don’t. I manage to perform most tasks as competently as anyone else. Including this one.’ Cora was looking intently at the bowl; Ashcroft watched her eyes, noting the glimmer of tears appearing at their corners. ‘I… all I need is a moment.’

  Ashcroft stood, silent, waiting—for what, he didn’t know. Waiting for his need to overcome his fear. Being near Cora when she was hurt undid him in ways he could barely comprehend.

  He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stand by and watch her soldier on, working through tears. But neither could he simply fold her into his arms; she would never accept it, and the thought of her rejection was almost as bad as the thought of her pain. He needed to find a middle ground; a way of allowing her to accept his help.

  ‘I believe your hands would hurt less if you changed your technique. You feather far too strongly—almost angrily.’ He tried to sound nonchalant, his heart beating savagely in his chest. ‘I could show you how to be more gentle.’

  ‘Gentleness? From you?’ Cora’s sarcastic tone almost changed his mind—but there it was, a softening in her face. Something open, vulnerable, that he had never seen before. ‘I can hardly imagine such a thing.’

  ‘Honestly, Miss Seabrooke. How do you expect to bake well, with such a lack of imagination?’ Ashcroft waited for a smile; when a small one came, hovering at the corner of Cora’s mouth, he inwardly rejoiced. ‘Fortunately, I am here. You do not need to imagine.’

  Moving slowly, he drew closer. As Cora stiffened, tension in every line of her face, he paused—and took another step forward, coming to a halt behind her.

  ‘Let your hands relax. Like this.’ He leaned around her, his nose suddenly full of the scent of her hair, digging his fingers into the butter and flour. ‘Palms upward, in the bowl.’

  ‘I… there is no room.’ Ashcroft heard the tremble in her voice; saw the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up as he moved imperceptibly closer. ‘The bowl is not big enough.’

  ‘Then…’ He swallowed, trying to sound normal, aware that he was failing. ‘Then rest your palms against mine.’

  There was a moment of complete stillness. Ashcroft closed his eyes, cursing silently to himself; he had pushed too far. She would run, now; run out of the door, out of his life, and leave him to his loneliness…

  He almost gasped as Cora’s soft hands rested against his.

  ‘G—good.’ How was he meant to sound normal? It was impossible. ‘Now… now gently, very gently, make circles with your thumb against your fingers.’

  Cora’s voice had become very quiet. ‘Show me.’

  Ashcroft’s breath caugh
t in his throat. ‘… Show you?’

  He felt Cora lean backwards. Her body rested against his; the neat coil of her hair was suddenly, shockingly, against his chest. She was trembling, ever-so-slightly—but when she spoke, her voice was clear.

  ‘Yes.’ There was a faint, pleading edge to the word; a longing that Ashcroft felt mirrored in his own soul. ‘Please.’

  Ashcroft’s hands moved before his brain could stop him. His palms curled tight around Cora’s hands; he held them for a slow, lingering moment, his lips pressed to her hair. She was here, she was finally here… and then, with a sudden, swift movement that his body made in league with his heart, she was in his arms.

  He dimly heard the mixing bowl clatter to the ground, shattering into pieces as he turned her around, but what did it matter? The whole world could crumble to dust, or burst into flames, and it wouldn’t matter. Not while he had Cora in his arms, her softness tightly pressed to him, her body warmer and more yielding than it had been even in his wildest fantasies.

  There was no time for sweetness, or teasing, or anything else from a rake’s bag of tricks. All he had was hunger; a great, vast ocean of hunger that could only be fed with the heat of Cora’s body, and not enough time to take his fill of her. He kissed her harshly, greedily, as much punishment as pleasure in the taste of her lips as he felt her sigh against his mouth. If he marked her, if he left her lips swollen and flushed with his love, then all the better.

  ‘Cora.’ He murmured the word again and again, in-between kisses, claiming her with his voice as well as his body. At first she trembled at the sound of her name, and Ashcroft doubted—but then her hands were clasped tight around his neck, drawing him even closer, her kisses full of the same desperation that guided his mouth and hands.

  He couldn’t have her standing; he wanted her in his arms, weightless, free of everything that kept her earth-bound. A delicious thrill of connection shot through him as he moved his hands downwards, cupping her thighs as he lifted her onto the edge of the table. He moved forward, placing himself between her parted knees before she could close them, her skirts a soft, frothy mass against his thighs as he held her brazenly close. Yes, like this, his hardness wickedly close to her hot, wet centre—but close was not enough. It would never be enough.

  ‘Please…’ Cora’s soft whimper sent the flame in him even higher, licking at the last barriers of his restraint. He forced himself to wait, expecting a stop at any moment—but then it came again, a fervent plea for something his body wanted more than breathing. ‘Please…’

  Ashcroft kissed her again, deeper, harder. Whatever her please meant, he would give her all of what she wanted and more; his kisses, his touch, his lust for her and her alone. Tangling his fingers in her hair, briefly lost in the scent of her under his hands, he moved his mouth along the line of her neck until he found a spot that made her quiver. Her small, broken cry of pleasure was a symphony to him; he bit down, just a little, just enough to feel her tremble under his tongue.

  How wonderful it was to have her slightly above him; to reach up to kiss her, like a pilgrim finally reaching his chosen saint. How exciting it was—how frightening it was, almost—to feel the wave of desire crash over them both, obliterating all past concerns, keeping them in the shining, savage moment where all things were suddenly possible.

  He’d been with other women before; strange, disappointing encounters, as athletic and debased as they had been. They had always lacked something; a quality he had given up trying to name, but now knew he could simply call Cora. Cora’s hands on his back, clumsily scrabbling at his shirt as she tried to remove it. Cora’s calves, wrapped behind his thighs and drawing him closer.

  There was an urgency to her movements; a need for everything to happen at once. Ashcroft knew he should set the pace; as the lover with more experience, it was his duty to slow down… but oh, God, hang duty.

  He moved his hands to Cora’s bodice; she eagerly pressed his body to her palms, beginning to tug the neckline of her garment downward as Ashcroft bent to kiss the nape of her neck. Everything was hurried, frantic, hot with yearning—but Cora’s cry of pleasure, the softness of her pale breasts under his hands, was enough to give Ashcroft pause. He stayed still for a long, precious handful of seconds, her flesh warm against his palms, before bending his head to her breasts with a rapturous sigh of pure longing.

  ‘Ah!’ Cora’s high, breathless moan of pleasure washed over him as he brought his mouth to her breasts, his tongue on her hardening peaks as he licked and sucked. She tasted just as sweet as he’d always imagined; her neck deliciously flushed, like a blooming flower, as he took his fill of her. Ashcroft felt his cock pressing tight against his breeches, potent, ready—and gasped as he felt Cora’s hand move over him, exploring, caressing. She pulled at the fabric with the same urgency as she had with his shirt, apparently in need of his naked skin as much as he needed hers.

  Was this too fast? No; the time they had spent apart had been too slow; far, far too slow. They should have done this months ago—years ago. He should have felt Cora’s hand stroke shyly over his freed cock so many nights ago; every night since he’d first looked at her, and known she would be his. He should have always been able to run his hand along her thigh, finding the patch of silken curls that yielded to his fingers, stroking along the rose-soft lips that parted for him oh-so-willingly…

  ‘Now.’ The begging note in Cora’s voice undid him entirely; he gasped as she brought his cock to her entrance, the intent unmistakeable. ‘Now.’

  Now, before she changed her mind? Now, before she realised the insanity of all this? She had to know there would be pain, or at least discomfort—but here she was, mutely urging him onward, her eyes full of that unmistakeable Seabrooke spirit. Cora, so serious it almost scared him, begging him with her eyes to make her his.

  He didn’t want to make her see sense. He didn’t want to be anyone other than who he was; James Ashcroft, duke of Innsee, desperate to sink himself inside her. James Ashcroft, who should have done this so very long ago. James Ashcroft, in love.

  ‘Do it.’ Cora’s whisper tore at him. ‘Do it.’

  With a low, bestial growl that came from a long-shadowed, long-neglected part of his soul, he thrust his hips forward. Cora’s gritted teeth, her stifled cry of pain, clutched at his heart—but even as Ashcroft paused, her fingers and thighs drew him further inward. She needed him inside her, almost more than he did; all he could do, in the eye of the storm, was hold on.

  He held on. He held on for every fierce, clumsy, divine movement of her body around his; the initial shock, the pain, the slow, delirious evolution of pleasure that shone in Cora’s eyes as he hugged her close. He held on as her breaths grew shallower, her movements almost imperceptibly bolder; through every kiss, every voluptuous sigh of sensation that left Cora’s lips, he held on. He would hold on to her for eternity, if only she would let him. Hold her as close as his lungs held air, with the same amount of need.

  Through a long, wordless, delicious stretch of time, he held on. He held on until her felt Cora’s thrusts begin to outmatch his own; until he felt her quiver, meeting a raw earthquake of feeling that he felt mirrored in his own body, more powerful than anything he had previously felt. Yes, a few more invaluable moments of holding on… before he reached downward, finding the tight bud of pleasure he’d been dreaming of, and began to stroke it as lightly and tenderly as he could.

  ‘Ah!’ Cora shook in his arms; Ashcroft felt her lean into her climax, breaking herself on it with a need that sparked his own fire into a blaze. Yes, a blaze; that was what raced through him now, burning away every last trace of regret with white-hot, coursing pleasure—

  ‘Cora.’ He couldn’t help saying her name again as his climax overwhelmed him, blotting out everything but her name. ‘Cora.’

  He didn’t know how long they stayed there, tightly clasped together. Ashcroft only came to his senses, moonstruck as he was, when Cora pushed him away.

  ‘I… I must go.
’ She turned her face away, but Ashcroft saw the glimmer of a tear in her eye. She slid of the kitchen table, avoiding his grasp as she adjusted his clothes. ‘I forgot myself. In a most unforgivable fashion.’

  Ashcroft felt his stomach drop. ‘Don’t—don’t tell me you regret it.’

  ‘I regret nothing that I choose, and I chose freely.’ This time, Ashcroft saw a tear fall to the flagstones. ‘But… but it was the wrong choice.’

  ’Wrong choice? Stay here! Marry me—be my wife. For God’s sake, Cora, be with me. Let me love you.’ Ashcroft looked desperately at her, ready to sink to his knees if she wished it. ‘But soften your heart to me—please, soften your heart. You must see why I had to do what I did—surely even you, with your pride, can forgive me that?’

  ‘My pride? I—how dare you? How dare you call my pain, my grief, pride? Are you mad? You speak as if you don’t remember what you did!’ Cora picked up her shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders as her eyes flashed. ‘As if you didn’t loudly declare your love, your ardent need for an opera singer in the middle of her performance, in front of all the ton, and then never speak to me again!’

  ‘Cora, I—’

  ‘No. No words suffice. Any word would have sufficed five years ago, but you gave me none. No speech, no letter, no note. Not a word.’ Cora held up a hand, continuing to speak over Ashcroft’s incoherent sounds of protest. ‘And I—I still let you ruin me.’ She wiped away another tear. ‘But no longer.’

  ‘Cora!’

  ‘Never again.’ Cora wrenched the door open, out of reach of his outstretched, pleading hands. ‘Never.’

  With a single, final look, eyes blazing, she was gone.

  Ashcroft stood mutely in the kitchen, surveying the wreckage he had caused. Despite the shock of their encounter, as well as the pain of what came after, a part of what Cora had said sounded ceaselessly in his brain.