Private Passions Read online

  Anne almost gasped. She stared, shocked, as Eustace slowly turned back to her, his dreamy, absent gaze becoming one of horrified comprehension.

  She knew. He knew she knew. And yet their Understanding surrounded them, stitching them together, binding them to a mutually unsatisfying future.

  It had only taken a moment, a single, horrifying moment, to ensure that any chance of conversation lay in ruins. If Anne thought about it rigorously—and she did, even as her mind shied away from doing so—her future, as she had imagined it, lay in ruins as well.

  Her plan had always been tolerable if she was sure of Eustace’s affections. Condemning herself to a life without love had been acceptable, if such sacrifice satisfied the dreams of the other party. But to know that Eustace longed for another—to know that he was making the safe choice, the reasonable choice, even if his heart lay at someone else’s feet…

  It was impossible. Unbearable.

  Murmuring a vague reference to the heat, turning her head towards the open windows that led to the garden, she began to walk away. At first her steps were slow, expecting an entreaty to stay, but from Eustace came nothing but silence.

  Anne walked more quickly. Too agitated to search for her sisters, too angry to simply sit and drink champagne, she practically ran into the cool of the moonlit gardens—moving as quickly as she could to the one place she knew she would feel safe.

  The greenhouse was blessedly dark; an oasis of comfort in an evening that had rapidly become a desert. Anne slipped through the door with a grateful sigh of relief, blinking away the tears in her eyes as she headed for the long wooden table covered with pots of seedlings. Trying to calm herself, biting her lip, she let her hands run over a tray of drying seeds as she took in the previous conversation.

  Was it so very surprising, that Eustace loved another? In certain marriages it was the normal state of things—why, she couldn’t recall the name of a single friend who had married for love. Love was for private longing, snatched moments, regrets; it was in no way suited to a practical, friendly union… but some people had managed it. She knew it.

  What did this mean for the understanding between her and Eustace? Probably nothing, if she did nothing about it; he would still marry her, and she would still live as his wife. They would share a house, children, a life… each of them pining, weeping behind a smiling face, for the love they felt for others.

  How degrading. How torturous. How necessary, given the state of the Hereford family accounts.

  Perhaps she could stay in the greenhouse forever. Perhaps she could wear breeches all the time; Susan could be persuaded to give her some pairs. Perhaps she could stay with her hands in the earth, living a small, comfortable life, smiling whenever Henry passed the greenhouse window on the way to an exciting appointment…

  ‘Miss Hereford.’

  The voice was familiar. Anne, forcing herself to move slowly, looked up.

  Henry.

  Had he followed her?

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Henry Colborne stood on the threshold of the greenhouse, a tall silhouette in the distant candlelight of the ballroom. Elegant, self-possessed, practically gleaming with wealth, power, experience—why, he was the very picture of a rake, all the way down to his perfectly polished boots.

  How handsome he was. But as Anne looked at him, her hands still resting in the seed tray, she couldn’t help but remember the crumpled, surprised Henry she had met in the garden—the one who had looked at her as if she were the whole world. The one she had almost kissed.

  ‘Your Grace.’ She curtseyed as deeply as she could, quite forgetting her hands on the seeds. ‘I believe you have yet to be formally introduced to my sisters. And to me.’

  ‘Do you know how difficult it is to make formal introductions after being hit by a spade?’ Henry’s voice filled the greenhouse; low, intimate, tinged with a private humour that Anne couldn’t help but share. ‘There was no possible way to introduce myself to your sisters in front of the ton. I would have died of embarrassment.’

  ‘And I would have died laughing.’ Anne smiled as her heart filled with giddy, impossible tension. ‘How fortunate, then, that you have decided to be so desperately impolite.’

  ‘Desperately impolite—why, I may have a snuffbox engraved with that. And as a desperately impolite person, I know I am meant to invent a perfectly reasonable excuse to draw closer.’ Henry smiled. Anne felt a deep, intimate part of her soul tremble at the sight of his grin; so wild, despite the impeccable elegance of his dress. ‘But I am at a loss. Should I pretend there is a spider on your dress?’

  Anne couldn’t help but smile. ‘I do not fear spiders.’

  ‘I thought so. A highwayman hiding behind the palms?’

  ‘I doubt enough richly-dressed ladies and gentlemen will pass through here to make hiding behind palms a worthwhile pursuit.’

  ‘I see. And if I simply said that you are beautiful?’

  Anne paused, unable to think of a suitable reply. How deeply gratifying, how thrilling it was to hear such a compliment from him; how it caught at her heart, unlike anything Eustace had ever said.

  Eustace. She had fled to greenhouse to avoid thinking of him—at least for a little while. Now, in front of a man who awakened something at her very core, she was forced to remember him all over again.

  ‘No doubt you will think that me speaking of your beauty is the very height of foolishness. Or that I say something similar to every woman who passes beneath my gaze.’ Henry’s eyes glittered; their blue was that of a winter sky. ‘Feel free to believe those things, but they are false. I… I find myself unable to forget you, Anne Hereford. Or behave as if I do not know you, even though we are strangers to one another.’

  ‘Are we strangers?’ The words left Anne’s lips before she could consider their weight. Henry paused, clearly surprised, before replying with a small, intimate smile.

  ‘I believed we were. But upon further reflection, perhaps your doubt is justified. We did, after all, grow up in the same circles. Our early education was similar—I seem to recall you attending a number of our balls… and you are a great friend to Susan, who allows very few souls to live under such a weighty title.’ The feeling in his voice made Anne shiver. ‘Perhaps, then, we are already the dearest of friends.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She had forgotten how to be elegant; forgotten everything apart from his sheer presence. ‘You have, after all, displayed a significant interest in the care and cultivation of traditional rose varieties.’

  ‘I am so very glad you noticed.’ Henry slowly, deliberately took a step inside the greenhouse. ‘I believe it may become my one abiding interest.’

  He was coming closer; Anne watched, knowing she should stop him, but powerless to do so. How much easier it was to simply admit, in her heart of hearts, just how much she wanted him to approach. To come as close as he had that day in the gardens; lying beneath her, sunlit, heartbreakingly handsome…

  No. She had to at least attempt to stop him. To stop herself, more than anything else.

  ‘If you were to say that I am beautiful…’ She looked down at the seedlings, unable to meet his gaze. ‘I would be forced to say that I am to be married. At least… there is an understanding.’

  ‘I see.’ Henry paused, his gaze narrowing slightly; Anne felt the air tremble around her. ‘To the man I saw you speaking with in the ballroom?’

  So he had been watching her. ‘Yes.’

  Henry paused. ‘Then… I shall not say that you are beautiful.’

  ‘Good.’ The words came crowding into her throat, even as her higher self urged her to keep silent. ‘Because… because I do not wish to say that I am to be married.’

  The half-hidden hope in Henry’s voice made her quiver. ‘You do not?’

  There was no going back. ‘No.’

  She had said it. She had finally admitted the great secret of her heart to another human soul. Henry, standing by the greenhouse door, seemed to appreciate the weight of what s
he had just confessed.

  This was new ground. Unmapped territory. She waited, her heart in her throat, as Henry stepped forward.

  ‘Then you are completely plain, and unutterably ordinary, and in no way worthy of my attention, Anne Hereford.’ He moved closer, his eyes bright in the gloom of the greenhouse. ‘And that is why I am not here. I am in the ballroom, being led hither and thither by far more interesting people.’

  ‘You are? How lovely.’ Anne looked up at him, trying to stop her voice from trembling. ‘I am also in the ballroom, trying to convince my sisters to behave as respectable young ladies should.’

  ‘A thankless task, I imagine.’ Henry stopped at her side; so close, close enough for the warm, wood-smoke scent of him to fill the air. ‘Do you manage to catch glimpses of me, from time to time, as I make my way through the crowds?’

  ‘It cannot be helped.’ Anne slowly removed her hands from the seeds, turning to look at him fully. ‘I imagine many women look at you.’

  ‘But none of them so plain, so ordinary, so unworthy of my attention as you.’ Henry’s stare, unblinking, made Anne’s heart rise in her chest. ‘That makes you singular.’

  ‘No woman is singular for you, your Grace.’

  ‘I thought so.’ Henry leaned forward, his voice lowering as he whispered in Anne’s ear. ‘I thought wrong.’

  It had to be something he had said to a thousand women; a trump card in a rake’s bag of tricks. What a pity, then, that it sounded so very genuine; Anne even heard a slight tremble in his voice, as if he were frightened of saying the words.

  But what if it were true? What if Henry Colborne, the notorious rake of Longwater, was offering her something uniquely precious?

  She had no words to reply. Instead, turning her head with a soft sigh of surrender, Anne closed her eyes as her lips met his.

  It wasn’t a quick kiss; there was no hasty clutching, no harshness. A long, slow, light brush of his lips against hers; almost delicate, like a sip of fine wine. A wine that went to Anne’s head immediately, weakening her knees, making her so deliciously dizzy that she let herself lean forward—let herself lean against him, the dark velvet of his waistcoat unutterably soft against the bodice of her dress.

  She had never been kissed by a rake before. Never been kissed by anyone before; Eustace’s hand-kisses didn’t count, not compared to this. Sheer instinct taught her that Henry, without touching so much as her hand, was giving her the kiss of her very life; a kiss that killed with its sheer gentleness.

  It made her want more. That was the trick of it; he knew exactly what he was doing, she was sure of it. How like a rake; making a single kiss so divinely good that a woman had no other option but to sin.

  Letting her body guide her, she leaned more fully against him. His arms caught her as she turned; he was cradling her, his palms hot against the bare skin of her shoulder-blades, his lips never leaving hers as he continued his light, teasing exploration of her mouth. Never giving too much, never showing urgency; Anne sighed, torn between pleasure and frustration, wishing that she had enough courage to make him do more.

  She had to find courage. The alternative was this; being trapped in light, provocative bliss with no way of quenching the urgent thirst rising in her body. Anne parted her lips a little more, gently touching her tongue to Henry’s, and was rewarded with the hint of a rough gasp.

  Yes. He is less in control than he thinks. She did it again, more boldly this time; she felt his palms grip her back with sudden strength. Not quite the consummate rake, then.

  As the seconds passed, the kiss changed character. Now Anne could feel a hint of hunger in Henry’s movements; she was pulled closer, held tighter, her face titled upward as he took possession of her mouth. More and more of the cool, self-possessed rake slipped away—she could sense the animal rising, the glimpse she had seen that day in the gardens, and was shocked at how eager she was to see it fully revealed.

  Finally Henry broke away, panting. Anne heard the confusion in his voice, the vulnerability, and felt her heart throb in response. ‘Forgive me. I… I did not expect to lose control of my faculties so quickly. Please—leave, if you wish.’

  He was still holding her tightly; Anne wondered vaguely how she was meant to go about leaving, if she wanted to. ‘I was here first.’

  ‘It’s my hothouse.’

  ‘I know every plant that grows here. If anything, it’s my hothouse.’

  ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law.’

  ‘You appear to possess me quite utterly at the moment.’ Anne looked pointedly at Henry’s arms, still gripping her tight. ‘Does that mean I am under your rule of law?’

  ‘No. As I said—leave, if you wish.’

  Anne swallowed. She didn’t want to stammer, even if the words she wanted to say stuck tight in her throat. ‘… And if I do not wish to?’

  ‘Oh, thank God.’ Henry’s voice was hoarse. ‘I would have no idea how to convince you to stay.’

  ‘You’re rather bad at being a scoundrel. A scoundrel wouldn’t have taken no for a—’ Anne stopped, silenced by another, considerably deeper kiss than the one that had preceded it. A kiss so piercing, so ferociously skilled, that every part of Anne’s body seemed to come to trembling attention.

  Everything was suddenly too hot; her dress too confining, her underclothes far, far too heavy. Parts of her she normally tried to avoid thinking about—her breasts, her thighs, the slight patch of curls between them—all were not only awake but begging, begging with an intensity that was maddeningly distracting, for Henry’s attentions. Attentions that she couldn’t imagine with any great clarity, but which she hoped involved his hands—and perhaps his mouth, if such a thing wasn’t too scandalous to think.

  Clearly Henry felt her hunger, or a hunger of his own that matched hers exactly; Anne gasped with shameful, craven delight as he pushed her firmly against the table, the seedlings rattling in their pots as he lifted her onto the earth-speckled wood. He kissed her again; Anne could feel the joy in it this time, a kind of exultation at her own desire for him. A recognition of something she had always kept hidden, even from herself.

  ‘I would call you a rose, but you are so much more. Shall I call you the grower of roses? Flora, goddess of spring?’ Henry’s mouth moved to her ear, biting the lobe; Anne sighed with pleasure. ‘I am at a loss.’

  ‘If you are to call me something, I must call you something.’

  ‘Anything.’ Henry moved closer, spreading Anne’s thighs as he placed himself between them. The hardness of his body thrilled through her; potent, dangerous, more sinfully attractive than anything she had ever known. ‘I’ll settle for a sigh. A moan. A please.’

  The kisses continued; quickening, deepening, they soon became a breathless, wordless conversation in which something more precious than words was exchanged. Soon Anne was no longer sitting primly; her body took new, bold attitudes she had never known it could take, her arms wrapped around Henry’s broad back, her thighs brazenly open as her skirts rose higher.

  How had she never felt this before—this need that only grew the more it was fed? It had to be Henry; the man she had tried so very hard to ignore, until he had noticed her. The man who had made up the larger part of her first dreams, longings, yearnings—the man whispering in her ear as he held her, kissed her, touched her with an ardent worship she could barely believe.

  ‘On second thoughts, I rather think that we are not friends.’ Henry’s voice made Anne quiver, even as his words concerned her. ‘In fact, I would prefer it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have never wanted to spend hours kissing my friends.’ Henry moved his lips along her collarbone as his hands travelled down to her knees, raising her skirts as his warm fingers rested against her skin. ‘I have never wished to caress my friends in quite such a fashion.’

  ‘What a shame that we cannot be friends.’ Anne’s murmur became a half-scandalised, half-thrilled gasp as Henry’s fingers moved a little higher. ‘Not even
particular friends?’

  ‘If you do this with your particular friends, Miss Hereford, I would expect you to be astoundingly popular. And I would have to fight in far more duels than expected.’ Henry’s fingers traced lightly over his inner thighs; Anne tensed, then slowly, tremblingly relaxed as he kissed her again, harder, deeper. ‘And that would not be very friendly of me.’

  ‘Then it would be best to commit oneself to friendlier gestures.’ Anne brought her mouth back to his; oh, how good it felt to be bold. ‘At least, then, with comradely behaviour, I can pretend we are brothers-at-arms.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Tease me.’ Henry’s teeth grazed her earlobe again, his breath hot on her neck as his hands moved dangerously higher. ‘I’ll be a fool, as long as I’m your fool.’

  Anne had never felt quite so alive; her body sang at Henry’s touch, at his kiss, quivering with years of long-denied rapture. She had never thought such an encounter possible; never imagined such pleasure could come so quickly, so unexpectedly, her restraint rapidly vanishing as kiss after kiss quenched a thirst she hadn’t known she possessed. She had never felt so needy between her thighs; wet, open, aching for a touch that soothed and thrilled in equal measure…

  ‘I would do everything with you. Everything, right here.’ Henry’s whisper sounded almost surprised. ‘Just tell me I can.’

  ‘Yes.’ Anne didn’t even have to think about the answer; her body spoke for her, screaming for satisfaction. ‘Yes. But—but close the door.’

  Henry’s hands stilled against her thighs. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Close the door.’ Anne gestured to the open greenhouse door. ‘Or someone will discover us.’ She watched, confused, as Henry hesitated. ‘It would be easy enough, if someone strayed away from the dancing.’

  ‘Yes.’ Henry’s hands were still on her thighs, his face still showing a sort of furtive inspiration. ‘And… and if someone were to stray away from the dancing, and discover us both?’ His eyes had a wary hope in them; a hope Anne could not understand. ‘Would that not solve the greater part of your problems? Almost all of them, in fact?’