Whispers of Desire at Cliveden House - 1

Posted on: 23/11/2025

Chapter One - The Quiet Invitation.

The lounge at Cliveden breathed old-world opulence panelled walls, glowing in amber light, from a fire murmuring in the hearth. Soft aroma of freshly brewed coffee curled through the air.
Across from me sat a man in his fifties and the much younger wife who seemed to orbit reluctantly around him. He launched into conversation without waiting for permission, his voice settling like dust over the antique rouge upholstery between us.
I listened with polite detachment as he catalogued his life: his triumphs, his lineage, and, most proudly his second marriage.
His wife, Magda, shifted on the settee, a delicate fidget that betrayed both familiarity and fatigue with the monologue. When her eyes found mine, her smile was thin, strained at the corners, her expression silently mouthing: Yes, he’s always like this.
When he finally drew breath, I seized the opening.
“I overheard you discussing dinner with your husband and I’m intrigued by your accent,” I said, directing my question toward her.
Magda’s face brightened with relief. “I’m from Poland,” she replied.
Before the warmth of her voice had finished settling between us, he interjected, leaning forward. “Yes, Magda is from Warsaw. You see, I’m half Polish on my mother’s side. My father was Californian.” He said it with the theatrical flourish of a man unveiling a family crest.
“I see,” I answered, though my attention had already returned to Magda.
“And how did you two meet?”
“Well,” she began, but Max cut across her again.
“In a bar,” he declared. “Lucky for her I was there. Some idiots from Manchester had cornered her, so I stepped in to save her.”
His hand landed on her thigh with a performative slap, giving it a squeeze that made her stiffen almost imperceptibly. Her eyes flicked to his, brows raised in silent reproach, then drifted back to me with an apologetic half-smile.
“Very lucky,” I said, letting dryness sharpen the edge.
Her smile deepened, and this time, it reached her eyes.
“Very,” she echoed, a soft titter escaping before she could press it back.
If Max noticed the spark running between us, quick, bright, impossible to disguise, he gave no sign. His self-importance formed a kind of armour, shielding him from subtleties that didn’t involve his own reflection.
“So how old are you then, Mr…?” he asked, narrowing his gaze as though inspecting a competitor at auction.
“John. I'm 45."
“Max Grayson and I'm 59,” he announced. “And what do you do, John?”
“I work with the Foreign Office,” I replied.
His eyebrows lifted. “Doing what exactly?”
“General administration,” I lied with practiced ease.
“Well, I’m in IT,” he said, leaning back as though unveiling a masterpiece. “Providing solutions for major businesses across the UK.”
“Fascinating,” I said smoothly, matching his feigned enthusiasm with my own. My eyes returned deliberately to Magda.
“And what about you, Magda?”
“She works for me,” he cut in again. “Logistics. Makes sure all my staff are where they should be.”
“That sounds… demanding,” I said.
Magda lifted a hand to push back a loose curl, the movement slow, unhurried, yet laced with a subtle tension.
“It can be,” she said, meeting my gaze with a look that lingered a moment too long.
“Couldn’t do without her,” Max added, placing his hand higher on her thigh this time, squeezing with a possessive firmness that made something flicker in her; rebellion maybe. Her eyes couldn’t hide her anger towards him.
“No,” I murmured, still watching her. “I’m sure you couldn’t.”
A beat of silence settled between us, filled with things unsaid. Magda's fingers trailed absentmindedly along the rim of her coffee cup, her gaze drifting to the tall windows and through to the gardens beyond where Christine Keeler once wandered.
Her eyes returned to mine, and something electric passed between us. It was quiet and intentional.
“The famous, or should I say infamous spa here…” she said softly, almost as if thinking aloud. “They say it’s beautiful at night. Steam rising over the pool, the soft lighting lingering over the whirlpools is seductive.”
Max was busy scrolling through his phone, oblivious.
I let the corner of my mouth lift. “Is that so?”
She gave the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, except to me, who had noticed it.
Max looked up just then. “What are you two on about?”
“Nothing,” Magda said lightly, her gaze never leaving mine. “Just… the spa.”
The moment hung there, charged, suspended; an invitation to me no less, wrapped in steam and shadows.
And at that moment, it was impossible to tell whether the next move belonged to her… or to me.

Chapter Two coming soon ...

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