by Kim Bowman
Stanton winked, sashaying back into place. Heat crept up her neck. She wasn’t used to playful scrutiny. When this man gazed at her, his eyes did something to her insides. And when their gazes locked, the room swayed and her heart drummed riotously to the music. She wasn’t worthy of Stanton’s attention, of any man’s consideration, for that matter. She’d seen to that by succumbing to a rogue’s charms.
Oblivious to her turmoil, her partner swaggered his way down the line with practiced ease. As she watched him, she became more certain she didn’t want the marquess’ attention. She was unworthy of a duke’s son, of his interest and support. Panic rose in her breast, consuming her anew with fears and doubts. Thomas had cast her aside. Surely once her condition was known, any other man would follow suit. What was to become of her? Of her child?
Feeling a swoon coming on, Constance closed her eyes to get her bearings. But no sooner had she done so than she felt a slight pressure on her arm. Opening her eyes, she lifted her gaze and found Stanton staring down at her oddly. He said nothing but ably guided her toward the refreshments as though he could read her mind. The idea unsettled her.
“You’re flushed. I thought you might need some air.” His concern was real. His touch light as he led her past other dancing couples.
“Yes. Thank you,” she said.
Burton stepped forward. He reached out to take her hand but Stanton raised his handkerchief and waved him off.
“I’ve been asked to escort her. I assure you, I’m quite adept with a lady in the midst of vapors.”
The vapors? Good God! The heat of Stanton’s hand over hers, the threat mirrored in Burton’s narrowing stare sent her over the edge. She kept her mouth shut, ever anxious to escape Burton’s sharp tongue. His eyes promised retribution.
“Come with me, my gel.” Stanton led her out the veranda doors and directed her to a garden bench, where he urged her to sit.
“Lord Stanton, I cannot thank you enough for lavishing so much attention on me. However, you mustn’t dote. Surely you have other prospects—” She gulped. “—friends to lavish your attention on. I don’t dare monopolize your time.”
“Nonsense. You’re my breath of fresh air,” he teased. “In the meantime, perhaps we shall both get what we want.”
What did he want? “You are sure I am not an inconvenience?”
“Inconvenience? That I will not allow,” he answered, his voice a smooth balm to her spirits. He cleared his throat rather awkwardly. “But should you need protection, I assure you, no one could stand in my way.” He gazed into her eyes, his previous hinted amusement missing. “Do you need protection?”
God, yes! Why was the idea of gaining the marquess’ protection appealing? Though she needed protection from Burton, she couldn’t ask Stanton for it. It would be unconscionable to expect anything more than kindness from the man, this stranger, who’d recently risen to her defense.
“I can take care of myself,” she declared. “Honestly, there’s no need to hover.”
“Perhaps there are more reasons than you know. For instance,” he said, inclining his head toward the center of the room, “why is that ghastly man so fixated on you?”
“Who?” She glanced into the ballroom, exasperated that she couldn’t evade the topic.
The marquess behaved like a dog who wouldn’t give up the chase. “Burton, of course,” he continued, disorienting her with his nearness. “Does he have a claim on you?”
“N-No,” she stammered. Taking a deep breath, she took more care with her response. “I rarely see the man and hardly know him otherwise.” That wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.
“Then it appears, dear lady, you need a champion. Never you fear!” he exclaimed. “I gladly apply.”
If only you could. She suppressed a giggle. The idea of the dandy before her taking on Burton seemed almost comical.
“How do you fare now? Better?” he asked, fanning her face.
“Much.” She smiled. His attempts to protect her warmed her heart. The concern in his eyes put her at ease. Against her will, her eyes focused on his full lips, lips that promised tantalizing delights. Constance wanted to capture the moment between them, and though she was cynical of Stanton’s intentions, she wished the contentment she felt in his presence would never come to an end.
Moonlight reflected from above. The veranda was made even more appealing as an unusually warm breeze ruffled through her hair. His gaze traveled over her head, and she felt his imagined touch as if it had been real. He exuded masculinity, which conflicted with his appearance. Having dealt with Thomas aboard the Striker, she recognized the heat building in his two penetrable dark brown eyes. He stepped forward and clasped her hands in his. Though his touch startled her, she wasn’t frightened by the sparks of desire that flooded her senses.
Music pulsed around them. He opened his mouth to speak—
“That will be all, Stanton.”
She turned toward the voice, her defenses back in place. “Father, I—”
“Constance, you’ll be missed. Come along.”
Her father’s stern rebuke broke the spell Stanton’s passionate stare had created. Thoroughly admonished, and embarrassed to have the marquess quickly dismissed in such a way, she stood at once, reacting as if slapped.
“Forgive me,” she pleaded.
His slow, secret smile stole her breath. Fire ignited his eyes, a fire that confused and threatened to engulf her at once. While her father looked on, he took her hand and placed a kiss on her gloved knuckles. “It’s been a pleasure, my lady.”
“I must go,” she quickly implored, snatching her hand away, hoping not to cause her father any more displeasure. “I shall never forget your chivalrous rescue,” she promised.
Stanton raised his quizzing glass. “Remember, I am but a cravat away if you ever have need of my services.”
“I assure you, marquess, my daughter is in good hands.”
~~~~
Melodic strains of Boccherini’s Number Five and selected pianoforte and soloist performances drifted on the night air. Impressed by the extravagances Throckmorton shared with his guests, Percy ambled his way through the crowd toward his destination, the woman who posed more of a threat to him than death itself. Flattering those he passed, he examined Constance from afar as she entertained a circle of guests. She was a vision. Her golden hair pinned high on her head with seed pearls secured throughout cast her in regal silhouette. Ringlets dangled temptingly about her face, reminding him of the wild passionate creature she’d been in his cabin, and he wanted to tear down her hair and see her once again disheveled in his bed. She moved with grace, smiled with gentle melancholy, and her ample bosom swelled with each gesture. Tamping down an instinctive groan, he reluctantly smiled and nodded as he met her gaze across the room.
Percy wanted to charge through the assembly like a raging bull and throw each man who ventured near her out on his arse. And as if sensing his hostility, Constance glanced over her shoulder. Their eyes locked. She smiled, and for one brief moment, Percy felt blissfully happy. But then he broke eye contact and glanced away. As providence would have it, Simon stood near the entrance to the ballroom. Making his excuses to Baroness Chauncey, Percy answered his cue. He strode toward the punch bowl, poured himself a healthy libation, and then scoured the jovial mob for his prey. Now more than ever, he knew his duty. He would do whatever had to be done to protect Constance. She needed him. His child needed a father. Spying Burton discussing politics with members of the House of Lords, Percy clicked his heels, straightened his shoulders, and strode into the enemy’s realm.
“Ah, there’s the man we discuss, Burton. Lord Stanton!”
Percy joined the circle and posed amidst the postulant, educated men, positioned to entertain and jockey power with the greatest aplomb. William Higgins smiled and grew more animated. “I was just recounting your father’s lasting influence, Stanton.”
Percy nodded. “My father’s work in Parliament is exemplary.
I aspire to follow in his footsteps someday.”
“You’re a magnificent credit to him, no doubt,” Higgins admitted. “He’s done our nation unforgettable service. But tell me,” he said, inclining his head, “how does he fair?”
“Regrettably… unwell.” Percy swallowed the lump in his throat.
“No change?” Higgins sobered.
“None,” he said, preferring to corroborate on social issues rather than reopen a vein and bleed out before them.
Placing a hand on Percy’s shoulder, Higgins condoled, “His accident was most unfortunate and he is ever in our thoughts. I know you are acting on his behalf when you step into our ranks. Though the thought of it conjures images I dare not encourage. When the time comes, we will welcome you to take your seat amongst us.”
Burton’s eyes narrowed. Percy took great care in examining the man’s reaction, something between envy and skepticism. Pity. Burton couldn’t do anything to enter into politics unless he ran for a seat in parliament.
Higgins motioned to Burton. “You should know, Stanton, Burton is lobbying the House of Lords. He informed me that the two of you have only just met.”
Percy spun around with a flourish, his quizzing glass poised over a judgmental brow. Pretending to forget his drink, he turned his attention away from Higgins and emptied his libational cup all over Burton’s cravat.
“How clumsy of me! Poor, pitiful cravat,” he implored, dabbing at the offensive object with his handkerchief. “Do forgive me.”
Burton fumed, turning as crimson as the punch stain. “How dare you!”
Higgins stifled a laugh but recovered quickly and rose to Percy’s defense. “Do forgive the man, Burton. He’s a genius, I can attest, but lacks certain — shall we say — dexterity?”
“There’s the end to it,” Percy confessed. “I have spent many a night contemplating this flaw. But I do have a knack with fashion, Higgins, do I not?”
“Formidably so! Percy has impeccable taste in tailors. I’ve been trying to explain so much attention is given to style these days, Burton. Without a good tailor, one flounders in society.”
Burton seethed with rage. But, under the circumstances, he wasn’t at liberty to cause a scene, which was exactly what Percy had counted on.
“Shall we ask Throckmorton if he has another cravat at the ready?” Higgins suggested.
“No,” Percy interjected. “Let’s not disturb our host.” Throckmorton was the one man he didn’t want alerted to his ruse. He’d already had one altercation with the duke. “Surely the duke’s servants can repair the damage. The night is young and Burton has plenty of time to look afresh.”
“Commendable as always, Stanton. Come, Burton, I’ll guide you to the kitchen,” Higgins offered. “I’ve had the freedom of using Throckmorton’s maids on more than one occasion.”
Burton’s lips curled repugnantly, making Percy question the avenue of his thoughts. Could the man possibly be any more transparent?
“This is not the last you’ll hear of this,” Burton threatened, his finger jabbing Percy in the chest.
It took every ounce of his strength not to rip the man’s finger off. Instead Percy made a concerted effort to straighten his cravat. “I agree. I’m quite positive we’ll be discussing your shoddy cravat for months to come.”
Burton was no simpleton. He quickly caught that barb and shot him a murderous glare then begrudgingly followed Higgins to the kitchen.
His plan enacted, Percy moved toward the entrance of the ballroom with one goal in mind, to search out Throckmorton. Simon, no longer welcome in his brother’s home, was to have directed Throckmorton to the library on the pretense of trying to prevent a scene in front of Constance’s guests. Familiar with the layout of Throckmorton Manor, thanks to Simon, Percy approached the library with a sense of rightness he could no longer deny.
“You’re not welcome here, Simon.” Throckmorton’s voice leached through the cracked library door.
“I’ve found a solution to our problems, Byron,” Simon said. “Constance doesn’t have to marry Burton. There is another man just as capable and willing to offer for her hand.”
“Impossible! Only one man has made an offer to me. I’ve given my word. It’s too late for anyone else to stake a claim on her now.”
“You are wrong, Your Grace.” Percy’s words cracked the bitter tension already splintering the room as he opened the door and then closed it soundlessly behind him.
“Stanton?” Byron questioned. “What is the meaning of this? Are you suggesting that I would give my daughter to him?” he said, pointing his finger. “He’s a popinjay!”
“I am,” Simon said, moving to stand next to Percy.
“Why would I agree to such a farce?”
“Because I’m the father of her child,” Percy said.
Throckmorton jerked to his feet. His chair crashed backward to the floor. “I’ve challenged men for less.”
“Stanton is telling the truth, Byron. He’s a member of Nelson’s Tea. And were it not for him, Constance would be dead.”
“One of your men?” he spat. “You are Captain Sexton?” He turned to Simon. “The man is Blendingham’s firstborn. Impossible!”
“I assure you it is possible. The particulars are a well-guarded secret. All you need to know is Stanton’s gone to great lengths to serve Admiral Nelson, England, and bring honor to his family. We cannot endanger his name or discredit him. Nor can we deny him his child.”
The duke turned to face him, his eyes laced with suspicion. “You want to marry Constance?”
Percy straightened his shoulders and fixed his gaze on Throckmorton. “She is a good woman, Your Grace, and would never bring disgrace on you willingly. You should also know she was on board the Octavia on your behalf. If I hadn’t been aboard Frink’s ship when she was captured, I hesitate to think where she’d be now.”
Throckmorton’s eyes widened and he fisted his hands.
“She would not be with child.”
“No,” he said soberly. “She would be dead.”
That Throckmorton wanted to box him was obvious. He stepped forward but then hesitated. Apparently, he had more control than a man ought to have. Seeing the duke pale, Simon urged his brother to sit down.
“Percy saved her life, Byron. He put his life and the lives of his men in jeopardy to do so, scrapping his mission. If anyone deserves Constance, it’s the man who gave up everything to save her life.”
Throckmorton frowned. “That may be as you say, but that doesn’t change the fact that Stanton defiled my daughter. If I did what my instincts urged me to do,” he said, face distorting, “Constance’s child would not have a father.”
Simon waved his hands. “Hold, brother. I make no excuses for Stanton’s conduct aboard the Striker, but that doesn’t change the fact that Constance needs a husband and you need a prosperous donor for your creditors.”
Throckmorton slammed his fist on the desk. “Even if what you say is true, it’s too late. I have given my word to another, and no matter how much it pains me, my word is my bond.”
“You still plan to wed her to Burton?”
“I do.” Byron leaned back in his chair, shook his head, and tented his hands. “There will be repercussions if I break my word. Burton will not let go of this willingly. I know the man. There is no telling what he might do or say to avenge such a slight.”
“Let me handle Burton,” Percy said.
“My family’s reputation rides on what is decided about Constance, Stanton. And on the unscrupulous pact I’ve made with the man. Do not think that doesn’t wear on me.”
“If I may, Your Grace. I’ve done some investigating that might ease your decision. Burton offers you thirty thousand pounds in exchange for Constance’s betrothal. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” Throckmorton solemnly agreed. “But I’m at a loss as to how you’ve attained that information.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but Constance’s future is paramount. I will do whatev
er it takes to ensure her safety.”
Throckmorton exchanged a glance with Simon.
“Listen to what he has to say, Byron,” Simon said.
“Continue,” the duke acquiesced.
“Isn’t that the exact amount you and Simon lost in recent financial dealings?”
Simon and the duke nodded affirmatively.
“Then I humbly suggest that Burton has been the one secretly draining your funds in order to obtain control of Constance and rights to her estate. For whatever reason, it’s clear she will not have him otherwise.”
“You’re certain of this?”
Percy left Simon’s side and paced from one bookcase to the next, his fingers interlocked behind his back. No. He wasn’t certain. But Baroness Chauncey could get them the facts they needed to support such a claim.
“My men have followed him on several occasions. I have it on good authority he is not well-liked amongst the ton. From your expression, it’s obvious, Your Grace, you disdain him as well.”
“I do not like being threatened. The man has done that more than once. Be that as it may, I would be a fool to enrage him. I would be putting Constance’s life at risk and, I might add, the life of my grandchild.”
Percy halted in front of Throckmorton’s desk. “My child. Constance will only be safe with me. To believe otherwise would most certainly invite disaster.”
“If Constance finds out you are the child’s father, what kind of danger does that put both of you in?”
Simon stepped forward. “We’re aware that Percy will be forced to tread a very narrow line. And we know the risks he’ll be taking to keep his identity from your daughter.”
“Is this some ploy to milk my family for your own gain? Blendingham is a good man, but I’d be a fool to trust you, Stanton, after what you’ve admitted.”
“Would you have me act a popinjay, embarrass myself and my family for personal gain? There is only one reason I live the way I do, and that is to keep my activities secret so that I may come and go whenever Simon needs me. Are these the actions of an untrustworthy man? Would I reveal myself to you if I were not willing to do everything in my power to keep Constance safe? And are you comfortable marrying Constance to a man who would abuse her rather than a man who would put his own life, and the lives of others, on the line to ensure her safety? I implore you to do what is best for your daughter, Your Grace.”
