by Kim Bowman
“You have shown me nothing but kindness, my lord. I have every confidence that you will be a good husband — in every way.” She observed him through lowered lashes for effect.
“Splendid!” he said, seeming very pleased with himself. Then his voice lowered as did his gaze. “I predict we shall get along famously.”
His smile was as heartbreakingly gentle as the unfathomable intelligence reflected in his eyes. He’d saved her from the cruelty of a man who put value in possessions, not people. And what she did from this time forth would reflect that, for her, for the safeguarding of her child.
“Yes, Percy. We shall get along famously.”
Chapter Sixteen
The ride to Hereford Street seemed interminably long as Constance’s serenely accepting bright, intelligent eyes scorched him to the bone. Bloody hell, he should be shot for putting her through unconscionable pain. She thought she was spoiled goods. Was he any better? He’d made light of their intimate conversation to push her away, but damn if he wasn’t already imagining Constance lying naked in his bed, swathed in perspiration after hours of ardent lovemaking. The longer they spent in the carriage, the longer he desired to tutor her in artful foreplay. So much so, that by the time they arrived at Number Seven, he was as restless as a caged rat.
Though he’d agreed to marry Constance to please Simon, to right the wrongs he’d done, he was thoroughly captivated by his bride. Her golden hair was piled high on her head. Wisps of spiral curls arranged artfully around her face peaked delicately out of her bonnet. She appeared the young, fertile, strong-spirited woman that she was and it tore him apart to know he was the cause of her sorrow. Beautiful, conscientious, and determined, he feared she would discover his lies as much as he feared never finding Celeste’s killers. That was why he’d stayed away. He hadn’t been able to risk her learning his identity before they were wed. She was carrying his child, a future Avery. Nothing would prevent him from giving his child a name.
The carriage slowed to a stop, and Percy gazed fondly at the stoop of Number Seven. Celeste, draped resplendent in a morning gown, materialized, smiling fondly. He blinked, instinctively confident she meant him to know she approved of the new addition to their family. But when he opened his eyes, she was gone. Jeffers stood in her place. Or had he been standing there all along?
“Are you ready to take your place by my side, my gel?”
Constance didn’t speak.
“You haven’t forgotten I promised you safe haven? Put aside your ghastly experiences, financial dilemmas, Burton, and this so-called pirate,” he said with a flick of his wrist. “Guffald’s unease proves you haven’t been ill-used. Burton’s insistence on marrying you confirms you are desirous. And,” he added with husky bravado, “life as my wife will surely put many a dowager’s wagging tongue to rest.”
“You are too generous, my lord. I do not deserve you.”
“Odd’s fish, my dear! Do not erect a marble pedestal beneath my feet — yet. ‘Tis what any man of merit would do or say,” he said, tapping the end of her nose. “And fancy my luck. I’ve won a beautiful bride in the bargain.” He winked conspiratorially.
Her eyes teared and she smiled appreciatively.
Jeffers approached.
“Your staff. Do they know the particulars of our marriage?”
He leaned in and whispered, “They know that I’ve chosen the cream of the crop.” He lifted her hand, kissed it, and then added, “Lady, your name and beauty have preceded you. My staff is most delighted to meet their new mistress.”
Jeffers lifted the latch on the coach. The handle clicked loudly, interrupting the sparks igniting between them. Once they stepped across the threshold of Number Seven, there would be no turning back.
“Welcome home, my lord,” his man offered.
Percy exited the vehicle with ease and then turned to politely offer Constance his hand. She reached out trembling almond-gloved fingers, drinking him in with those large fringed green eyes. Suddenly, he wanted to make things right between them, more than she could possibly know.
“Jeffers, my good man,” he said, unable to hide his intense pleasure. “May I introduce my bride, Lady Constance Avery, Marchioness Stanton?”
“At your service, my lady.” He bowed. “Welcome to your new home.”
“Thank you, Jeffers,” she offered shyly. “I hope to become better acquainted with the entire staff ‘ere long.”
“’Twill be our pleasure to help you feel settled, my lady.”
“See that my wife’s belongings are put in the master bedroom, Jeffers. I’ll give her ladyship a tour of the house so she doesn’t get lost.”
Jeffers nodded and stepped aside, allowing them access to the threshold. Ascending the steps, Percy stopped abruptly as if he’d forgotten something. And, indeed he had. Constance bumped into him and very nearly tumbled down the stairs.
“Ooh!”
His laugh was triumphant as he bent down and caught her around the waist. Her face was inches away, her breath sweet as nectar. It took everything within him not to draw her close and kiss her sweet lips before the entire street. Thankfully, she broke the spell.
“My apologies, my lord,” she said. “I was admiring the exquisite architecture above our heads.”
Her apology and appreciation of her new home endeared him. “No, my gel, I owe you an apology.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It occurred to me that I cannot allow you to enter our home.” Indeed, he could not — not this way.
“No?” Her green eyes widened with anguish. “May I ask why?”
“This is wrong,” he said. “Entirely wrong.”
The expression on her face withered. “What do you mean — wrong?” She stepped back, nearly toppling down the stairs in her confusion.
“Only this,” he said, lifting her into his arms, carrying her through the entrance until they crossed the marble foyer.
“Percy!” she exclaimed, righting her askew hat, giggling.
“Nicely done! Did you enjoy your first ride?” He teased, setting her back on her feet by the banister railing. Her cheeks flushed crimson, and it pleased him that he’d put the color there. “There. There. None’s the worry,” he said, brushing the wrinkles out of her sleeves. “I daresay this shall not be your last surprise.” Bloody hell! Had he really just said that? The idea is to make her happy, not scare her away.
Her genuine exclamation of delight overrode his senses. His gaze riveted on her face, and a sensual spark passed between them. He remembered all too well the sight of Constance beneath him, panting with desire, soft where he was hard, a hot coil around his — It took every ounce of his strength to keep from taking her there and now. She was made for love and he wanted to please her. They were a well-matched pair, both independently minded, willing to sacrifice everything for the people they love. And yet, the shame of it was they couldn’t be more different. She would discover that difference one day. Would she be able to forgive him? The answer petrified him.
~~~~
Montgomery Burton seethed with anger. None of his schemes had been successful in outwitting Stanton’s plan to wed Constance. Time and again, he’d sent out lackeys to discover Stanton’s whereabouts, learn his habits — persuasions. He’d even gone so far as to hire a highwayman to give the man his due, but had been thwarted at every turn. The man was lucky and that vexed to no end. Night after night, he’d taken his fury out on one of the young female members of his staff. Unfortunately, even sating his immoral thirsts had not eased his frustrations. In truth, they’d only multiplied.
His dream of accumulating enough power to influence governmental decisions slowly dissipated. Gone were hopes of infinite wealth, rank, and the privilege to appease his particular cravings any way he saw fit. With the Avery name attached to Throckmorton’s accounts, further access into said accounts posed an impossible feat, particularly since Stanton had set his barristers onto the books. Having invested what he’d pilfered, after depending on m
arriage to Constance to weight his purse, he now found himself at a crossroads, unable to attain the funds needed to finance his most cherished cause — smuggling.
Writhing with fury, he slung another glass of brandy into the fireplace. Without means of defeating Stanton, his plans were no longer effective. Without Constance, he would never have the kind of influence he wanted, craved.
“Damn Percival Avery to hell!”
~~~~
Constance stopped at the threshold of Percy’s bedchamber and stared, completely aghast. Though she didn’t doubt her husband’s abilities to perform his marital obligation — he was a man, wasn’t he? — she’d drawn the conclusion that he was infinitely more absorbed in the tedious diversions of fashion and style. The room before her cast doubt on her previous impressions, however, further illumining the mystery she now called husband.
Unlike the opulent marble floors and papered walls in the foyer below and the intricately etched glass on Percy’s library doors, this room bore no signs of wealth. Azure colored draperies shrouded corners of the four-poster. A dark blue coverlet with tiny threads of gold flecked throughout adorned the large, imposing canopied bed that practically owned the starkly lit, sparsely furnished room. Where were Percy’s flourishes of style and vice?
“Does this room not meet with your approval, your ladyship?” Jeffers queried.
The room did have a few comforts, but she was quite confused. Quickly realizing that he must think her inconsiderate for blocking the doorway, she hid her puzzlement and stepped into the room. “Yes, of course. I… well, that is to say I… I expected more,” she said, shoulders slumping.
The corners of Jeffers’ mouth curled upward slightly as he brushed past. “His lordship is a very busy man and has only just returned from a two year sabbatical. I was informed decisions of décor were to be given by our new mistress.”
Her eyes quickly met his. “New mistress?” she asked. New — as opposed to old?
“Indeed,” Jeffers stumbled over the word with obvious mortification. “You are the new mistress of this house, my lady.” He cleared his throat and began again. “Forgive my faltering tongue. A woman’s presence has been sorely missed in this house since—”
“Jeffers!” Percy’s smooth, insistent voice interrupted.
Constance pressed, “Since what, Jeffers?” She held her ground, unable to dismiss her nervousness as her husband’s flamboyant form filled the doorway. She was immediately assailed by an uneasy feeling that she’d experienced something like this before. Powdered wig and face, figure cut to perfection conflicted with the image she had of a pirate shouldering his way through the cabin door. Confusion gripped her heart. Was she so set on loving a pirate that she thought of him even now in her new home, on her wedding night?
“Since His Grace and our mistress, Lady Celeste, lived here, of course,” Jeffers said undeterred, bowing his head stiffly.
Percy’s shoulder twitched and a brief tick appeared in his jawline at the mere mention of Lady Celeste’s name. The change in his gallant mood puzzled her immensely. Was Lady Celeste his mistress? Were rumors of Percy’s exploits true on at least one account? Would the woman prove a powerful enemy and a competitor for Percy’s attention?
The air grew tense. Constance stood quietly in the resulting silence and watched shadows blacken Percy’s brown eyes then ever so slowly recede.
“May I ask who Lady Celeste might be?”
“A woman of no consequence.” His remote stare and emotionless reply cut her deeply. Having heard the woman’s name, was she supposed to forget?
“As you wish,” she whispered, her mind troubled, illusions of happiness fading into inner turmoil.
She turned toward the window, clasping her arms across her chest to quiet her racing heart and the doubts threatening to engulf her. She had promised never to let her guard down as she had done with Thomas. Now, in the midst of trying to pick up the pieces of her life and prevent Percy’s discovery of her pregnancy, she had no choice but to ignore Lady Celeste’s previous hold on him. To erect walls between them at so early a stage of their marriage, to appear a shrew before they’d even been intimate lovers, would bring her no reward. The marriage bed was her primary goal.
What a web you’ve woven, Constance. What did you expect? Loyalty and servitude? Unrequited love? You’re cuckolding the man!
She didn’t hear him approach, but her body registered his powerful presence. She spun around — only to spin directly into his arms. His gentle hands held her steady. She drank in the sensuality of his physique and a curious swooping pulled at her insides. She found no satisfaction in defying him. Desperate to believe that she hadn’t made a mistake, her limbs quaked, reacting to his hard body with unusual surrender as she looked into his bemused eyes.
“Celeste was very dear to me, Constance. I’ve asked that her name never be mentioned because hearing it brings me great pain.”
Had Celeste been a great love he could never forget? Crestfallen, Constance nodded, incapable of speech. She couldn’t forget how his brown eyes had softened at the mere mention of the mysterious woman’s name. How he must have loved her, and loved her still. Suddenly, she felt sick with a dull ache of foreboding.
“Forgive my sharp tongue,” he said, smoothing her cheek with his gentle fingers. “I’ve just received grave news that has blackened my mood. My father needs me. I must leave posthaste.”
“Your father?” she croaked, frozen with humiliation and concern.
“Yes. He’s been sick for a long time. I’ve sent for the best doctors and none have given me hope. Word now is he has very little time left.”
“Percy,” she said, her heart breaking. “If only you’d trusted me with your deepest worry. I had no idea your father was gravely ill, though the papers did mention his accident almost a year ago, wasn’t it? Of course, we must go to your father at once. I’m still packed. It won’t be any trouble to accompany you,” she insisted.
His gaze darkened and his frown pricked her conscience. He didn’t trust her enough to confide in her, and he was right in that regard. They knew so little about each other. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder why he’d never mentioned his father or Celeste before. Everyone had their secrets, and she, for one, had a marriage to consummate before it was too late. The sooner the deed was done, the better for her — for her child. She could scarcely afford for him to desert her now, no matter how gravely ill his father was.
“Your devotion is quite gratifying,” he offered. “But this is something I must do alone.”
Constance was near hysteria. She barely heard Jeffers pull the door closed. One thought ruled her mind — how would she ever get Percy to believe her child was his?
“But you cannot leave me,” she implored, her heart beating erratically. “Not on our wedding night! Let me accompany you. I can console you. We can weather this storm together,” she suggested, knowing at some point of his bedside watch, he would have to sleep.
Percy grabbed her elbows, pulling her close. “’Twould bring sorrow to the man.”
“Sorrow?”
“For all that he will miss, my gel. My father’s been brought low by the accident. The fact that he’s held on this long is by sheer fortitude alone.”
She ceased to breathe. And then it dawned on her. “You kept our marriage plans from your father?”
His fingers tightened around her upper arms. “Yes.”
Her lungs fought for air. Her throat constricted. “Why marry me, then?”
“If you knew the lengths to which I have gone to marry you, you’d understand, Constance,” he said, his gaze locking on hers.
She closed her eyes, unable to face him.
“Trust me. That’s all I can ask, for I will not divulge anything more.”
“Trust must be given in order to be received.”
Embracing her, he kissed her forehead. “I must go.”
His voice was crisp, clear, and final. Desperation sank in. She’d never felt such wr
etched defeat. She couldn’t allow Percy to desert her. Not now! Not tonight! She closed her eyes, grasping onto a spark of hope that she could entice him to stay. Her gaze clouded by tears, she took a deep breath, and pressed herself intimately close to his chest, unwilling to be parted. His heat was a welcome delight and she craved it now more than ever. Her hands slid up his sides and then splayed over the planes of his muscular chest with distinctive need. Craning her neck back, she gazed into his eyes and stretched on tiptoe, eager to taste his lips, to succumb once more to the passionate storm that had taken her by surprise aboard the Striker.
A soft gasp escaped her mouth when it was inches from his. “Can you not stay long enough to consummate our vows?”
“No.”
Emotions battled across Percy’s face as he stared down at her. His heart thrummed beneath her hands and he drew in a ragged breath. The sound emboldened her, making her yearn to be wrapped about him, to have him hot and hard between her legs. His eyes radiated fire, and he stroked her cheek, before bending down to kiss her mouth. Desperate, Constance held nothing back. In Percy’s arms, she experienced no thought of danger, no sounds of cannon or fear of mutinous rebellion. She was married to him, free to give herself, free to climb the heights of passion. Aching with need, she kissed him back. Wantonly, she wrapped her arms about Percy’s neck and pulled him closer, pressing her breasts against his rapidly beating heart. She sighed contentedly when one of his hands traced a path from her elbow to her waist, inching higher up her rib cage, slowly toward her breast.
Lost in his kiss, she was vaguely aware he moved her toward the bed and dipped her backward onto the coverlet. His hands sought the hem of her gown, igniting a fiery path along her calf, her knee, and thigh as he lifted it higher, higher, higher. His fingers caressed her skin, her inner thigh, deftly searching for the center of her being, while his lips blazed a trail down her neck toward her swelling cleavage. She urged him on and on, unable to think, unable to control the desperation building within.
