by Darcy Burke
She held her ground, but allowed her face to reveal all the years she’d spent pining after a man who’d never wanted her. “He was kind to me. I believed he might…”
Nicholas’s condescension dripped from his voice. “Never say you thought he loved you.”
But she’d struck something. He turned away, his broad shoulders sagging a fraction. Enough to make her think she’d drawn his attention to the one weakness that might have sent her into the arms of another.
“Of course I didn’t,” she scoffed, though the thought of a man telling her he loved her caused her chest to ache. “A man doesn’t fall in love simply because his prick finds solace. I believed he could come to love me, though. It was enough to bring us together…for the night.”
Nicholas froze. Then he drew himself up and faced her. “Was it worth it? Was cuckolding me worth your silly sentiments?”
Her laugh was brittle. “Only a wife can cuckold a man.”
Nicholas’s dark brow lowered as he scowled viciously. “Your tongue is as sharp as ever.”
At least he was no longer talking about Oliver or her heart. She thinned her lips in a satisfied smile. “Thank you.”
“My dearest Beth, what a smart mouth you have.” He bared his teeth in satisfaction when she flinched at his pet name for her. “I think you’re a lying little whore. A brilliant one. It would seem that my hands are tied for the moment. I have no proof that Oliver is my son, but you have thirty men who saw me stupidly accept the idea that Lord Constantine warmed your bed. Even I don’t know what to believe.” He loomed toward her. She didn’t retreat, for he’d only enjoy chasing her. “What could have drawn you to a boy, when you’ve had a man under your skirts?” He grasped her shoulders and pulled her to his body.
She recoiled. He’d taken her baby. Brutally, without so much as a good-bye. He’d been crass about his new conquests. Did he not know how thoroughly he’d hurt her with his philandering? Publicly? He’d never given her feelings the least bit of consideration, and now she was to melt into his arms in a state of passion?
Surprise crossed his features. Then they steeled. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it, Beth. I know you better than that. One day, you’ll remember you still love me. And then you will bring my son back. I want you to do it yourself.” With that, he released her and crossed the room to leave. At the door, he stopped long enough to glance at her over his shoulder. “I suggest you start remembering how good it used to be between us, because I am going to have my son back. A boy belongs with his father. There’ll be no rest for me until you’ve undone your mistake.”
Chapter Three
CONSTANTINE WENT ABOUT the next few days as though he hadn’t been tossed out of Elizabeth’s townhouse at all. He was the same indolent bachelor he’d always been, and an impoverished gentleman behaved much like a fantastically wealthy one, visiting his coffeehouse, attending luncheons at the homes of friends who had stayed on in the city, and watching the same Drury Lane play each night until he knew the lines by rote. Summer was a decidedly boring time of year in London.
But Devon, and the family seat over which his brother presided, was deathly boring any time of year. The Alexanders preferred Town, and though they must scrape together every shilling required to keep the house they shared here, frugality simply wasn’t worth the boredom of living in the country.
He skipped up the five steps to their door and let himself in to the bachelor residence. Roman, his eldest brother and the marquis, retained a skeletal staff when their mother wasn’t in town. Con preferred that arrangement. He liked to be left alone, and blast it, sometimes he wanted his coat to be right where he left it, draped over the back of a couch or hanging from a chair.
Since their mother was in town, however, he tried to appear dutifully chastened when a footman startled from his post and rushed forward. “Good afternoon, my lord. I would have opened the door if…” Alvey shifted his eyes helplessly. He obviously wanted to make amends, but how could he without pointedly telling Con to rap his fist once in a while?
Con smiled and tossed his hat to the beleaguered servant. “Not to worry yourself. The fault was mine.” Then he put his finger to his lips. “But not so loud, if you don’t mind. I don’t need the excitement of being announced.”
The footman nodded his head in vigorous agreement and held out his hand for Con’s greatcoat. Con sighed as he shrugged out of it and turned it over, after all. When he wanted his coat later, he’d have to ask for it back. But there was a certain standard of living expected of a marquis’ household, and Con had enough brothers who insisted appearances be maintained for their mother’s sake to know when an argument simply couldn’t be won.
Thus divested of his outerwear, he sneaked past the front rooms, as he’d done since he was a youth. The problem with having four brothers—one of the problems with having four brothers—was the absolute lack of privacy. One would think that a household of males would find each in his own corner, brooding or what-have-you, a glass of brandy in hand, improving his mind in the library, or whiling away the hours playing a solo game of billiards.
He knew better. Four brothers, three older and one eleven minutes younger, meant four men vying to lord over him. A total of five men in the house who each believed they knew what was best for the family. It meant living with four other men whose pride must be protected, or at least considered. It meant being taken to task daily by opinionated fellows who cared more about his goings-on than he did.
He made it to the kitchen without being detected and rifled through the covered dishes in the pantry until he located a hunk of bread and a mug of lemonade. He paused at the table to eat it. Mistake. He heard the footfalls before Tony appeared in the doorway, but it was too late. He was trapped.
Though his older brothers Antony and Bart were also identical twins, from their curling brown hair to their blue eyes and broad-shouldered, military bearing, Con could easily tell them apart. Tony was the one with the stick farthest up his ass. “It’s been a week,” Tony said without preamble.
Con didn’t have to feign bemusement. With Tony, one never knew what he’d done wrong this time. “Since?”
Tony crossed his arms over his chest and proceeded to frown. “It’s worse than I thought if you don’t even remember you have a son now.”
Ah, that. “These things happen,” he replied, taking a drink of lemonade. It should have been something stronger for this conversation. He was up to his elbows in a lie that was beginning to feel like quicksand. What could he do about it?
Tony entered the kitchen with the same sense of purpose he used to take his seat as a Member of Parliament or to approach the water closet. “No, they don’t. Not to us. You’re almost thirty years of age. What possessed you to be so—so stupid?”
Ten thousand pounds, to be precise. But then he’d have to admit to his older brother that he’d been pennies away from ending up in the gaol, again, and that didn’t seem like a true improvement on this conversation. “She’s very pretty,” he said instead, taking another draught. He couldn’t keep his eyes from flicking to the pantry. Would there be sherry in there, or even a cheap bottle of wine? Not that he was one for over-imbibing, but this little tête-à-tête wasn’t going to end well, he could tell.
“Elizabeth Spencer is the daughter of an earl. A lady.” Tony’s blue eyes held steadily, as though he could burn his point into Con’s brain by sheer will.
Con squirmed. “She’s a courtesan.”
Tony’s stare deepened. “And how can you afford a courtesan?”
Con contained a grimace. That was an obvious question he had no answer for. “Not a ‘courtesan’ as in I paid for her services, but I mean she’s good for a tumble or two when she’s feeling blue-deviled, so I don’t see why it matters if her father is an earl.” Blast, that didn’t make him sound heroic, did it?
Tony indicated the breadcrumbs and empty mug with a flick of his gaze. “Let’s go to the library.”
“I’m happy here, th
ank you for asking.”
Tony ignored his cheek. “We need to discuss this as a family. Or do you not consider your son a family matter?”
Lord, he hated Tony’s superciliousness. What was worse was that he hadn’t actually done anything wrong this time…at least not with respect to fathering an illegitimate child. He did possess some scruples.
Not that he could explain that without also explaining he’d lived up to their low expectations of him, again. He’d done this to himself, again. Just thinking about the sum of money he’d owed was enough to cause his forehead to go damp and his stomach to twist. He’d been right on the edge of the clink. Exactly where his older brothers expected him to be.
Not to mention that he’d promised her that he’d never tell. “Must you back me into a corner like that?” he grumbled. “You know I’m cursed if I agree with you and cursed if I don’t.”
Tony cracked a smile. “It’s hard to be a good MP if you can’t make a persuasive argument. Come. Montborne is in the library. Unless you want to have this discussion in the kitchen?”
Con pushed his mug away and rose. “At least there will be brandy there.”
Tony’s half-smile remained plastered on his face. He shook his head and preceded Con from the room. “We’re all happy about your new situation, you know,” he said over his shoulder. “You’re the one acting as though we’re dragging you to the guillotine.”
Maybe that’s because I don’t want to be held accountable for raising some other man’s bastard. Con scowled at his brother’s back, but he still couldn’t blame Tony for his current predicament. “I don’t see any of you running out to procreate.”
Tony laughed outright this time. “That’s because we’d have the decency to marry first, which is a completely unnecessary punishment when there are so many of us to carry on the family name. But you bring me back to my point—” He rapped once before opening the library door and waving Con inside. “Lady Elizabeth Spencer deserves to be married.”
“You must be joking,” Con said at the same time their eldest brother, Roman Alexander, Lord Montborne, turned his curly blond head from the long window and said, “God’s teeth, Tony, but you do have the worst ideas.”
Relief coursed through Con. It wasn’t always this easy to find an ally in Montborne. If Bart and Darius decided to weigh in, there could be an out-and-out brawl, with the best case being Tony and Bart teamed up against Darius and himself. The two sets of twins pitted against each other. Con regarded his oldest brother hopefully. If Montborne took Con’s side, that would make three against two. When one argued with an MP and a barrister, any help was appreciated.
Montborne tsked and went to his sideboard. He hated choosing sides.
But there was hope. Con waited, more patiently now that Montborne had voiced an opinion in his favor, as his oldest brother poured stiff drinks for all of them. Maybe this wouldn’t be as painful as he’d feared.
Tony raised his snifter after they each had one in hand. “A toast. To Constantine’s young son. May he have as happy a childhood as we did.”
The dry bread from Con’s quick repast must have stuck in his throat. He suddenly couldn’t swallow.
Montborne tipped his own glass, but an odd look came into his eyes. A little too similar to Tony’s hollow smile, actually. “To Con’s son. He should be so lucky to enjoy a boyhood like ours.”
Con raised his glass in an attempt to look pleased. After tossing back a mouthful, he felt fortified enough to take the offensive. “How kind. And I appreciate your concern, I really do. I can only imagine how much fun we’d all have with a little one toddling behind us.” Actually, that was the last thing he could picture. “I know this feels a bit sudden, and I haven’t really worked out the details yet, but I think Oliver belongs with Elizabeth. What do I know about little babies?”
He didn’t need to elaborate on that point. That much, at least, had to be obvious. “No, the best thing is to leave him with her, at least until he’s old enough to learn a thing or two from me.” Or until everyone forgot about him, because that would be good, too.
Tony perched his booted foot on an ottoman and leaned his elbow against his thigh. “What would you do with a baby? You’re supposed to raise it. Love it. Bring him up in your image—no, don’t do that. My image. Make him a part of this family. Isn’t it bad enough that you’ve brought him into this world on the wrong side of the blanket? That is to say nothing of what you’ve done to the poor woman herself.”
Montborne collected their empty snifters and returned to the sideboard to pour a second round. “You’ve always been one to see more good in people than exists, Tony. That flaw has worked in my favor, as no one in this family is a bigger muck-up than I. But really, Con marry Elizabeth Spencer? Have you lost your senses completely?”
Tony didn’t flinch. He must be used to the constant pricks at his belief in justice. As the second oldest and heir presumptive, he filled a gap created by a marquis who refused to act like the head of the household. In point of fact, Tony’s desk in the corner was riddled with paperwork, estate books, and correspondence, work he’d apparently interrupted to hunt Con down and bring him to heel. Montborne’s desk was a stately monstrosity commanding the window, its immaculate condition established in those weeks per year when they had servants to see to such things. The rest of the year it collected dust, or if a drawer was opened at all, it was in a vain hope of finding forgotten pin money.
“Look,” Con tried again, “I know I’ve made a mess of things, but I don’t think marrying her is going to make amends. Why would she even agree? She’s completely independent and wealthier than all five of us put together. No woman in her right mind would marry a penniless fourth son, even if she were as pure as the driven snow. Especially not a woman who can pay for the best tutors and buy a comfortable little house and has already spurned the idea of marriage.”
“You know that last bit for a fact?” Tony asked with an earnestness no other man could have pulled off.
Con took a seat on one of the dark green sofas angled before the fireplace. Standing was beginning to make him feel defensive. He crossed his legs and settled his elbow on the arm of the chair, brandy in hand. “Are you suggesting she’s reformed? A reformed courtesan? Maybe she wants a husband and a houseful of little children?”
Tony regarded him with that smug superciliousness that made Con want to plant him a facer. “Maybe she’s never had a problem with marriage. Did you stop to think that maybe it wasn’t her fault she ended up in her situation in the first place?”
“No, I never thought that maybe one day she accidentally fell on a man’s—”
“You both misunderstood me,” Montborne intervened. “I wasn’t trying to say it’s ridiculous for Constantine to marry Elizabeth, whatever her history might be. I merely meant our young brother is the last of us I’d expect to own up and propose marriage to a woman just because he’d planted his seed in her. As in, ‘Con marry Elizabeth Spencer? I will eat my best stocking the day I witness him right one of his mistakes.’”
It wasn’t the full-fledged support Con was looking for, but at least Montborne wasn’t pressing him to marry a lightskirt he barely knew. He couldn’t help but be a little disappointed, though, to hear his brother declare him just the kind of man who walked away from his responsibilities. Especially when, in this instance, he’d actually managed to keep himself out of debtors’ prison, all by himself.
That had to be the worst defense imaginable. But he was drawing at straws. “Most men wouldn’t be expected to marry their mistress and raise their bastard as if he were a legitimate heir,” he tried. “Am I right?”
“No,” both of his brothers said together.
“You didn’t get some common whore with child,” Tony said. “You managed to find an earl’s daughter. So that’s one difference. Whether or not she was pure when you had her is beside the point. You made a mockery of our family by approaching Captain Finn in a crowded gaming hell and shaming him with
his mistress’s infidelity while airing your own indiscretion. You thoroughly ruined her—don’t shake your head like her fallen state is any defense. How many men do you think want to take on a mistress who is both unfaithful and the mother of a small child? What you did to her was unconscionable, but that only scratches the surface. You ruined an innocent man’s life so that you could claim your son. How was he to be any wiser if you’d just kept your trap shut? It was the right thing to do if you were going to raise the boy yourself, but now you don’t even want your baby or the mother. What was your point, then, in destroying all of those lives?”
“You’re laying it on a bit thick,” Montborne said. “Con’s never been one to think through his actions. Do you really think he had a plan?”
The odd look came into Montborne’s eyes again. He turned away before Con could examine it more thoroughly.
“Don’t go easy on him just because you’ve enjoyed your own share of scandals,” Tony said.
“I always know what I’m doing.” Montborne didn’t take his gaze from the window. “I’d be happy to go through a catalog of my foibles later, but such an inventory would almost certainly require more brandy than I can afford this month.”
“I can’t believe you both hold our family’s reputation in such low regard.” Tony blackened each of them with a scalding glare. “And I suppose Darius would side with you two, gambler that he is.”
“It’s just that responsibility is such a weighty word,” Montborne said, returning to the center of the room. His regular devil-may-care expression was back in place. “Constantine can’t be expected to start owning up by picking his biggest foible and fixing it. Maybe something smaller, like arriving home on time to take Mother to church after he’s said he would. If I have to hear one more sermon on chastity, my ears are going to bleed.” He slanted Con a rakish grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I intend to bill you for a new cravat if mine is stained by rivulets of blood.”
