by Darcy Burke
Her pink lips were slightly parted, as though his sudden arrival had thrown her off-kilter. Dark brown curls escaped an ivory turban wrapped haphazardly around her head. In the back of his mind he slowly registered that everything, even time, seemed to have stopped the moment he’d walked in the door.
A white-gowned little body flipped over at his feet and just like that, everything became about Oliver again.
“He just started that?” A hint of pride took root in Con as Oliver pushed himself up onto his forearms and lifted his head to watch Con with large, inquisitive eyes. The area just under Oliver’s bottom lip glistened with drool.
Con drew out a kerchief and knelt to swipe the baby spittle away. “There now, that’s much better.” He set his elbow on his knee and looked up. Elizabeth’s longing expression tightened around his gut like a fist. Why was she looking at him like that?
“He’s been trying,” she said slowly as Con rose, “but he could only flail against the carpet. That was quite adorable, though I did feel his frustration.” Her uncomfortably intimate expression was replaced by wry amusement. “Now I feel sorry for Mrs. Dalton and me. Next he’ll learn to sit up, and crawl soon after that.” She sighed contentedly.
Oliver made a wobbly reach for Con’s shiny Hessians. He leaned forward too far and caught himself with one hand before he fell onto his face. His mouth opened and closed against the carpet like a fish as he blinked up at Con. “Gah. Gah!”
“Good morning to you, too, little man. But you don’t look ready to meet my mother, so I suggest you apply your energy to a different pursuit.”
Elizabeth shook herself a bit, as if she’d been in a trance. “Oh! I’d entirely forgotten. Heavens, I’m late. Does this really need to happen today?”
Con staved off a flutter of annoyance. “Yes. She’s been looking forward to it and besides, this was a commitment. I took you at your word.” He felt bad enough about pulling the wool over his mother’s eyes without disappointing her today, too.
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “If I were a man, I would slap my glove across your cheek for your tone.”
Ah, he had been a bit sharp. Con grinned. “If you were a man, you’d be ready to leave.”
“Huh!” She shook out her skirt. “Isn’t this frock good enough for stepping out?”
“To the contrary, I think you look lovely. But do you want to meet my mother in that gown?”
She looked momentarily nonplussed. “I thought I wasn’t going to meet your mother.”
“Oh,” fell out of his mouth before he could stop himself. It hung there between them: the honest, unvarnished truth. He’d almost forgotten. How had their arrangement become so natural to him that he’d misplaced the fact that she was a courtesan?
She paled. “I’ll freshen up.”
Taking command was an odd feeling for Con, yet one he was coming to like and growing accustomed to. “Mrs. Dalton, please ready the young master for his excursion while your mistress sees to her toilette. We’re already dreadfully late, so your timeliness is appreciated.”
Elizabeth made a small peep of protest then visibly, she attempted to contain her objection to that one squeaked syllable. She appeared stricken. She hated the idea of him taking her baby. He tried not to feel offended, tried to put himself in her place. The last man to take her baby had stolen him. Was it any surprise she didn’t trust him?
Then again, maybe she did…just a little. He’d finally managed to get her to agree to this excursion. Could it be that little by little, he was earning her faith? Did she want to trust him, but was afraid?
The idea of her coming to depend on him placed so much pressure on his shoulders that he turned to the door. He wasn’t needed while they readied themselves. He’d retire to the drawing room, have a stiff drink, and try not to play out the scene about to unfold in his mother’s sitting room.
He’d feel more comfortable if he could bring Elizabeth along, for he wasn’t at all ready to manage Oliver on his own, but that was obviously out of the question. Even if he was willing to ruin his own reputation, he could hardly take it upon himself to skewer that of his brothers and his own mother. He’d never risk his mother’s social standing just because he’d feel more comfortable with Elizabeth at his side. Ruining his own life was one thing, but he refused to ruin anyone else’s.
He felt better grounded by the time Elizabeth breezed into the drawing room with Mrs. Dalton behind her. The latter carried a pristinely wrapped Oliver.
Elizabeth stopped just short of him and dared him to disrupt the confidence she’d apparently armed herself with. “We’re ready to depart, my lord. I trust you weren’t bored in our absence?”
He wasn’t about to admit he’d done nothing but think of her and the complicated yet welcome disruption to his life she presented. “Not at all. Let’s kick on, then. It’s a bit of a walk.” He looked at both women, neither whom looked dressed for a stroll. “Do you have a parasol or a bonnet or…?”
He should have known Elizabeth would take offense to his gentle nudge—he could almost hear her teeth grind. “I’m certainly of an age where I remember how to leave the house, my lord.”
There seemed no point in asking her to stop “my lording” him. She did it when she was angry, or when she wanted to put space between them. “Then let’s be off.”
The women preceded him from the room. In the foyer, they collected hats and parasols and managed to get them righted and tied on by handing off the baby between them while Con stood idly by. It would have, of course, been much easier for him to hold the baby, instead of them juggling him, but he’d inserted himself enough today. Instead he returned to worrying what would happen when he finally did reach his mother’s sitting room. Was it truly fair to lie to his mother, even if he’d made a promise to Elizabeth?
But he had given his word and with that, inadvertently, roped his entire family into his commitment. His job wasn’t yet done. Their job wasn’t yet done. Ten thousand pounds was a lifetime of being her child’s father. Not a few hours.
Perhaps Oliver was a family matter for the Alexanders, as Tony had been saying. Even if they weren’t aware of the real reason why.
Elizabeth’s hips sashayed as she took the steps to the street one at a time. He caught up to her at the walk and offered her his arm. She smiled demurely and slid one kid-gloved hand across his forearm. Stupidly, his skin prickled with awareness. She was confoundedly good at making herself desirable. He should be glad of it, else she wouldn’t have had the means to save his hide.
Instead he felt a touch of jealousy.
Mrs. Dalton trailed behind them toting Oliver. Constantine had requested a footman to bring up the rear. All together like that, their party presented a scene of domesticity, and Con again felt the bracing slap of responsibility. Too much responsibility.
Before he could scare himself with such an unwanted thought, the clip-clop of an approaching rider caused him to lead Elizabeth to one side.
“Ho, there!” the rider said, drawing up alongside them. “If it isn’t Lord Constantine and his pretty piece. That’s how I knew ’twas you, you realize, and not your brother. You’re Mr. Elizabeth Spencer to the lot of us now.” Lord Steepleton cackled to himself.
Con would have laughed, too, if such a remark had been made about one of his friends. In his current mood, however, he didn’t find it the least amusing. “You could always know me from Lord Dare by the cut of my coat.”
Steepleton paced them easily. “A bit of a dandy, that boy. You, on the other hand, don’t need fancy togs to let us all know you’re Quality. Or this pretty bird, either. How are you, Elizabeth?” He leaned forward to see around Con and gave her a look full of awareness and something more. As if he knew her very well indeed.
Those protective instincts Con had been warring with won out. He pulled her closer to him. “She’s fine,” he grated.
“Lord Steepleton, how do you do?” Elizabeth gave no indication that she’d heard Con answer for her. She did move
even closer to him, though. The side of her soft breast brushed against his arm.
He felt better after that. He felt a lot better when Steepleton’s lips tightened and he touched the brim of his beaver hat.
“Well, I must be off,” he said. “Enjoy the day.” He rode away, leaving Con alone with Elizabeth.
And Mrs. Dalton, the footman and Oliver. It was feeling like a very odd day.
They made their way into the park without incident. They had only to cross the grounds and exit on the other side, a block from Merritt House. But what ought to have required a quarter hour was turning into an afternoon’s activity on its own, for every few feet, Elizabeth paused to exchange polite—or not so polite, in Con’s opinion—discourse with familiar faces.
He’d intended as much. He had to remind himself of that every time he had the urge to plant yet another man a facer. This was his declaration to the ton, the big show he’d considered putting on for them. But while he’d started the afternoon feeling like a knight clad in shining armor, with each encounter he recognized Elizabeth’s consequence more, until he could no longer delude himself into believing he was anything more significant than the dreaded bauble on her arm.
He’d always considered himself a man about town. He wasn’t universally known like Montborne, or well-respected like Bart, or feared like Antony. He didn’t have the wild reputation of his twin. But he was known. He’d always liked his distinction as the perfectly normal Alexander brother, in fact.
Elizabeth, on the other hand, was recognized by all. Even straitlaced Lady Gantry, riding high and mighty on a prime piece of flesh, knew Elizabeth by sight well enough to turn her long beak of a nose and her horse in the opposite direction.
And as Mr. Tewseybury and Lord Scotherby approached, they didn’t give any indication they’d even seen Con.
“Miss Spencer,” Tewseybury intoned as he took her hand and pulled her right out of Con’s grip, “it’s been far too long. What on earth has kept you hidden? And don’t tell me it’s none of my business.”
Hearing her called Miss Spencer grated on Con’s nerves. She was Lady Elizabeth. Or had everyone forgotten?
Her laughter would have irritated him, too, if he didn’t catch the slightly strained note to it. “You must think me dimwitted if you believe I’ll fall for that, Tewsey. You, not know every morsel of gossip about one of your favorite girls?”
Mr. Tewseybury chuckled. Then he sent Con a furious look so fleeting, only the two men seemed aware of it.
Lord Scotherby elbowed Tewseybury in the arm hard enough to jostle him to the side. He deftly slipped into Tewseybury’s place. “Miss Spencer, allow me to apologize for my buffoon of a friend. But of course we know why we’ve missed you.” He, too, shot Con an evil eye. “What we don’t know is when we’ll have the pleasure of a night with you again.”
Con took a menacing step forward but stopped his advance when she placed her hand on his arm.
She patted his forearm patronizingly as she addressed the interlopers. “You must be clear when you address me, my friends. Lord Constantine will think you mean something wholly inappropriate. I wouldn’t fault him for defending my honor.” She bestowed a worshipful smile on Con. “He’s been nothing but kind to me.”
Her public adulation should have made Con feel better. Instead, he felt lacking. He should be the one to defend her, not the other way around.
“But of course I meant—” Scotherby stopped when Tewseybury got a good jab at his ribs. “Pardon my vulgarity, Lord Constantine. And my piss-poor observational skills. I was blinded by the beauty before me.” He gave Con another blazing scowl. “Hyperbole aside, we will be looking for you at every engagement. Our set is unconscionably bored. We have only youth and inexperience to entertain us, without you and Celeste to grace us with your wit.”
“You’ve left us at Mariah’s mercy,” Tewseybury said with a shudder.
“That’s what you’ve done, Miss Spencer,” Scotherby agreed. “New girls have their momentary appeal, but at our age, a man prefers a woman with a little substance to her chatter.”
“Or no prattle at all,” Tewseybury joked.
Elizabeth chuckled. Con couldn’t be more disgusted by the subject. He didn’t even try to hide his revulsion.
Thankfully, she didn’t encourage the lummoxes further.
Tewseybury looked from her placid smile to Con’s dark glower then back to Elizabeth. His head shook ever so slightly and he sighed. “Ho, there, Scoth, I see Jessica. You will excuse us, won’t you, Miss Spencer?” He bowed and blinked soulful eyes at her before tapping the brim of his hat. “Let’s be on with it, then.”
A lungful of air hissed from Con’s lungs when the men finally took themselves off. He’d never felt so tightly sprung in his entire life.
Elizabeth’s slanting glance revealed nothing of her reaction. Frustratingly. She went to Oliver in Mrs. Dalton’s arms and clucked over him for a moment, then returned to Con’s side to continue their walk.
“You’re all the rage,” he said abruptly when they’d gone about a dozen feet. It wasn’t an accusation. Not quite. He’d known she was sought-after. He just hadn’t realized how invisible it would make him feel. As if he were a well-compensated human shield that she’d placed between herself and the father of her child.
Montborne wouldn’t have felt that way, or really, any of his brothers. Any other Alexander would have brought along his own consequence.
Con was overwhelmed by her fame. “You’re beautiful, I’ll grant you that, but many women are. Why do men nearly come to blows to gain your attention?”
And—terrifyingly—was he one of them?
Was he just another one of them? Crippling, juvenile terror took hold of him, the angst of a boy just realizing the fairer sex’s existence and frightened to death he’ll never catch one’s notice.
He hadn’t even been one of her admirers before she’d approached him with her devil’s bargain. Now he had the boyish urge to steal her away, like favorite toy to be hidden from the other lads.
“My allure is in my head,” she said, breaking into his shameful and confusing thoughts.
“It’s not the least in your head,” he retorted. “I can see it plain as day.” He jutted his chin in the direction of a bold debutante watching them curiously from an open carriage. “She can see it. And that bounder hasn’t stopped looking at you.” Mr. Harcourt barely pulled his horse up short before he trotted right into a tree.
“I mean, I believe I am beautiful, and so I am to others.” She looked sidelong at him. “Does it bother you?”
“Of course not,” popped out too fast. Blast. He didn’t chase it with a rebuttal, though, for he wouldn’t credit his unintentional revelation with more attention than it warranted.
Thankfully, her answering silence helped him to avoid saying anything compoundingly stupider, like asking her to stop being so damned beautiful, or begging her to explain precisely how she used mental acuity to control what seemed like every man in the park.
It wasn’t that her dress was cut too low, or her skirt swirled too high. Nor did voluptuousness alone account for her appeal. She must be telling him the truth. When others looked at her, they saw what she wanted them to see: a desirable woman available to any man with the nerve to ask her price.
But was that visage the real her? The woman Scotherby and Tewseybury knew was a different woman altogether than the Elizabeth who spent her every moment concerned for her son. Only he seemed to know the vulnerable yet lionhearted woman she truly was.
At least he had that comfort.
“Merritt House is just ahead,” he said as they exited Hyde Park. He turned to be sure Mrs. Dalton followed them off the grounds and caught the last dozen eyes watching their departure. Though he’d meant to create a scene, he was glad to be done with being a spectacle. It had been a bold thing, taking his mistress into the open. He was proud of himself for following through, even if it hadn’t gone as he’d imagined.
At th
e door to Merritt House, Elizabeth’s fingers slid reassuringly along his forearm as she withdrew her hand from his escort. She cast him an overly sunny look before she went to the nursemaid holding Oliver. Con perceived the worry in her eyes, even she cheerily instructed the nursemaid, “Go along and help Lord Constantine with Oliver. I’m headed to Bond for some much-needed shopping.”
“Alone?” he asked. “You’ll take a footman. No, two.”
Before she could do more than lift her eyebrows with a fine hauteur, he turned and rapped on his door. Mr. Benjamin opened the vault without delay. He stood to the side as if to let them pass, but Con held up his hand. “Fetch Mr. Sneed. He is needed for a trip to Bond.”
Mr. Benjamin nodded once and disappeared into the foyer. Within moments the dark-skinned butler returned. “Mr. Sneed will be out shortly. Is there anything else, my lord? A small glass of lemonade for the lady while she waits?”
“Very good idea.” He was glad Mr. Benjamin had intuitively discerned Elizabeth wouldn’t be entering Merritt House. Explaining as much to the butler in front of her wasn’t high on Con’s list of things he wished to take on today. “Refreshment…and a basket. Two baskets. One for each footman. And please see Mrs. Dalton to the drawing room. I’ll collect her when I’ve seen…” He faltered. “Lady Elizabeth” was on the tip of his tongue, but confound himself, he just couldn’t say it. He shifted uncomfortably. “…when I’ve seen Miss Spencer off.” He’d been so judgmental of his peers not an hour earlier, yet here he was, doing the same. He wasn’t even sure why.
A few minutes later, she swayed away with her own footman and young Mr. Sneed dogging her heels. Blast it, even Mr. Sneed appeared enchanted.
With a sigh and a shake of his head, Con turned back and entered the foyer. “Well, Mr. Benjamin, I suppose that is that. Did you ever think I would be the one to settle down first?”
The butler’s African skin concealed any flush of potential discomfiture at Con’s intimate question. “I wouldn’t have offered my opinion on it,” he said in his deep, polished voice, “but I’d have been more surprised if any of your brothers had managed it before you, my lord.”
