by Darcy Burke
Bart kicked himself around so that he sat upright on the couch. “You didn’t bring the baby in with you?”
Con’s brows together in disbelief. “To an argument?”
Bart shrugged. “We’re curious, too.”
That hadn’t even occurred to him. “He’s in Mother’s rooms, if you’re truly interested.” He felt a moment of panic when Bart looked satisfied by this answer. As if he might actually go.
Never mind that. Nothing was worse than lying to Mother, and he’d already accomplished that. “What’s this about? I don’t have all day.”
Tony moved to Montborne’s desk. He rested against the massive oak top, half-seated, half-standing, his hands braced behind him. Con knew better than to trust his apparent nonchalance. “They’re saying the most dreadful things about you in the clubs.”
With that ominous beginning, Con knew this audience wasn’t going to end well for him. “What things?”
Tony sighed heavily. “I wish you’d married her when this first made the rounds. Now they’re saying you’ve taken on a different sort of relationship. Are you aware our peers and neighbors believe you’ve become a rake-for-hire?”
“What?” It was the only non-profane word he could reach for as his heart kicked into a gallop. They knew.
Bart chuckled. “Rake-for-hire? Nice ring to it.”
Darius’ head jerked up from his pensive staring at the carpet. For the first time, he seemed to be aware he was in the room with the rest of them. “You’re a cicisbeo? How’s that going?”
He meant was it profitable. Con stifled a gag. “That’s absurd,” he barely managed to squeak out. He could bury himself in his shame. “Where is that rumor coming from?”
Tony shrugged. “Who knows? What matters is that people believe it. It’s the only reasoning to explain anything. You’re obviously not keeping her. Not on your pin money. Besides, it’s how Montborne gets along.”
“Wealthy widows are an entirely different beast,” Montborne drawled. “Please don’t confuse the two.”
He didn’t look up from the book.
“As I said before,” Con tried to explain, “she was lonely. I was in the right place at a very fortunate time. It is a bit like Montborne’s widows, actually. She’s got enough money now that the fact that I can’t afford to keep her doesn’t enter the equation. We’re—” he almost choked on the next words, “in love. Now, tell that to anyone who will listen.”
Tony’s blue eyes narrowed. Bart’s indistinguishable ones did the same. Dare, for his part, continued to appear fascinated.
His twin’s overt interest would have concerned Con the most, if not for Montborne’s expression. Con could almost see the pages of the book in Montborne’s lap singeing beneath his intense stare.
It was so unlike Montborne to have a strong thought, Con was taken aback. But he didn’t get a chance to ask after his brother’s state of mind, because Tony said, “And you think the rumor that she’s paying you to entertain her is absurd?”
“I love her,” he fired back. “She needs me. Why is that hard to believe?”
Why did it all come off his tongue more easily this time?
Darius leaned forward. “And you say she’s very wealthy?”
Blast, but his twin could be a real rotter.
“This rumormongering could have been avoided if you would have married her like we told you to,” Tony said. “But at least the wedding can move forward now. You love her, she needs you. It will set the talk to rest and close the betting books.”
While Con stared at his brother in horror at this new revelation, Darius perked up. “Betting books?”
“Don’t you even consider—” Con growled at the same time Tony said, “If you put down so much as a shilling on our brother’s personal affairs, Darius, I’ll have you on the street faster than you can pack a single stitch of clothing. Do you understand me?”
Judging by the gleam in his eye, Darius wasn’t the least deterred. Resentment built in Con’s chest. Resentment, and a need to regain control of his life. His friends and acquaintances were betting on him, were they? They were laughing at him.
Chapter Twelve
CONSTANTINE LEFT HIS BROTHERS to rot in the library and returned to his mother’s sitting room. He would have left Merritt House altogether, save Elizabeth. She hadn’t returned yet from her shopping sojourn. He almost wished he hadn’t sent her away.
After what seemed like hours of watching his mother amuse Oliver, broken only by Mrs. Dalton whisking him away once or twice to be freshened up and fed, a maid came to the sitting room door. Mrs. Dalton rose and exchanged a few words with her before returning to confer with his mother.
Mother’s lips turned down. She nodded and hugged Oliver closer. “Lady Elizabeth is here,” she explained to Con.
“Goo!” Oliver said with delight, and smacked a hand against her décolletage.
Con went over and set his hand on her small shoulder. “It’s been an entertaining afternoon, but all things must come to an end.” He caught Mrs. Dalton’s eye. “Please bring Oliver down to the servants’ hall once his things have been gathered up.” Never had Con seen a bag of wonders like the one Mrs. Dalton had at her feet. He could almost swear it was a bottomless compilation of baby necessities.
“The servants’ hall?” Mother turned and gave Con a searing look of reproof.
He sighed. “It’s better for everyone if she isn’t seen here.”
“You don’t want her seen here because then you must own she is a lady,” his mother shot back with a look of reproof. She gave Oliver a last hug, then turned him over to Mrs. Dalton.
Con’s face heated. “That really isn’t up for debate, Mother.” With that, he spun on his heel and went down to the servants’ hall. Immediately he realized his mistake. While inviting Elizabeth to walk through the front door would have given the impression that his family was receiving a courtesan as a proper guest, bringing Elizabeth through the service door meant Con must walk through the kitchens to get to her.
He did his best to appear nonchalant about his excursion through the underpinnings of the house, but it was a very long time before he finally arrived at the housekeeper’s sitting room, where a lesser guest would be shown.
It stood empty.
He turned to see Mr. Benjamin looming in the hallway behind him. As if Con were a questionable fellow who might be trying to steal the silver.
“Where is…” Con knew he should say it. He couldn’t. Was his mother right? Was it because if he did, he must then admit she was a lady?
Mr. Benjamin crossed his hands behind him. “She would not come inside.”
Now Con knew why Mother had been so shocked by his leaving her on the step. He’d done it, but hearing that the butler had done it left him incensed. “I see. Very well. Have my coat sent to the back door, then, and make sure Mrs. Dalton is informed that we’re outside.”
The back door. She was practically in the mews. He couldn’t remember ever treating a guest this shoddily in his life. And yet, wasn’t her standing anywhere on the property more than could be expected? A man’s mistress was never received at his house.
His mother’s house.
Con wound through the narrow corridors dividing the servants’ areas and exited through the back door to the mews. There she stood. In the dank passageway between the houses, alone. She held no wrapped parcels and there was no sign of the footman he’d sent to watch over her.
She didn’t appear distressed in the least. A smile played on her lips, in fact, as though she knew he’d had to search to find her. The minx. As if he were destined to walk the earth looking for her, because it amused her to keep him on his toes.
“I hope I used the right door,” she said with a coquettish flick of her gaze toward the roughened wood door barely suitable for servants, let alone a…
Lady.
“Though I wasn’t expecting you to come out of it.”
He quelled the effect of her smile on his stomac
h. “I don’t like you being out here.”
Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “You were very clear on the matter when we arrived, my lord.”
He couldn’t tell if she was still bamming him or if he’d actually confused her. Blast. If he hadn’t set out to give her mixed messages on purpose, he was doing a good job of it now. He was the one who’d said she couldn’t use the front door. And he did stand by that, because it was best for his family. But that didn’t mean he had to like her being alone in the filthy mews.
“So I did.” He offered her his arm. “The problem is, there’s no good door.”
Her gray eyes darkened. Her lips parted. A responding sense of wonder built inside him as he witnessed her softening toward him. Was this…love?
Without warning, her expression turned sultry. She ran her hand along his upper arm and she licked her top lip. “You needn’t worry about me,” she whispered.
There was a woman inside her who was capable of emotion. And then there was this shell.
Con flinched from her caress. Embarrassingly, she drew her hand away and interlaced her fingers before her. She’d seen his revulsion at her flagrant overture. He hadn’t offended her, had he? It wasn’t that he didn’t like her touching him. He just wanted her to touch…well, him.
She fell into step beside him without him needing to explain that they were going to the front door. He led her through the mews to the cobbled walk peppered with perambulators and stopped before the entrance to Merritt House. All the while he was aware that while her hands looked dainty before her, he looked like a cad with his arms selfishly swinging at his sides.
She waited on the bottom step while he went up to the door and asked Mr. Benjamin to have Mrs. Dalton, the footman and his coat brought out through the foyer and not the back door.
When their little party was assembled again and making their way in the direction of Elizabeth’s leased house—this time detouring around Hyde Park—he decided to break the silence. “My mother was elated to see Oliver. I know it must have been difficult for you to entrust him to my care. Thank you.”
“I do feel as though you owe me,” Elizabeth said in a velvety voice. “But I suppose I’ve already collected, since you are taking me to Devon.”
His eyes narrowed. He didn’t want to keep a tally of their favors. He wanted them to help each other. “I mean it as a compliment.”
She looked askance at him. Her skirts swished about her legs. Occasionally the crowded walk forced her too closely against him, pressing her warmth along his arm. Sometimes she drifted so far away that he wanted to pull her back. “A compliment for whom?” she purred. “Yourself? For being so trustworthy?” She seemed to be teasing him, but he was too aware of her now not to hear her distress. She hadn’t enjoyed the afternoon any more than he had.
Maybe next time, he would heed his mother. He could bring Elizabeth in through the mews—he didn’t like it, but if he were there to see to her safety, then sneaking her into the house had to be better than not having her with him at all.
“Allow me to rephrase my praise in a more gentlemanly way,” he said, for she was right and he’d only complimented himself. “Thank you for coming to know me enough to trust me with your son. Our son.”
Her laughter rippled through him. “Do I know you, my lord?”
She wouldn’t admit she’d come to trust him even a little. It galled. “I’ve spent more time with you than anyone else in the last week. I should hope you know me a bit by now.”
Her smile trembled on her lips, as if she were trying her best to keep it there. He kept expecting her to say something, to reply with a pithy quip, but for the rest of the walk, she barely looked at him.
No one tried to stop and talk to them as had happened on the way to Merritt House.
They entered her foyer and Con blinked against the contrasting darkness. She turned to him, drawing off her gloves, and gave him a brilliant smile. “Will you stay for tea, my lord?”
He pulled away at her sudden friendliness. “No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” She moved to fuss with Oliver as Mrs. Dalton entered behind them. It seemed his entire life now revolved around this tiny child…and he didn’t really mind.
“I will stay,” he said abruptly. But he could make better use of his time than crowding the foyer.
Rand followed him into the drawing room.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll have a whisky,” Con said on his way to the window. It had been a decidedly long day.
“Yes, my lord.” Rand bowed and departed on his heel.
Con watched the street grow darker and grayer while he waited for the whisky to be sent in. Voices drifted through the ceiling, and he discerned the sound of drawers being opened and closed. This business of having a baby in the house meant the walls were never quiet. He liked it. He never felt alone here, even if he wished he were a little more included in the goings on.
Rand returned bearing whisky and a single candle. He set the whisky on a side table and went about the room lighting sconces. Con left his post at the window and strode to the makeshift sideboard. He poured out half a snifter then tossed it back. The amber liquid burned straight through his insides and he set about pouring a second round without waiting for the first to dull.
Rand left the door open behind him. The servants bustled back and forth in the hallway. For the first time, he was glad he was headed to see the canal. He had something to do. It might not be profitable yet, or even completed, but he might feel like he was succeeding if he saw the project firsthand.
Blast Elizabeth for being right about that.
She appeared in the doorway. Wisps of dark brown hair brushed against her cheeks. A green wrap draped around her slender frame. She gave the room a once-over, then, as regally as a queen, turned and walked out. “Rand!” she called down the hallway. “Where is the tea?”
She was gone but a moment, but it was long enough for Con to be struck by a sharp, swift longing to be closer to this woman who seemed to have the entire world at her command.
At least, the part of the world that excluded Polite Society.
He was struck by a bracing thought. One that turned his perspective on end. She wasn’t independent, as he imagined her to be. She needed her retinue of servants. She needed her solicitor. She needed him, even if she wouldn’t admit it. But it was a clever sort of dependence. She surrounded herself with people who made her world tick, rather than people who did her work for her. She was in command…because she chose to be.
She returned and closed the door behind her. Then she gave a little half-shrug that sent her green wrap slipping into the crook of her elbow.
He watched it slide over her forearm in a swish of silk. It swayed around and down behind her.
Was that her guard, slipping?
“I suppose you had tea with your mother,” she said, “but I’m half-starved—”
He crossed the room in three strides. Her lips parted as if she meant to protest, but he didn’t allow her the chance. She took a step back, but he didn’t let her get away. He bent his head and kissed her.
She gasped when his lips touched hers. A jolt fired between them. She did desire him. He was glad he’d surprised her. He was tired of feeling one step behind her. He curved his arms around her and grasped her shoulders, bringing her closer. He liked the quiet moan that vibrated through her. He was in control, because he chose to be.
His mouth moved over hers in a hot, demanding kiss. He needed control. He needed it and she kept it from him.
Not right now, though. She’d dropped her shield. He slid his hands to her waist and pulled her deeper into the room. Her slight body was soft yet firm in his arms, her back straight and sure under his hand. She smelled like honeysuckle and a day spent out of doors. His cock swelled. He held her closer, as if he could meld them together.
He would have her unbend for him. Tonight.
Her body went taut. Then her hands were in his hair and scratching at his
shoulders. She thrust her breasts against his chest and moaned softly in his ear. Her breath tickled his skin. To anyone else, she might appear to be overcome with frantic lust.
Surely, he’d die if he didn’t have her now. And yet…
It wasn’t right.
His brain knew she’d pulled away. His body refused to believe it. She’d fired her most damaging weapon at him, seduction, but he wasn’t going to cede control to her just yet.
He savored the feel of her hands roaming his back, even though he knew hers wasn’t real passion. She dug her fingernails into his coat and raked them down his skin. He groaned, despite feeling his stomach begin to turn. Her spine arched beneath his hand and he rubbed his aching erection against her, wishing he could transfer just a handful of his passion to her. There were so many ways he could take her, and he didn’t doubt she’d let him be creative. But he wanted her one way and one way only.
Real.
His growl vibrated low in his throat. He caught her hair in his fist and twisted gently until she tipped her head back, baring the pale white column of her neck. Her magnificent breasts rose and fell with each hitch of her breath, as if desire beat a mad staccato in her veins. His own breath came sharply. She was offering herself up to him to use as he liked, and for all that was holy, he wanted to do any number of things to her. But she simply wasn’t there.
Her hooded perusal of him antagonized him. He was naught but a specimen to her. She was evaluating him, adjusting her tack to mirror his emotion. He hesitated, so she hesitated.
He could almost shout his frustration. Instead he kept his voice low. “Do you desire me?” he asked, for kissing her senseless was clearly not going to progress the way he needed it to.
Her rosy lips parted. “You know I do.” Her eyes slowly closed. She drew herself upward, as if to lift her breasts for his inspection. A moment passed. Then another. Her eyelids fluttered open. “Kiss me.”
He dropped her so quickly, she stumbled back. Disgust filled him. How could he want this, this creature? How could he be enamored of a woman who thought nothing of using her body as a tool?
