A Secret Affair

by Mary Balogh

  “Tell me,” she said at last, “about your home, Mr. Huxtable.”

  “About Warren Hall?” he said.

  “That was your home,” she said. “It is the Earl of Merton’s now. Do you have a good relationship with him?”

  But they had been riding in the park together.

  “An excellent one,” he said.

  “And where do you live now?” she asked.

  He indicated the room with one hand.

  “Here,” he said.

  “But not all year,” she said. “Where do you live when you are not in town?”

  “I have a home in Gloucestershire,” he told her.

  She stared at him while their soup bowls were removed and the fish course was set before them.

  “You are not going to tell me about it, are you?” she said. “How tiresome of you. Another secret to add to the one concerning your quarrel with the Duke of Moreland. And to add to the mystery of why you have an excellent relationship with the Earl of Merton when he stole the title that should rightfully be yours.”

  He set his knife and fork down quietly across his plate. He looked into her eyes across the table. His looked very black.

  “You have been misinformed, Duchess,” he said. “The title was never to be mine. There was never any question that it might be. It was my father’s and then my younger brother’s, and now it is my cousin’s. I have no reason to resent any of them. I loved my father and brother. I am fond of Stephen. They are all family. One is meant to love family.”

  Ah, she had rubbed him on the raw. His voice and manner were perfectly controlled, but …

  Too controlled?

  “Except the Duke of Moreland,” she said.

  He continued to look at her and neglect his food.

  Their plates were borne away and another course brought on.

  “And what about your family, Duchess?” he asked.

  She shrugged.

  “There is the duke,” she said. “The current duke, that is. He is blameless and harmless and about as interesting as the corn and the sheep upon which he dotes. And the duke, my husband, had an army of other relatives, with none of whom he was remotely close.”

  “And your family?” he asked.

  She picked up her glass, twirled it slowly for the pleasure of seeing the light of the candle refracted off the crystal, and sipped the wine.

  “None,” she said. “And so there is nothing to say. No secrets to hide or divulge. Let me tell you about my home in Kent—Copeland. The duke bought it for me five years ago. He always referred to it as my quaint little country box, but it is neither quaint nor little nor a box. It is a manor, even a mansion. And it has a park that rolls away in all four directions from the house in a rural splendor that is half cultivated, half not. At least, it is all well kept, but it is all natural woodland and natural grassland and a natural lake. There are no arbors or parterres or wilderness walks. It really is quite … rustic. That is something the duke might have called it without any sacrifice of accuracy.”

  She cut into her beef, which looked and felt as if it had been cooked to perfection.

  “It is all perhaps a little too natural for you, Duchess?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “I fear it is. I feel that I ought to impose my human will upon it all, that it ought to look pretty, as the garden this afternoon looked pretty.”

  “And yet?” He paused in his eating again.

  “And yet,” she said, “I confess to liking it as it is. Nature needs to be tamed sometimes. It is only civilized. But ought we to force it to be something it is not meant to be just for the sake of beauty? What is beauty?”

  “Now there,” he said, “is a question for the ages.”

  “You must come and see for yourself,” she said, “and tell me what you think.”

  “I must come?” He raised his eyebrows. “To Kent?”

  “I shall arrange a brief house party a little later in the Season when everyone is starting to find the endless round of balls here tedious,” she said. “It will all be perfectly respectable, I assure you, though everyone will know by then, of course, that we are lovers. People always do know these things, even when they are not true. Which will not be the case with us. You will give me your opinion about the park.”

  “And you will follow my advice?” he asked.

  “Quite possibly not,” she said. “But I will listen anyway.”

  “I am honored,” he said.

  “And I am full,” she announced. “You will give your chef my compliments, Mr. Huxtable?”

  “I will,” he said. “He will be vastly relieved to know that he is not to be dismissed tomorrow morning. Do you not want cheese or coffee? Or tea?”

  She did not. She had been trying all evening to distract herself with conversation. And she had been trying to pretend to herself that she was hungry—which she ought to be since she really had not eaten since the garden party, when he had filled a plate with dainties for her from the table on the upper terrace.

  She rested one elbow on the table, set her chin in her hand, and gazed at him between the two candles.

  “Only dessert, Mr. Huxtable,” she said and felt all the delicious anticipation of what she had dreamed about through the second half of her year of mourning and planned during the months since Christmas.

  Anticipation and trepidation too. She must certainly not show the latter. It would seem quite out of character.

  She was so glad it was him. She would have been disappointed if he had not been in town this year. Not devastated. She had had other, perfectly eligible alternatives in mind. But none quite to match Constantine Huxtable.

  She thought he might be an extraordinary lover. In fact, she was quite confident that he would be.

  And she was about to find out if she was right. He had stood up, pushing his chair out of the way with the backs of his legs, and he was coming the short distance around the table to offer her his hand.

  It was warm and firm, she discovered as she set her own in it. And he seemed somehow taller and broader when she got to her feet. His cologne, the same as she had noticed before, wrapped about her senses again.

  “Let us go and have it, then,” he said, “without further ado.”

  She looked up at him through her eyelashes.

  “I do hope this chef does not disappoint,” she said.

  “If he does, Duchess,” he said, “I shall not only dismiss him in the morning, I shall also take him out to some remote spot and shoot him.”

  “Drastic measures indeed,” she said. “And what a waste it would be of all that Greek beauty. But doubtless it will be quite unnecessary. For he will not disappoint. I will not allow it.”

  He tucked her arm through his and led her from the room.

  THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE was sometimes quite inadequate to express one’s thoughts, Constantine had been realizing all evening. What words were there to describe something that was more beautiful than beautiful and more perfect than perfect?

  He had always thought of the Duchess of Dunbarton as a perfectly beautiful woman even when he had not felt particularly drawn to her.

  Tonight she exceeded those superlatives.

  He could not remember ever seeing her in any color but white. He had always thought it remarkably clever of her to make that single color her signature, so to speak. But of course, this departure from the norm was equally clever—and stunning.

  She looked … Well, she looked those words that did not exist. Stunning was perhaps the only word that was even remotely adequate.

  His cook might have served them leather and gravel for all the attention he had paid to his meal. And all the while he had had to concentrate hard upon not gawking.

  The color of her gown and jewels transformed her from an ice queen into some sort of fertility goddess. And her hair, which every male member of the ton had probably dreamed of seeing tumble about her shoulders, was in a billow of riotous waves down her back while it hugged her head in
shining smoothness.

  The décolletage of her gown left little to the imagination and yet teased it nevertheless. Just one inch lower …

  Monty had called her dangerous that afternoon in Hyde Park.

  She was more dangerous than the Sirens of mythology.

  And she had carried on a conversation that contained almost none of the innuendo that usually characterized their verbal exchanges. Indeed, when she had got to talking about her home in Kent, she had sounded … warm. As if she genuinely liked the place.

  She was very, very clever. He was going to have to be very careful, he thought as he led her in silence up the stairs in the direction of his bedchamber. Though he did not know quite over what he needed to exercise care. They were about to become lovers, after all. And they would remain lovers, probably, for the whole Season.

  Not any longer than that, of course. And if she wished to make it not so long, well then, that was her choice. He was not going to be heartbroken, was he?

  There was a single branch of candles burning on the low chest in the corner of his room. The bedcovers had been turned back, the curtains drawn across the window, a wine decanter and glasses left on a tray beside the bed. Everything was ready.

  He closed the door behind them.

  The Duchess of Dunbarton sighed audibly as she slipped her arm from his and turned toward him. It sounded almost like the purr of a contented cat.

  “There is nothing quite like the pleasure of anticipation, is there?” she said. “It has been humming through my blood since this afternoon, I must confess. I am not at all sorry I decided to cancel my earlier appointment and come here instead.”

  She set the tip of her finger lightly against the point of his chin and moved it slowly back and forth. Her eyes followed her finger.

  “I am not altogether sorry either,” he admitted.

  “You will savor every moment, I trust,” she said. “I do hope you are not one of those men who feel they must demonstrate their masculinity by the speed with which they run the race.”

  Her eyes came up to his though she did not raise her head.

  “Alas, Duchess,” he said, “I do plan to run a race. A marathon. Do you know your Greek history?”

  “Many miles?” she said. “Many hours? Almost superhuman endurance?”

  “You do know it,” he said.

  Her hand slipped downward to rest on his shoulder. Her other hand came up to rest on the other.

  “You had better not expend any more energy on talk, then, Mr. Huxtable,” she said. “You had better begin this endurance race, this marathon, without further delay.”

  And her glorious blue bedroom eyes gazed dreamily into his.

  He lowered his head and set his lips to hers.

  He rested his hands on either side of her small waist while she slid her hands about his neck and pressed her lips back against his own.

  She was hot, already very much aroused despite her clear warning to him not to forget the importance of foreplay.

  He had not expected a passionate woman, and perhaps he would be proved right once they got fully launched into this encounter. Perhaps after all she would be the skilled, experienced, sensual, controlled lover he had thought she would be. And perhaps she was clever enough, confident enough, to throw passion into the mix as well.

  He enjoyed passion, though he rarely got it with any of his mistresses, he realized. Passion involved some feeling, some emotion, a little bit of risk. Most of the women he had bedded had been looking for some companionship and a lot of vigorous sex. And that had always suited him too. Better no passion at all than too much of the wrong sort.

  Passion could lead to an unwelcome emotional attachment. He did not want any woman attached to him that way. It had never been his wish to hurt any woman.

  But the objective thoughts were only fleeting. She had pressed her bosom against his chest, her abdomen and thighs against his, and her mouth had angled and opened over his.

  He felt a flaring of intense desire.

  At last!

  It was many months since he had had a woman. He had not realized quite how famished he was.

  He lifted his hands to cup her face, to hold it a few inches from his own. And he slid his hands around the base of her head to the jeweled clasp that kept her hair confined. He unclasped it and let it fall to the carpet. He took her hair in both hands to rearrange it. It needed no encouragement but spread across her back and over her shoulders in a gleaming cloud of soft waves.

  He almost hissed in an audible breath.

  She looked ten years younger. She looked … innocent. With bedroom eyes that even in the dim candlelight looked very blue. An innocent Siren—an enticing oxymoron.

  “I cannot do the like for you,” she said, “though some might say your hair is a little overlong for fashion. You must not cut it, though. I forbid it.”

  “I am to be your love slave and ever obedient?” he asked, dipping his head to kiss her behind one earlobe, holding her hair back with one finger as he did so. He flicked his tongue over the soft flesh there at the last moment, and had the satisfaction of feeling a slight tremor run through her.

  “Not at all,” she said, “but you will do what pleases me because it pleases you. I shall remove your coat since you wear no hair clasp.”

  It was not easy. His valet had a hard enough time getting him into his coats so that they fit him, as fashion dictated, like a second skin. But her fingers fluttered over his chest beneath it and up over his shoulders and down along his arms, and his coat obediently followed the path her hands took and soon fell to the floor behind him.

  It was not, he thought, the first time she had done that.

  Her eyes moved over his shirt and cravat, and then her hands moved up to the latter and deftly removed it. She undid the buttons at his throat and opened the top of his shirt.

  Constantine watched her as she worked, her eyes on what she was doing, her lips slightly parted.

  There was no hurry. Absolutely no hurry at all. They had all night, and there were no prizes for the number of times he would mount her. Once might well be enough on this first occasion.

  “You look magnificent in a shirt,” she said. “Manly and virile. Take it off.”

  She was not going to do it for him?

  He looked into her face as he pulled his shirt free of his waistband, undid the buttons at his wrists, crossed his arms, and drew the garment off over his head. She watched what he was doing, and then her eyes roamed over his shoulders, his upper arms, his chest and down to the waistband of his pantaloons. She set her fingertips against his chest.

  He nudged her hands aside with the backs of his, drew the satin of her gown to the edges of her shoulders, and then slid his thumbs into the décolletage of her gown at the center. He slid them outward, hooking the bodice under her breasts as he did so—something he had wanted to do every moment as they dined.

  Her breasts were not particularly large. But they were firm and well shaped and uptilted—helped by her stays, it was true—and they fit, warm and soft, in his hands. Her skin was fair, almost translucent in comparison to his. Her nipples were rosy and pebbled with sexual desire. He lowered his head and sucked one into his mouth. He rubbed his tongue over the tip.

  He felt, rather than heard, her deep inward breath.

  He moved his mouth to the other breast.

  “Mmm.” She made a sound of appreciation deep in her throat, threaded her fingers through his hair, and lifted his head. She tipped her own head back, hair streaming behind her, her eyes closed, and brought her breasts against his chest and then the rest of her body against his. She brought his face to her own, her mouth opening as it touched his.

  He wrapped his arms about her, bringing her even closer, and abandoned himself for a long while to a kiss in which tongues thrust and parried and circled and stroked and teased and arms strained and breath quickened.

  Then her arms moved down his back, her fingers pressing hard into his flesh. They kept
on going when they reached his waist—beneath his pantaloons and his drawers. They spread over his buttocks.

  “Take these off,” she said into his mouth, pressing the backs of her fingers against the fabric.

  Again—she was not going to do it herself? But she had already proved to him tonight that she was mistress of the unexpected. She watched as he removed first his shoes and stockings, and then his pantaloons and drawers. And she held her gown beneath her bosom—until he was finished. Then she released her hold, and the emerald green satin slithered down to the floor, and she stood before him in her stays and her silk stockings and slippers.

  He would surely have taken her there and then if he had not had a glimmering of an understanding of how confining stays must be for a woman—and if he had not promised a marathon. He unlaced her instead and dropped the stays on top of her gown.

  A strange thing, fashion. She doubtless would not feel dressed without her stays, but she did not need them. She was slender and firm-muscled and shapely. Her breasts were firm and youthful. Her legs were long and slim. Sometimes she gave the illusion of being small in stature, but it was an illusion.

  She sat on the side of his bed, her arms braced behind her, and lifted one of her legs toward him, her toes pointed. He drew off her stocking and then the other when she offered him that leg.

  He leaned over her, bearing her back to the mattress, and kissed her deeply and open-mouthed, covering her breasts with his hands as he did so. He moved between her spread legs. Her arms were stretched out along the bed.

  “How long does it take to run a marathon?” she asked when he lifted his head some time later. There was color in her cheeks, he could see.

  “A whole night if necessary,” he said. “Of course, it is always possible to cheat a little, to take shortcuts when no one is looking, to reach the finish line in considerably less than the whole night.”

  “I am all in favor of doing naughty things when no one is looking,” she said, her fingers tiptoeing over his shoulders.

  “Very well, then,” he said.

  It was a huge relief actually. He was already aroused to the point of discomfort.