by Mary Balogh
The park, Constantine could see, fell away from the house in every direction over lawns, through copses, to denser woods. There was a glimpse of water in the distance. It seemed to him that the elm-lined driveway was the only formal feature in the park.
He liked what he could see of it.
“How perfectly delightful it all is,” Cassandra was saying. “It seems very peaceful here.”
“A child’s paradise,” Stephen said. “I can see what the duchess meant when she told Meg that. An adult’s paradise too. Much as I love London, it always feels good to escape to the countryside once in a while. This house party was an inspired idea of the duchess’s. Would you not agree, Con?”
“Certainly. The air smells clean,” Constantine agreed, “even with the carriage windows shut.”
The driveway ended at a square, graveled courtyard below the wide steps and the imposing pillars. Miss Leavensworth was standing on the lawn to one side of the courtyard with Mr. and Mrs. Park and Mr. and Mrs. Newcombe, whom Constantine had met at the Tower of London.
Katherine and Monty were standing on the lawn at the other side, young Hal astride Monty’s shoulders. Sherry was a short distance away, holding Alex’s hands above his head while the child toddled across the grass to destinations unknown. Margaret and a few other unidentified persons—no, one of them was her daughter, Sarah—were strolling up from the direction of the water. Toby, Margaret and Sherry’s elder son, was up a tree with a larger boy—one of the Newcombe twins.
His own group was, Constantine guessed, the last to arrive.
Hannah was partway up the steps. She was wearing sunshine yellow. And piled curls that looked as though they might tumble down at any moment—though Constantine would wager they would not. And a wide smile and flushed cheeks and sparkling blue eyes.
He sucked in a breath and then hoped it had been inaudible.
He had not seen her for three days. She had come out here early to make sure everything was ready for her guests. It seemed to Constantine more like three weeks.
She looked like a girl. No, like a very young lady new to the world and full of optimism and hope and joy.
She stepped down into the courtyard when the coachman had opened the carriage door and set down the steps and handed Cassandra down.
“Lady Merton,” she said, “welcome to Copeland. I positively refused to worry about you after Lady Montford explained to me that you had to stop on the road more often than the rest of my guests because you are nursing the baby. Even so, it is so good to see the last of my guests safely arrived.”
She offered her right hand, and Cassandra took it.
“I am very happy to be here,” she said. “How inspired someone was to build the house just here. One cannot imagine a lovelier spot.”
“One cannot,” the duchess agreed and turned to Stephen. “And Lord Merton. Welcome. Oh, and the baby.”
She took a step closer and peered gingerly at him.
“Oh, he is beautiful,” she said, and she was more than just a woman enthusing over another woman’s child because it was expected of her.
“He is lovelier to hold,” Stephen said, smiling, and he laid the blanket-bound bundle of his son in her arms.
She looked startled, alarmed, and …
And suddenly there was a raw, naked look on her face for which Constantine could find no words. She was no longer smiling. She did not need to.
And then she did smile again … slowly.
“He is adorable,” she said. “I believe I am in love. What is his name?”
“Jonathan,” Stephen said.
“Oh.” She looked up at him and then at Constantine.
“With Con’s permission,” he added and took the baby back from her. “My predecessor, Con’s brother, was Jonathan too. Has he told you?”
“Yes,” she said. And she turned to him at last and held out both her hands. “Constantine. Welcome.”
“Duchess,” he said. “Thank you.”
He grasped her hands and kissed one of her cheeks. And smiled.
She was smiling back.
And Lord. Oh, good Lord.
He withdrew his hands and turned to look about. He drew air slowly into his lungs.
“I can see why you love Copeland and want to show it off,” he said. “It is a fine place.”
“Yes,” she said softly. Wistfully?
Sarah came whizzing up ahead of Margaret and her group, clutching a bunch of daisies in one hand.
“Uncle Con,” she yelled. “For you, Your Grace.” She thrust the daisies into Hannah’s hand. “Uncle Steve. Let me see the baby.”
Constantine looked at Hannah again. She was smiling down at her daisies. Which became her more than the diamonds she usually wore. Her eyes came up to meet his once more, and they both smiled.
This, he thought, was perhaps not a good idea after all.
He did not ask himself what this was.
IT SEEMED AN AGE TO HANNAH, an eternity since she had seen Constantine.
And then, when she did see him, she realized how much her perception of him had changed over time. He was no longer the dark, mysterious, possibly dangerous, and very attractive near-stranger she had been half aware of for a number of years, the man she had decided over the winter would be her first lover, the aloof, somewhat mocking man she had seen in Hyde Park earlier this spring, riding with Lord Montford and the Earl of Merton. He was no longer the exciting, difficult challenge he had been when she had toyed with him during a couple of meetings until he took charge of the situation on the third and rushed her into beginning their affair that very night, long before she had expected the consummation.
Seeing him day by day in London, she had not realized how very much he had changed in her perception since that night. Today, she watched the approach of the Earl of Merton’s carriage, knowing that he was within, and she could feel her heartbeat quicken. And as she greeted first the countess and then the earl, even as she saw and then held the great wonder of their newborn baby, she could feel Constantine’s presence like a warm glow inside.
And then, at last, she had been free to turn to him, to look at him, to reach out both hands to him.
And he was simply Constantine.
She was not at liberty to probe that very unprofound thought. She did not want to probe it. But there was a soreness in her chest and throat, as though she held back tears.
She welcomed him and smiled at him and was glad she had not probed her feelings or—horror of horrors—shed a few tears when he turned coolly away from her and made some polite remark about Copeland.
Briefly she wished that after all she had worn a white dress and decked herself out with diamonds and been the person who lived safely behind the facade of the Duchess of Dunbarton. But no, she did not really wish it. For these four days she had chosen to be herself without the safety of any cocoon. It had become strangely important to her to impress Constantine’s relatives. Not as the Duchess of Dunbarton, but as Hannah. As herself.
It was hard to admit that she had been hurt by their initial refusal of her invitation, because she had decided long ago that she would never again allow herself to be hurt by the behavior and opinions—or rejection—of others. But perhaps she had been a little bit hurt this time. She did not know quite why.
They had changed their minds and come. Had it been because of her visit to Claverbrook House? She supposed it must have been. Had her offer to have the children here as well as the adults made the difference? Had the marquess said something after she left? Had Constantine said something? Surely not, though. The reason they disliked her, Hannah suspected, was that they wanted better for him than someone of her notoriety.
However it was, she had been given her second chance, and she wanted to impress them. To show them that she was … human. To show them that she was not the arrogant, ruthless, heartless upstart she knew she was rumored to be. To show them that she could be a warm and welcoming hostess.
And within moments of his
arrival the Earl of Merton had let her hold his baby.
And Lord Sheringford’s little girl had picked her a bunch of daisies from the unscythed grass down by the lake and shoved them into her hand as she dashed past toward the greater allure of her baby cousin as though Hannah was not anyone so very special.
It felt good indeed to be someone who was not so very special.
Someone of whom a child need not stand in awe.
She would put the daisies in a glass and place it on the table beside her bed. They seemed more precious than roses—or diamonds.
“I will have you taken up to your rooms,” she told the earl and countess and Constantine. “And we will all meet on the west terrace for tea. The weather is warm enough, and the children can eat with us and then play on the grass if they wish instead of being cooped up in the nursery.”
She took Constantine’s offered arm, and they led the way up the steps to the house. Why had she never thought of having children at any of her other house parties or country entertainments? Not only had she remained childless to the age of thirty, but she had also remained without any connection to children.
She had not even realized until this very moment how much she must have yearned for children all these years without ever admitting it to herself. What would have been the point of admitting it, though? She had been married to an old man who had had only one lover all his life—and that another man.
“I hope,” she said to Constantine, “you had a pleasant journey down from London.”
“Very pleasant, thank you, Duchess,” he said.
As though they were polite strangers.
What was it going to be like meeting him next year? But she would think of that when next year came. For now it was this year.
“I am glad to hear it,” she said.
THE DUCHESS LOOKED, Constantine thought, as if she had shed ten years in the three days since he had last seen her.
And at least ten layers of armor and masks.
There was the sunshine yellow of her dress. And the sunshine of her smiles. And the rural setting, in which she looked, quite unexpectedly, far more at home than she looked in London.
She could not possibly be looking more beautiful. And yet she was.
They had all assembled on the terrace outside the drawing room for tea, where she sparkled as a hostess, and then, when they had eaten and drunk their fill, Margaret’s Toby and Thomas Finch, the middle son of Hugh Finch and his wife, demanded a game of ball. There was a ball apparently—it had come with Margaret and Duncan.
There were several children of the party, ranging in age from Stephen and Cassandra’s newborn to the twelve-year-old twins of the Newcombes. But it was not good enough for the children to play with one another, of course. Not when there was a largish gathering of idle, perfectly able-bodied adults sitting outdoors just yearning for some vigorous amusement. The fathers at least must come and play.
And since the fathers did not see why they should be victimized just because they had sired children a number of years ago when they knew no better, they demanded that the other men too come and enjoy some exercise—Constantine, Sir Bradley Bentley, and Lawrence Astley. After all, they had all been cooped up inside carriages for most of the day, and here they were idling around in chairs again as if there were nothing better to do.
And then a few of the mothers were offended that they were considered incapable of throwing a ball about without making utter cakes of themselves, and Miss Julianna Bentley, Sir Bradley’s sister, pointed out to everyone that she had been sitting in a carriage today just as long as any of the men. Astley’s sister, Miss Marianne Astley, murmured an agreement. Miss Leavensworth reminded the duchess of all the games of cricket they had played on the village green when they were growing up and remembered that she had always been put all the way out on the road when it was her team’s turn to field because she could catch a ball and had a good throwing arm. And the duchess remembered that she had always had a pretty good arm too because all those odious boys had actually allowed her to bowl the occasional over.
“Yes,” Miss Leavensworth agreed, “you had that wicked wobble ball that no one could ever hit, Hannah. All of us found ourselves sawing at the air with the bat, thinking it a sure six because the ball was moving so slowly, and then it would wobble past and shatter the wickets.”
“Come, then,” the duchess said, getting to her feet, “let us go and play ball.”
The Duchess of Dunbarton?
Playing ball?
Constantine caught Katherine and Sherry both looking at her in some surprise, and then looking at him.
They all walked down the sloping lawn beyond the terrace until they were on ground flat enough for a game. Toby and Thomas, who had gone to fetch the ball, came dashing after them, and with the exception of a few people who insisted that no game could have any legitimacy if it did not have some spectators, they all formed a large circle about an empty center that Toby soon occupied because it was after all his ball. They hurled the ball across the circle to one another, trying to hit Toby’s lower legs in the process. The one to succeed took Toby’s place in the center and the game resumed.
It was probably, Constantine decided, one of the most pointless games ever invented. However, it occasioned a great deal of shouting and jeering and laughing—and a little crying too when Sarah somehow found herself in the middle and was hit with the very first ball. She wailed until Hannah dashed in there with her and scooped her up in her arms.
“That was a foul,” she cried in a very unduchesslike voice. “It hit Sarah on the knee instead of below the knee. Now try.”
And she proved remarkably nimble despite the fact that Sarah was shrieking and had taken a death grip about her neck, and despite the fact that she herself was laughing so hard that it was a wonder she could catch her breath. She jumped and dodged until Lawrence Astley clipped her on the ankle with the ball.
Constantine would have lost his wager. One curl had come free of its pins, and one untidy blond ringlet bounced against the duchess’s shoulder as she set Sarah down on the outer edge of the circle and Astley pranced about in the middle. She pushed the curl up under some of the others, but it was down again within moments.
Her face was flushed.
So were all their faces, actually, except for those of the spectators.
The game came to a natural end when Sir Bradley Bentley, who had just been hit, stretched out on the grass in the center of the circle and declared that if anyone so much as whispered the word exercise for the rest of the day, he was going to take to his bed and not leave it until the day after tomorrow. At the earliest.
Young Hal, Monty’s son, jumped on him. Five-year-old Valerie Finch followed suit, and soon Bentley was lost beneath a writhing, shrieking mass of children.
“I think,” the duchess said, “more tea in the drawing room is called for. Or something stronger. Definitely something stronger, in fact. Babs, will you see to it for me, if you please? I am going to have to make some repairs to my hair.”
They all made their way up the slope to the house—except for the duchess, who stood where she was, fiddling ineffectually with her hair and watching them go.
And except for Constantine, who stood where he was, watching her.
She turned her head to look at him.
“I am a mess,” she said.
“You are,” he agreed.
She smiled. “That was not very gallant.”
“It was a compliment,” he told her.
“Oh.” She lowered her hands and tipped her head to one side. “That was very gallant, then. I do not think I am very much needed in the drawing room. Babs will see to it that everyone has something to drink, and then everyone will want to retire to rest for a while before changing for dinner. Let me show you the lake.”
“I have missed you,” he said softly.
He was alarmed by how much.
“And I you,” she said. “I had no idea that having a lover would
be quite so … lovely. Is it always so?”
He grinned at her.
“You are either fishing for more compliments, Duchess,” he said, “or you have just asked me an impossible question.”
“Come and see the lake,” she said and took his arm even before he could offer it.
Who in his right mind could have guessed that the Duchess of Dunbarton of all people would turn out to be such an innocent?
I had no idea that having a lover would be quite so lovely. Is it always so?
Was it?
Was it lovely this time? Was it always lovely? He was not in the habit of comparing mistresses. Or of analyzing what were really just physical sensations.
“You see what I mean?” she said as they wound their way about the trunks of ancient trees on their way down to the lake. “I have allowed trees to dictate to me. I should have some of them chopped down so that a proper avenue could be constructed here, leading straight down from the house. Lined with rhododendron bushes. Affording a picturesque vista from the house. With a boating jetty straight ahead. And a boat bobbing on the water, of course. And an artfully pretty island in the middle of the lake. And the lake itself redesigned to be kidney-shaped or oval or something describable.”
“With a temple folly or a small cottage folly on the opposite bank,” he said. “Built so that from the house it could be seen perfectly reflected in the water and centered down the avenue.”
“Yes,” she said.
“But you have not done it.”
“I have not,” she agreed mournfully. “Constantine, I like being dictated to by nature. Why should I take down an oak tree that has been growing for perhaps three or four hundred years merely because it is in the way of a picturesque prospect from the house?”
“Why, indeed?” he agreed. “Especially as the house has not been there as long as the tree, I would estimate.”
“And why build a folly?” she asked. “What is the point of it? I have never quite understood. It is all so …”
