A Secret Affair

by Mary Balogh

  The next moment, without any further effort on her part, she was seated sideways on the horse in front of his saddle, and his black-clad arms and hands bracketed her front and back so that even if she had been inclined to fear for her safety she could not possibly have done so.

  She was not inclined to fear.

  She turned her head and looked into the very dark eyes, now almost on a level with her own.

  He was turning the horse, and the crowd was moving back out of his way. The crowd also had a great deal to say and was saying it—to her, to him, to one another. Hannah did not even try to listen. She did not care what they were saying.

  He had come.

  And he had come to claim her.

  Had he?

  “That,” she said, “was very dramatic.”

  “Yes, wasn’t it?” he said. “I understood upon my return, which was a mere couple of hours ago, by the way, that I was your scorned, rejected swain. For very pride’s sake I had to make some extravagant gesture.”

  “It certainly was extravagant,” she said as he weaved his horse skillfully among the horses and carriages that half clogged the path ahead.

  “Am I?” he asked.

  “Scorned?” she said.

  “Rejected.”

  “And a swain,” she said. “I like the image of you as a swain. My dress is going to be ruined, Constantine. It will smell of horse for the rest of its life.”

  They were not quite clear of the crowd. They were fully visible to every part of it. And there were probably very few people among it who were not taking full advantage of that fact.

  He kissed her anyway—full on the lips, with open mouth. And it was no token peck. It must have lasted a full fifteen or twenty seconds, which under the circumstances was an eternity.

  And since she must endure it anyway as she was definitely not in any physical condition to fight him off, Hannah kissed him back, prolonging the embrace by at least another ten seconds.

  “There,” he said when he raised his head. His eyes were looking very deeply into hers. There was no escaping them. Her very soul was invaded and captured. She invaded his in return. “You have been thoroughly compromised, Duchess.”

  “I have,” she admitted with a sigh. “And what do you intend to do about it, sir?”

  She wished she had not spoken those words once they were out of her mouth. They were too much like an ultimatum.

  “I am a gentleman, Duchess,” he said. “I intend to marry you.”

  She responded with a huge and awkward swallow that almost choked her. She looked away from him, noted that the crowd had been left behind and they were almost alone on the path, rural parkland all about them, and attempted to put back the armor in which she had been so comfortably encased just a few minutes ago.

  “Do you?” she said coolly. “And were you planning to consult me, Constantine? Or, since it appears you have literally swept me off my feet, were you assuming that it would be unnecessary to do so?”

  “I was hoping it might be,” he said. “I suppose every man dreads the actual proposal scene of his own love story. But I see you are not to be fooled or deprived of it, Duchess. It is going to have to be a down-on-one-knee thing, then, is it, something I can hardly do at this precise moment. I do not doubt that though we have left the crowds behind, they would come running from all corners of the park if I were to get down off my horse and lift you down and proceed to business right here. It is going to have to wait for another occasion, then.”

  Despite herself Hannah was laughing.

  “You seem very confident of success,” she said.

  “That is as much as you know about me,” he said. “If you knew me better, you would understand that I am babbling, Duchess, and that my heart is thumping quite erratically. We will change the subject. Jess is free and happy and puffed up with pride, all thanks to you, I believe. I do not suppose the king heard about his plight in the natural course of events.”

  He was changing the subject? After informing her that he was going to marry her, he was now going to talk about Jess Barnes and the king?

  Well.

  She looked nonchalantly about her.

  “I happened to see him,” she said, “and happened to mention the case to him. He wept. He would have wept if I had told him I had torn my favorite lace handkerchief.”

  He laughed.

  “Happened to see him,” he said. “Strolling on Bond Street, I suppose.”

  “Constantine,” she said, closing her eyes briefly, “is Jess Barnes really safe? Will not your neighbors be out to exact some justice of their own against him?”

  “He is on his way to Rigby Abbey,” he said. “Elliott’s country estate. He has been promoted from a farm hand to a stable hand. He is the happiest and proudest man in England.”

  “Elliott,” she said. “The duke. You are reconciled with him, then?”

  “I think we have mutually agreed that we behaved like prize asses,” he said. “And we have both admitted that perhaps it had to be that way so that Jon’s dream could come true. Our friendship had to be sacrificed for a while for that end—and I would do it all again if I had to. So would Elliott—try to protect Jon from himself, that is, and Stephen’s inheritance from his rashness. But we are friends again. Cousins again.”

  “And almost brothers?” she said.

  “And that too,” he said. “Yes. And that too.”

  She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

  Her heart melted.

  He opened his mouth to speak again.

  And a trio of young horsemen who were riding toward them whistled as they came and called out to them with good-natured ribaldry as they passed. Hannah lifted her chin and wished she had her parasol to twirl.

  Constantine grinned back at the young men, all of whom Hannah recognized.

  “I had better take you home, Duchess,” he said. “I need to call upon Vanessa and see if she is willing to make peace with me. Elliott wanted me to go there first, but I happened to hear the popular interpretation of my quitting London in the middle of the Season and felt compelled to set the record straight, especially when I discovered from your butler that you were walking in the park.”

  “You must not keep her waiting any longer, then,” she said. “She has become my friend during the past two weeks.”

  And they rode back to Dunbarton House to the astonishment and delight of everyone they passed in the streets—and to not a few pointed comments. Constantine lifted her down outside her door, waited while she ascended the steps, watched her disappear inside, and rode off.

  Without another word.

  If she had still had her parasol with her, Hannah thought as she climbed the stairs to her room, she would have bashed him over the head with it before leaving him.

  One did not tell a woman that one was going to marry her and then fail to ask.

  Not, presumably, unless one was Constantine Huxtable.

  I suppose every man dreads the actual proposal scene of his own love story.

  She heard the echo of those words of his and ran up the last few stairs.

  His own love story.

  And then she stopped abruptly. That scene he had enacted in the park was surely the most shockingly romantic thing that had ever happened to her. He could not possibly have done it simply to assert his masterdom over her.

  He loved her.

  She laughed aloud.

  THE ROMANTIC GESTURES had not ended. The following morning, less than an hour after Barbara’s departure, when Hannah was feeling somewhat down in spirits, a single white rose was delivered to Dunbarton House. There was no card with it. At the same time a gigantic bouquet of multicolored flowers of all kinds arrived, done up with glossy yellow ribbons, complete with Hannah’s parasol and a flowery, amusing note from Lord Hardingraye, who could be as outrageously flirtatious as he wished without danger of being taken seriously because she knew—and he knew she knew—that in one essential respect he was of the same persuasion as he
r duke had been.

  The bouquet was set on a table in the middle of the drawing room, to be enjoyed by all comers for days to come. The rose found its way to her bedchamber, where she alone would enjoy it.

  An hour later the butler brought her a note on his silver salver. It had a brief message and no signature.

  I lust after you.

  Not so very romantic, perhaps, but Hannah smiled as she read it for perhaps the dozenth time—after ascertaining that its author had not delivered it in person and was not waiting in the hall below.

  She recognized the beginning of a game.

  She dined during the evening with the Montfords and enjoyed their company and conversation along with that of Mr. and Mrs. Gooding and the Earl and Countess of Lanting—the ladies were Lord Montford’s sisters.

  The next morning a dozen white roses were delivered to Dunbarton House, again with no accompanying card. They were taken up to Hannah’s sitting room.

  An hour later the butler came with a note atop his salver.

  Again it was unsigned.

  I am in love with you, it read.

  Hannah held it to her lips, closed her eyes, and smiled.

  The wretch. The absolute wretch. Did he have no respect for her nerves? Why did he not simply come?

  But she knew the answer. He had been speaking the truth in Hyde Park—if you knew me better, you would understand that I am babbling, Duchess, and that my heart is thumping quite erratically.

  The foolish man was nervous.

  And long may it last even though the wait seemed interminable. Nervousness was making him quite the romantic.

  She went to the opera during the evening with the Sheringfords and the Marquess of Claverbrook and sat with her hand on the sleeve of the latter for most of the evening while they exchanged remarks. The tenor brought tears to her eyes just with the beauty of his voice. The soprano brought tears to the marquess’s eyes just with her beauty. He chuckled low as Hannah laughed.

  “But not with her voice?” she asked.

  “That,” he said, “just gives me the headache, Hannah.”

  Much of the attention of the audience was focused upon their box, and Hannah wondered idly if tomorrow’s gossip would be that she was digging her claws into yet another elderly, wealthy aristocrat. The thought amused her.

  The following morning it was two dozen roses that arrived—blood-red roses. No note, of course. That came an hour later.

  I LOVE YOU, it read, my multipetaled rose.

  No signature.

  Hannah wept and thoroughly enjoyed every tear.

  She was supposed to go to Lord and Lady Carpenter’s Venetian breakfast during the afternoon. Contrary to the name of such entertainments, they were not morning affairs. It did not matter either way. She did not go.

  She donned a dress she had worn only once about three years ago. She had not worn it again because it made her feel like a scarlet woman inside as well as out, and that was too blatant a disguise even for her. She loved it nevertheless, and today it matched her roses. She wore a single diamond on a silver chain about her neck—a teardrop that would not dry or lose its luster—and no other jewelry.

  She waited.

  There was no improving upon two dozen red roses.

  There was no more to be said on paper either. He had even written the first three words of the last note in capital letters. The rest had to be spoken aloud, face-to-face.

  If he could muster the courage.

  Ah, her poor, dear devil. Tamed by love.

  He would, of course, find the courage. And he would be quite splendid—when he came.

  She waited.

  THIS LOVE BUSINESS, Constantine had discovered over the past several days, could quite unman a person. He had a new respect for married men, all of whom had presumably gone through the ordeal he was currently going through. With the exception of Elliott, of course, who had been proposed to, lucky man.

  Reconciling with Vanessa had been easy.

  “Don’t say a word,” she had said, hurrying across the drawing room of Moreland House toward him as soon as he had set foot inside it, while Elliott had stood by the fireplace, one elbow propped on the mantel, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. “Not a word. Let us forgive and forget and start making up for lost time. Tell me about your prostitutes.”

  Elliott had chuckled aloud.

  “Ex-prostitutes,” she had added. “And don’t you dare laugh at me, Constantine, just when we are newly friends again. Tell me about them, and the thieves and vagabonds and unwed mothers.”

  She had linked her arm through his and drawn him to sit beside her on a sofa while Elliott had looked on with laughter in his eyes and on his lips.

  “If you have an hour or six, Vanessa,” Constantine had said.

  “Seven if necessary. You are staying for dinner,” she had told him. “That is already settled. Unless, that is, you have an engagement with Hannah.”

  An unfortunate choice of words. And Hannah, was it?

  “No,” he had said. “I have to work myself up to falling on one knee and delivering a passionate speech, and it is going to take some time. Not to mention courage.”

  Elliott had chuckled again.

  “Oh, but it will be worth every moment,” Vanessa had told him, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed. “Elliott looked very splendid indeed when he did it. On wet grass, no less.”

  Constantine had looked up reproachfully at his grinning cousin.

  “It was after Vanessa had proposed to me,” he had said, raising his right hand. “I could not allow her to have the final word, now, could I? She said yes before I did.”

  Theirs might be a story worth knowing, Constantine had thought.

  In going impulsively to Dunbarton House within two hours of his return to town, he had hoped to settle the matter with Hannah. And then, when he had found her from home but had learned she was in Hyde Park, he had gone in pursuit of her and had seen—without having to stop and think—the perfect way of declaring himself.

  It had not struck him that she might refuse to mount his horse with him. And indeed she had not done so.

  It had not occurred to him that after she had done so and after he had kissed her quite lasciviously and in public, and she had kissed him back, she might then refuse to marry him.

  Not that she had refused.

  It was just that he had not asked.

  And he had not even realized that until she had pointed it out. Dash it, there was all the difference in the world between asking and telling, and he had told.

  Just like a gauche schoolboy.

  Why was there not a university degree course in proposing marriage to the woman of one’s choice? Did everyone mess it up as thoroughly as he had done?

  And so he had had to spend three days making amends. Or three days procrastinating. It depended upon whether one was being honest with oneself or not.

  But once he had started, he had to allow the three days to proceed on their way. He could hardly rush in with his proposal after sending just one rose and the declaration that he lusted after her, could he?

  If she intended to refuse him, he really had been making a prize ass of himself during the three days.

  But there was no point in thinking about that, he realized as he dressed to make his afternoon call at Dunbarton House on the third day. He could not possibly not go now to see this wretched ordeal to its conclusion either way.

  What if she was not at home? There must be a thousand and one reasons for her to be out—picnics, garden parties, excursions to Kew Gardens or Richmond Park, shopping, strolling early in the park, to name but a few of the myriad possibilities. Indeed, he thought as he rapped on the door, it would be surprising if she were at home.

  The baser part of his nature hoped she was out.

  Except that he could never go through this again.

  The butler, as usual, did not know the contents of his own domain. He had to make his way upstairs as if there were no hurry at all to d
iscover if the Duchess of Dunbarton was at home or not.

  She was at home. And willing to receive him, it seemed. He was invited to follow the butler upstairs.

  Would she have Miss Leavensworth with her?

  They passed the doors of the drawing room and climbed another staircase. They stopped outside a single door, and the butler tapped discreetly on it before opening it and announcing him.

  It was a parlor or sitting room, not a bedchamber. She was alone there.

  On a table beside the door were a dozen white roses in a crystal vase. On a low table in the middle of the room were two dozen red roses in a silver urn. Their combined scent hung sweetly on the air.

  The duchess sat sideways on a window seat, her legs drawn up before her, her arms crossed over her waist. She looked startlingly, vividly beautiful in scarlet red, which matched the roses almost exactly. Her hair lay smooth and shining over her head and was dressed in soft curls at her neck, with wispy tendrils of ringlets at her temples and ears. Her head was turned into the room, and she regarded him with dreamy blue eyes.

  He was reminded of the scene in his own bedchamber the night they became lovers. Except that then she had been wearing only his shirt, and her hair had been loose down her back.

  The butler closed the door and went on his way.

  “Duchess,” he said.

  “Constantine.”

  She smiled—also dreamily—when he did not immediately continue.

  “I need your protection,” she said. “I have been receiving anonymous notes.”

  “Have you?” he said.

  “Someone,” she said, “lusts after me.”

  “I’ll challenge him to pistols at dawn,” he said.

  “He also claims to be in love with me,” she said.

  “Easily said,” he told her. “It does not go very deep, does it, that euphoric, romantic feeling?”