A Secret Affair

by Mary Balogh

  “But it is one of the most lovely feelings in the world,” she said. “Perhaps the most lovely. I am quite in love with him in return.”

  “Lucky fellow,” he said. “I am definitely going to call him out.”

  “He says he loves me,” she said, and her eyes made the almost imperceptible but quite remarkable change from dreamy to luminous.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  “Mind to mind,” she said. “Heart to heart. Soul to soul.”

  “And body to body?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, her voice a murmur of sound. “And that too.”

  “No barriers,” he said. “No masks or disguises. No fears.”

  “None.” She shook her head. “No secrets. Two become one and indivisible.”

  “And this,” he said, “is what your anonymous penman is saying to you?”

  “In capital letters,” she told him.

  “Ostentatious fellow,” he said.

  “Absolutely,” she agreed. “Just look at all the roses he has sent me.”

  “Hannah,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He was still standing just inside the door. He strode toward her, and she held out her right hand. He took it in both his own and raised it to his lips.

  “I do love you,” he said. “In capital letters and in every other way I can think of. And in every way I cannot think of for that matter.”

  He heard her inhale slowly.

  It was time. And he was no longer nervous. He dropped to one knee, her hand still in his. His face was on a level with her own. The color was high in her cheeks, he could see. Her lips were slightly parted. Her eyes were still luminous and very blue—like the sky beyond the window.

  “Hannah,” he said, “will you marry me?”

  He had been rehearsing a speech for three long days. He could not remember a word of it.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He had been convinced that she would tease him, that she would play the part of Duchess of Dunbarton at least for a while before capitulating—if she capitulated at all. He had been so convinced, in fact, that he almost missed her response.

  With his ears he almost missed it.

  But with his heart?

  “Yes,” she had said, and there really was nothing else to say.

  They gazed at each other, and he raised her hand to press against his lips again.

  “He used to tell me about it,” she said. “About love. And he used to promise me that I would know it for myself one day. I trusted him and believed him for every moment of my life from our first meeting to his final breath, Constantine, but I did not fully believe him in that. I believed that he had loved an extraordinary love for more than fifty years. But I was afraid to believe I ever would. I was wrong to fear, and he was right to be confident for me. I love you.”

  “And will for more than fifty years?” he said.

  “He used to say it was for eternity,” she said. “I believe him.”

  He smiled at her, and she smiled back until he moved his head closer to hers and kissed her.

  It had been almost three weeks since they had last made love, and it had seemed to him that he had been hungry for her every moment of every intervening day. Nevertheless, it was not with sexual hunger that they kissed. It was with …

  Well, he had only ever kissed with sexual appetite and did not have words for this.

  Affection? Far too tame.

  Love?

  A much overused word.

  But whatever it was, they kissed with it.

  And then, as their arms closed about each other and he lifted her from the sill and got to his feet with her so that he could turn and sit on the window seat with her on his lap, he knew the word. Or the best one available, anyway.

  They kissed with joy.

  And then they smiled into each other’s eyes as though they were the ones who had discovered it. Joy, that was. Love ever after.

  “Are you quite sure,” he asked her, “that you are willing to sacrifice your title simply for the pleasure of marrying me, Duchess?”

  “To be simply Mrs. Huxtable?” she said. “At least you will have to call me Hannah all the time, and I like that.”

  “Or Countess,” he said.

  She looked blankly at him.

  “That would be a little absurd,” she said.

  “Not really,” he told her. “The king sent two royal proclamations after your visit to him, you know. Or perhaps you do not know. The one was Jess’s pardon.”

  She sat upright on his lap when he did not continue and frowned down at him.

  “And the other?” she asked.

  “You have just agreed to marry Constantine Huxtable, first Earl of Ainsley,” he said. “The title was awarded for extraordinary service to the poorest and dearest of His Majesty’s loyal subjects. I believe I have quoted him more or less accurately.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  And then she threw back her head and laughed.

  The new Earl of Ainsley laughed with her.

  THE EARL AND COUNTESS of Merton were hosting a ball at Merton House the following evening on the occasion of the anniversary of their betrothal ball there the year before.

  They had invited family members to dine with them before the ball—Stephen’s three sisters and their spouses, and Cassandra’s brother, Sir Wesley Young, and his fiancée, Miss Julia Winsmore. They had also invited Constantine since he was Stephen’s cousin. And the Duchess of Dunbarton, who was no relative at all.

  “I really hoped,” Cassandra said as she and Stephen awaited the arrival of their dinner guests in the drawing room, “that by today it would not seem at all odd that we have invited her, Stephen. Con has been back in London for the better part of a week, and Hannah has been here since we brought her with us from Copeland. And she is the one who persuaded Elliott to go to Ainsley Park and then talked to the king himself. She saved the day almost singlehanded. But nothing has happened yet. Will this dinner be an embarrassment, do you think?”

  “Why should it?” he asked. “The duchess has become your friend, and it is perfectly acceptable to invite one’s friend to dine. We intend to announce Con’s new title at the ball tonight, and she was definitely instrumental in bringing that about. She will surely realize that Con is to be one of our dinner guests and will simply stay away if coming will be embarrassing for her. I do not believe the duchess embarrasses easily, however.”

  “That scene in the park,” she said. “Meg described it so amusingly and Kate so romantically. And everyone has talked about it ad nauseam ever since. And yet—nothing has happened.”

  “We don’t know that,” he said. “Nothing has been announced. We do not know that nothing has happened. They are entitled to some privacy in their own affairs, Cass.”

  She sighed.

  “We were all so horrified,” she said, “when Con began his affair with her. Not that we were supposed to know about it, of course. Such affairs are always supposed to be secret. She seemed so unsuitable for him. So …”

  “Arrogant?” he suggested.

  She frowned.

  “Well, she did,” she said. “But people are not always what they seem to be, are they? I ought to know that better than most. Perhaps she has always been … well, someone warm and full of fun, someone I very much want as a friend. Someone good. Why are she and Con not affianced?”

  Stephen stepped up close to her and kissed her on the mouth.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “you can ask each of them as soon as they arrive. Perhaps you can make it a topic of conversation at the dinner table. I am sure my sisters will have something to say on the matter. They seem to have taken the duchess to their collective bosom, just as you have. Even Nessie.”

  She laughed and punched him lightly on the arm.

  “It would be a lovely opening line,” she said, “as soon as each walks in—why are you not betrothed? I am not a matchmaker, Stephen, but Con is such a lonely man, and Ha
nnah is a lonely woman.”

  “And therefore,” he said, “they must belong together.”

  “Therefore nothing,” she said tartly. “They do belong together. Anyone who was at Copeland with the two of them would have had to be both blind and stupid not to see it.”

  They were saved from further conversation on the subject by the arrival of Vanessa and Elliott and Wesley and Julia almost simultaneously, and then by the appearance of Katherine and Jasper and Margaret and Duncan soon after.

  “Is Con coming?” Elliott asked while they were all sipping their drinks.

  “He said he was,” Stephen said.

  “And Hannah?” Margaret asked.

  And they were at it again.

  “Mama says they have no choice but to marry,” Julia Winsmore said, “after the way he kissed her in the park. I saw it with my own eyes. It was really quite shocking.”

  She blushed.

  “And very romantic too, Jule,” Sir Wesley said. “That is what you told me at the time, anyway.”

  “I do not believe,” Elliott said, “the duchess would ever be moved by the argument that she has no choice but to do a particular thing.”

  “She clearly loves Constantine,” Katherine said. “She will torture him before saying yes.”

  Her husband exchanged a pained glance with Duncan over this blatant example of feminine logic.

  “Or no,” Margaret said.

  “Con is no one’s fool,” Stephen said. “He dances to no one’s tune.”

  “But he is in love,” Cassandra pointed out.

  And that stifled the conversation. There was silence for a few moments.

  The butler appeared and murmured to Cassandra that dinner was ready. It must wait a little longer, she murmured back. She could imagine the consternation her reply would arouse in the kitchen.

  And then the remaining two guests arrived—together and a little more than five minutes late.

  Both were looking quite radiant enough to send expectations soaring—at least among the ladies gathered in the drawing room. And to cause Cassandra to forgive them instantly for putting her on the outs with her cook.

  The Duchess of Dunbarton was looking resplendent in soft turquoise with very little jewelry. None was necessary. She was going to be drawing all eyes her way all evening without them. The sparkle and luster that was usually on the outside of her person was glowing from the inside of her person tonight.

  “If we are late,” she said before any greetings could be exchanged, “the fault is entirely mine. I was all ready long before I expected Constantine, but just as I heard his knock at the door I decided that I did not want to wear my favorite white ball gown after all—or all the diamonds that went with it. So I changed while he kicked his heels and ground his teeth down in the hall.”

  She smiled dazzlingly about her.

  “I never grind my teeth,” Constantine said mildly. “I would have them ground down to stumps if I did it every time you are late, Hannah. I am going to cultivate the virtue of patience. I am going to learn to enjoy waiting around. You had better not be late for our wedding, though. It is said to be bad luck.”

  And so all questions were answered without any having to be asked.

  And dinner had to wait another quarter of an hour as hugs and kisses and back slaps and handshakes were exchanged and Hannah declared that it was all very lowering but she had agreed to be demoted all the way down from duchess to countess.

  “Though plain Mrs. Constantine Huxtable would have suited me admirably too,” she added with another of her radiant smiles.

  And her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, and she bit her lower lip, and Constantine set one arm about her shoulders—and Cassandra suggested that they proceed to the dining room before her cook resigned on the spot.

  THEY HAD ARGUED since yesterday about where they would marry. Though argued was perhaps not quite the right word since both were fully intent upon being unselfish in the matter.

  Constantine thought they should marry at Copeland as it was Hannah’s home and she clearly loved it. A bride ought to marry from her own home.

  He was wise enough not to mention Markle.

  Hannah thought they should marry at Ainsley as it was Constantine’s home and he clearly loved it. Besides, it seemed fitting that the new Earl of Ainsley should marry at Ainsley Park.

  They agreed that St. George’s was the best and most convenient compromise. It was on Hanover Square, a mere stone’s throw from Dunbarton House. The bride could walk there. The whole ton could be expected to attend. Perhaps even the king would come. It was the fashionable place to marry.

  Neither of them wanted to marry there, though neither was willing to admit it to the other.

  It was going to have to be Copeland.

  Or Ainsley.

  Or perhaps St. George’s.

  “Tell us about your nuptials, Your Grace,” Miss Winsmore said as soon as they were all seated about the dinner table at Merton House. “When and where are they to be?”

  “As soon as possible to answer your first question,” Hannah said. “We still have not decided the answer to your second.”

  She drew breath to give her vote for Ainsley Park, expecting that Constantine’s family would back her up, but the Earl of Merton spoke first.

  “But you must marry at Warren Hall, Con,” he said. “It is still and always your home. It is where you were born, where you grew up. The private chapel has always been used for family weddings and christenings and … burials,” he added more softly.

  “Oh, that would be so lovely,” Cassandra said as footmen served the first course. “But Hannah may have other ideas, Stephen. It is her wedding as well as Con’s.”

  But she gazed at Hannah with wistful eyes.

  “Elliott and I married there,” Vanessa said, “as did Cassandra and Stephen last year. It is the loveliest place for a wedding. The chapel is in a quiet corner of the park, among the trees, and it is full to overflowing with just a few guests. There is a wonderful sense of history there too with the churchyard surrounding the chapel. Family history.”

  It must be where Jonathan was buried, Hannah thought. And suddenly she knew that that was where they must marry. She felt a sense of rightness about it even before she looked across the table at Constantine and noted the intense, drawn look on his face.

  “It is good of you to be willing to lend us the chapel, Stephen,” he said. “But I think Hannah must be allowed to—”

  “Choose for herself?” she said, interrupting him. “I will, then. Thank you. I will choose.”

  She knew that his smile came at a great cost.

  “I choose Warren Hall,” she said, her eyes on his.

  And she felt almost as though she were falling into them as his smile faded.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “I am absolutely sure,” she told him, and she was. “Warren Hall it will be. Thank you, Lord Merton. You are very kind.”

  “I think I had better be Stephen,” he said, “if you are going to marry Con. I think we had better all be on a first-name basis.”

  And suddenly everyone was talking at once, and the dinner was being consumed with great appetite. Margaret, Vanessa, and Katherine had the grand ballroom at Warren Hall and the private chapel decorated for the wedding festivities before the main course was removed, and Cassandra had the menu for the wedding breakfast drawn up before dessert was served.

  “You might as well relax and let things happen, Con,” Elliott advised. “You have done your job. You have offered Hannah marriage and been accepted. The rest is in the hands of the ladies.”

  For a day or two before her wedding, Hannah was informed, she would stay at Finchley Park, one of the Duke of Moreland’s estates adjoining Warren Hall, the place where he had grown up. So would several other people, including Vanessa and Elliott and their children and Elliott’s mother and sisters and any personal guests Hannah chose to invite. But she must not worry, Vanessa assured her. There was a
picturesque and secluded dower house by the lake at Finchley, where she and Elliott had spent their honeymoon. It was where Hannah and Constantine must spend theirs. And if there were a more romantic setting in which to begin a marriage, Vanessa did not know where it might be.

  “Do you remember the daffodils?” she asked Elliott.

  And the rather austere Duke of Moreland was observed to wink back at her.

  Hannah caught Constantine’s eye across the table, and they exchanged a smile that might well have been imperceptible to anyone else. He had warned her on the way here that his female cousins on his father’s side were a formidable trio, and that Cassandra was proving to be a worthy addition to their number. If Hannah was not careful, he had told her, her wedding would be taken right out of her hands and caught up in their very capable ones.

  And that was before he had known the wedding would be in their domain—at Warren Hall.

  “Oh, dear,” Katherine said suddenly, and the tone of her voice caused a general hush about the table. “We are at it again. We grew up in a small country village, Hannah, as children of the vicar. There were always things to be done and things to be organized. And we were the ones who tended to step forward to do them and organize them. Unless someone does it, you know, nothing gets done at all and country life becomes unutterably dull. But though we have left that life behind, we have never got out of the habit of organizing.”

  “We have not indeed,” Margaret said with a sigh. “You have never been known as a helpless, indecisive lady, Hannah. I daresay you have been sitting there laughing at us. You probably have your wedding all planned without any help from us.”

  All eyes were on her, Hannah was aware, the ladies’ rather wistful, the gentlemen’s more amused.

  “I am not laughing,” she said. “Quite the opposite.” And, sure enough, she had to blink away tears. “And I have never planned a wedding—or had one planned for me. I agreed yesterday to marry Constantine, but I can see today that I will be marrying into his family too, and I am happier about that than I can possibly say.”

  The duke had told her that when she found love she would find the community of belonging that went with it.