He’d adjourned the matter of Lady Roxdale until he’d had time to consider further. Given the way Frederick had left his fortune, it was clear that not just any candidate would do.
“Lady Arden was conspicuous by her absence today,” commented deVere.
“Yes.” Montford sipped his brandy. “One would assume she’d be eager to put Constantine Black’s case, wouldn’t one?”
With a brooding glare, deVere tossed off the rest of his brandy and slammed the glass down on the table. “Damn it, she’s making fools of us all! What would you wager she’s not down there interfering? Meddling and matchmaking, trying to get the drop on the rest of us.”
When Montford didn’t reply, deVere scoffed, “You wouldn’t wager a groat. She’s at Lazenby Hall this very minute, and you know it.”
Mildly, Montford replied, “There is no reason Lady Arden cannot visit Constantine Black if she chooses. If she contravenes the rules, she will be disciplined.”
“I’d like to discipline her,” said deVere, his eyes kindling. “Damned fine figure of a woman. Pity she’s such a termagant.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You have an interest there?”
Montford suppressed the urge to lie. “No.”
Not at present. When this particular business is over, then perhaps …
But it was never over, was it? And in the end, he was simply making excuses.
“Hmph. You’re a wily cove, Montford. I don’t trust you, but at least with you, I know where I stand. Or don’t, as the case may be.” With a slightly owlish cast to his eyes, deVere raised his glass as if in a toast. “More than that, I cannot say about any man I know.”
The convoluted logic of this statement very nearly eluded Montford, but he believed it was meant as a compliment and he took it as such. A rare gift from deVere.
The big man rose. “Think I’ll travel down to Gloucestershire to stay with my nephew for a few days. Give him a nudge along. Do some meddling on my own account.”
He drew out his quizzing glass and swung it to and fro. “About that other girl of yours. The beauty. Rose … Rosemary … Rosamund, that’s it. Ready to set a date yet? Only, my boy’s champing at the bit, d’ye see?”
With a slight, incredulous smile, Montford rose also. He doubted that the Earl of Tregarth champed at the bit to be leg-shackled to Rosamund. He’d made no attempt to pursue his interest with her since they were formally betrothed. More likely, it was Lord deVere himself who was impatient to see the alliance between his kinsman and a Westruther heiress signed, sealed, and delivered.
He clapped his companion on the shoulder. “Patience, Oliver. At present, the issue is a trifle … fraught. You would not wish to trammel the lady’s delicate sensibilities. Let us speak of it again in the new year.”
As they parted on the stairs, Montford considered Lady Rosamund Westruther. How much simpler it would be if young people could see their little infatuations and flirtations through the wiser eyes of their elders. As a man of considerable experience, Montford knew the concept of enduring romantic love was a fable.
Infatuation, desire, passion—all of them existed, of course. But a deep, lasting passionate love between a man and a woman—in that, he did not believe. Affection, liking, respect, yes. But from what he’d seen, those things most often sprang from marriages where the parties did not consider themselves in love in the first place.
He’d observed so-called love matches. Time and again, the parties to them turned bitter or bored or elsewhere for affection once the flame of infatuation had burned out.
Some called him cynical, mercenary, power-hungry at the expense of his young relatives’ happiness. He shrugged that off, for he knew the truth: the most contented marriages were based on strategic alliances, not on love.
He would not give Rosamund his blessing to run off with her dashing cavalry officer. Nor would he allow Jane to hide herself away at Harcourt, where, despite her wealth, she would dwindle into some form of appendage or other: companion, chaperone, honorary aunt. She needed a family and a home of her own.
Jane would thank him one day for what she’d call his cold-blooded interference.
In spite of himself, he was counting on that.
* * *
Jane rambled through the wilderness on the other side of the lake. She’d told herself she’d come out here to enjoy the rare fine weather, but in her heart, she knew the real reason. She was avoiding Constantine Black.
She didn’t know what to do. If she jilted Constantine, she’d do it at the expense of the Lazenby estate and she might lose Luke in the bargain. But if she went ahead with the wedding, she’d be obliged to tell him the truth about herself. Either that, or risk his anger when he discovered it.
A heavy step on the path nearby made her freeze. “Jane?”
Constantine’s voice. Had he seen her come this way?
Screened by shrubbery, she ducked low to avoid being seen. Without considering what she did, Jane turned and plunged farther into the wilderness.
Like everything else that comprised the Lazenby landscape, this garden had been carefully constructed to present an artless, tangled appearance. Even its waterfall was man-made, cleverly making use of local, rough-hewn stone, natural springs, and gravity to create an artless effect.
In the center of this cultivated overgrowth was a grotto, a picturesque ruin that seemed to grow out of the hillside.
Jane stole inside the grotto to hide. Gasping for breath, she pressed her palm to the cold, hard wall and leaned on it. With the other hand, she tugged the ribbons of her straw bonnet loose and ripped it from her head, then pressed her forehead to the coolness of the grotto wall.
“What’s the matter?” Constantine’s voice, coming from behind her, sent a shock down her spine. “Jane, why are you avoiding me?”
Oh, God. What a ninny she must seem to him. Moments passed before she shook her head. “I’m not avoiding you.”
“But you are.” He took her hand and gently turned her so she faced him. The warm intensity was back in those green eyes. How could she resist him when he looked at her like that?
“Jane,” he murmured, “you are going to be my wife.”
Her gaze fluttered downward. Her heart gave a sharp pound. Of course he wanted her to … to respond to him physically. It was only reasonable. She’d accepted his hand in marriage, after all.
Could she grow to love Constantine, regardless of his past? She rather feared the answer to that question was yes. She liked, even esteemed, the man Constantine Black had become. Should a mistake he’d made in his salad days be held against him for the rest of his life? Foolish, perhaps, but she had a strong feeling that if only he’d explain his side of the story, her fears on that head would be allayed.
The more pressing question was whether she ought to give him the truth about herself. Surely, in other circumstances, she’d think herself bound to mention it. With Constantine, she simply didn’t know. Would it make a difference to him, anyway? He needed her money.
And she needed Luke.
His fingertips under her chin coaxed her to look up.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t realize our kiss that night in the kitchen would distress you so.”
“It wasn’t the kiss,” she said. “The kiss was lovely, but I…” She trailed off, powerless to form coherent sentences when he looked at her like that. His closeness deranged what few wits she had left.
“How glad I am to hear you say that,” he said. “Will you tell me what has upset you, then? Come here.”
The concern in his gaze made her insides soften and heat. She made no protest when he drew her into his arms and closed them around her.
In spite of her doubts, she felt safe and warm in his arms. Constantine’s embrace was unlike any she’d received from a man. Comforting and strong … and thoroughly arousing.
The thought startled her. She gripped the lapel of his coat and turned her face into his chest. Through layers of linen and broadcloth, she heard his
heart beating a steady rhythm. She smelled him, a delightful mix of masculine scents, linen starch, and something faintly astringent, like lemon.
His palm skimmed over her shoulder and down her arm. He found her hand and clasped it in his. “What troubles you so?” he murmured.
She shuddered and shook her head. “It’s too complicated.”
“I have all day to listen. And all night, too, if you will it.” He waited but she couldn’t trust herself to speak.
He sighed. “You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to. Look at me, Jane.”
Taking a deep breath, she raised her face, with the certain knowledge that when she did, he’d kiss her. Everything inside her yearned for that kiss, aye, and feared it, too.
She thought back to the last time, when they’d shared that stirring, breathtaking embrace in the kitchen. Perhaps … perhaps with him it might be different. Maybe she would not need to tell him her difficulties at all.
“Jane.” His voice was a husky whisper. His fingers threaded between hers in a more intimate clasp.
In the dim light, his eyes glittered. He raised a hand to cup her cheek and she marveled that a man so magnificent could look at her as if she were precious and rare. She was so ordinary. Plain Jane. Yet, this beautiful man made her feel beautiful, too.
This was it. This moment. She should tell him the truth.
But his face swam in her vision, and his lips met hers in a kiss that was light yet burning hot. With a soft moan, she returned the pressure of his lips. Truth slid from her grasp. Every rational thought flew away.
Her fingers flexed between his and he tightened his grip. Her mouth opened to him and he swiftly accepted that mute invitation, tangling his tongue with hers.
He broke the kiss to skim his lips down, past her ear, to her throat. Fiery tingles chased through her body. She gasped. He was breathing heavily; they both were.
“I want you,” he murmured against her skin. “I’ve never wanted a woman more.”
She didn’t believe it, but that didn’t signify at this moment. She’d never wanted a man more than she wanted him, and that was what mattered now.
His fingers slid beneath her fichu, a filmy white scarf she’d tucked into the bodice of her gown. Slowly, he drew it out, and the soft linen slid from her neck with a shushing sound, baring her décolletage to the cool air.
She shivered. “Oh, what are you doing to me?” This must be a rake’s arts; Frederick had never done anything remotely like this.
Constantine trailed his fingertips over her bare flesh, making her shudder again. Uncharacteristically solemn, he said, “I am kissing you.
“Here…” He bent his head to brush her collarbone with his mouth. “Here…” He kissed the top of one breast. “And here.” His lips pressed the swell of her other breast.
“So beautiful,” he murmured. “I need to taste you.”
Barely able to draw breath, she watched his dark head as he bent to her again. Her breasts were pushed together by her corset. He licked into the crease between them.
The sensation was hot and wet and leisurely. Sinful. Her knees nearly buckled, but his strong arm came around her waist, supporting her. His other hand pressed against her stomach, then skimmed upward, to cup beneath her breast.
The heat of him, the forbidden decadence of his touch, nearly overwhelmed her. But there was something more she wanted. Her nipples were hard and aching beneath the layers of gown and shift and corset. She wanted … oh, she wanted …
His hand moved upward, and the instant his fingertips touched her nipple, her body flamed with pleasure. He kneaded and stroked and she couldn’t stop the shudders that took her.
“Yes, that’s it, that’s it,” he murmured against her shoulder, kissing it softly. “Let go, Jane. Let go.”
But it wasn’t enough. All those layers of clothing … She’d never felt this hunger before. She’d never wanted so much to have a man’s hands on her skin.
Through the haze of frantic delight, she registered Constantine’s hand gathering her gown, his palm skating up, past her garter, past her bare thigh.
Instinct made her panic, begin to pull away, but he said, “Jane, let me touch you. Please.”
She couldn’t respond to that, but she held still while his clever fingers brushed over her inner thigh. She gasped. A great throb set up between her legs and she realized with dismay that she’d grown moist there.
She clamped her legs together. “No, I—I can’t.”
Denied its destination, his hand moved to her flank, then to shape one cheek of her bottom, caressing languidly. “Open your legs for me, sweetheart.” He breathed the words against her neck. “I want to touch all that lovely soft heat.”
The words would have melted her if she hadn’t been suffused with shame. Frantic now, she pushed at him, struck at his chest. “No! Don’t!”
He froze. Then his embrace abruptly fell away, casting her off balance. She stumbled past him and ran out of the grotto. She had no destination in mind, just the need to get away.
“Jane! Come back. Jane!”
Before she reached the path, he’d caught up with her, his hand gripping her elbow. “What happened back there?” he demanded.
She halted. She owed him an explanation. She knew it. She ought not to blow hot and cold on him like this. Besides, she’d accepted his proposal of marriage. He had a right to know the truth about her.
“Why, Jane?” His voice was husky. “Do you find me so repugnant?”
Her courage faltered a little at that. “That’s not it at all. I find you … quite the reverse of repugnant.”
“Quite. Well, that’s something, I suppose,” he said in a flat tone.
She stared stonily above his head at the tree behind him while she spoke. “I fear it is only fair to tell you … It will seem to you as if I have been dishonest. I thought perhaps I could, but I can’t.”
She took her underlip between her teeth and looked upward, blinking hard to hold the tears at bay. “Constantine, I cannot be a proper wife to you. I—it is not you; it is the conjugal act that is repugnant to me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
This was indeed a shock. Constantine stood silent a moment, taking it in.
“Oh? What do you find particularly objectionable about it?” he asked conversationally.
What on earth had that dunderhead cousin of his done to the poor girl?
Then he blocked that image, because thinking about Jane in Frederick’s bed was not conducive to keeping a clear head.
Perhaps reassured by his unemotional reaction, she said more calmly, “It is painful for me. The doctor said I am not made the right way. My shape … it is impossible for me to have relations of an intimate nature without pain.”
He frowned. “The doctor said this?” He had no great opinion of doctors, as a breed. At best, they knew their limitations. At worst, they killed more patients than they cured.
She nodded, blinking hard. Poor darling; she was trying desperately not to weep.
He didn’t know what made him do it. “That is a very serious problem, of course.”
Her brow puckered. “I know. I shall never give you an heir, so you see—”
“But it so happens,” he interrupted, “that you have come to the right place.”
She stared at him then, openmouthed with astonishment.
He waved a hand. “Yes. You see, I am something of an expert on the subject…”
Her eyes narrowed.
Grinning, he ignored her forbidding expression. “… and I cannot believe that what that idiot of a doctor said was true.”
“Not true? But every time we…” She faltered, scarlet painting her cheeks. “Oh, this is ridiculous! I might have guessed you’d turn this into a joke. I can’t believe I’m even discussing it with you.”
At that, he crossed the space between them and took her hand in his. “It is not a jest. I pledge you my word it is not a jest.” He cupped her jaw in his hand. “Ah, Jane, I c
an give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams, if only you’ll let me.”
Her breathing altered. Her eyelashes fluttered down. “But what if you can’t?” she said sadly. “After we’re married, it would be too late for you to turn back.”
After they were married … “Why not before?”
The more he considered it, the more it made sense to him. “Yes, why not before we get married? We cannot wed until we obtain Montford’s blessing. What if we do our best to, er, get you accustomed to the idea in the meantime? If you still find the notion abhorrent, you can cry off.”
His mouth took on a cynical twist. “Everyone will say you’re well rid of me, so you don’t need to fear damage to your reputation over that.”
She gazed at him in wonder. “You would agree to such a thing?”
“Sweet Jane.” He laughed a little. “Believe me, I’d be getting the better end of the bargain.”
Of course, he didn’t consider himself so damned irresistible that a woman with serious problems would be miraculously cured by his attentions. But he’d never heard of a woman who simply wasn’t made for bed sport.
Jane had been given a rotten time of it by that oaf Frederick, no doubt, and he’d made matters worse by heaping blame on her head instead of accepting it himself.
How long had she and Frederick been married?
“You poor love,” he said softly. “What agonies you must have suffered through.”
He drew her into his arms and kissed her gently. Feeling her tense with apprehension, he said, “No, I’m not going to begin now. But if you have any pity in you at all, princess, don’t keep me in suspense any longer. Will you, Jane, do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Yes, Constantine. I will.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him, very grave. “I shall be your betrothed, at any rate.”
Again, that ache in his chest. He released her and took her hand, placing it on his arm as they turned back toward the house.
He spoke carefully. “In a perfect world, you would preserve the correct period of mourning for Frederick before we became engaged. However, I believe we must announce our betrothal soon, so that settlements may be agreed upon and the debt on the mill repaid.”
Heiress in Love (Ministry of Marriage Novels) Page 18
