by Mary Balogh
She stopped herself from saying more. He doubtless would not understand. Or he would think her a bleeding heart. And maybe that was all she was. Why had she felt the need to share even as much as she had with him? He thought her frivolous and rich and spoiled, just as everyone else did. He thought her a gold digger, a woman who would use her beauty to enrich herself.
Which, in a sense, she was.
But that was not the whole story.
She had never before felt the slightest need to justify her existence to anyone. Not for the past eleven years, anyway. She was secure in herself. She rather liked herself. The duke had liked her too. She did not care the snap of two fingers what anyone else thought of her. Indeed, she had always rather enjoyed leading the whole ton down the garden path, so to speak.
Was Constantine different because he was her lover?
She had expected only an intimacy of bodies.
She wanted no more.
But she had brought these particular rings deliberately tonight. She had wanted him to know.
He had called her vain and had all but called her greedy.
Did she care what he thought? How bothersome that she did.
Was this spring fling to prove less purely enjoyable than she had planned?
He got to his feet and came about the table. He held out a hand for hers.
“We did not come here, Duchess,” he said, “to talk about either philanthropy or consciences.”
“I thought,” she said, getting to her feet, “you would never remember, Constantine.”
And she was being kissed very thoroughly indeed, her body pressed to his from face to knees. She twined her arms about his neck and became a full participant.
Ah, he had such a firm, masculine, young body.
And she did not regret a thing. This was what, for this spring anyway, she craved more than anything else in life. There was so much time to make up for, so many pleasures she had never yet experienced.
He lifted his head and looked down at her, and she noticed again how dark his eyes were and could only guess at how much they hid of who he was. She did not need to know. And yet she had always wanted to know. He was not, alas, just a male body to be used for her pleasure. She wished he were. Life would be so much simpler.
And so much less worth living.
She drew one hand forward and set her forefinger along the length of his nose.
“How did this happen?” she asked.
“The broken nose?” he said. “A fight.”
“Constantine,” she said, “don’t be tiresome. Don’t make me ask.”
“With Moreland,” he said, “though he was not Moreland then. With my cousin. Elliott. We were just boys.”
“And you got the worse of it?” she said.
“He looked like a masked highwayman for a whole month,” he said. “Unfortunately, black eyes do not have to be set skillfully in order to heal. Broken noses do, and mine was not set skillfully at all. The physician was a dashed country quack.”
“You look the more handsome for it,” she said. “Perhaps the quack knew very well what he was doing for you. What was the fight about?”
“Lord knows,” he said. “We had a few very satisfactory bouts of fisticuffs when we were growing up. That was one of the best.”
“Does that mean,” she said, “that you were always enemies? Or that you were friends?”
“We lived only a few miles apart,” he said, “and we were close enough in age. Elliott was—is—three years older than I. We were the best of friends, except when we fought.”
“But then you quarreled,” she said, “and did not make up.”
“Something like that,” he said.
“What happened?” she asked him.
“He was a pompous ass,” he said, “and I was a stubborn mule. And I probably ought not to use the past tense. He still is a pompous ass.”
“And you are still a stubborn mule?”
“He would call me worse,” he said.
“Ought you not to talk to each other?” She frowned at him.
“No,” he said firmly. “I ought not to talk at all, Duchess. Neither ought you. We should be in bed by now, deeply engrossed in pleasure.”
“Ah,” she said, “but as we are, we can still enjoy all the pleasure of anticipation, Constantine.”
“To the devil with anticipation,” he said, and he reached down, scooped her up into his arms, and strode from the room with her.
“A masterful man,” she said approvingly, twining her arms about his neck again. “Doubtless if I resisted, you would drag me upstairs by my hair.”
“A studded club waving from my free hand,” he agreed. “Do you wish to resist?”
“Not at all,” she said. “Is it possible for you to move faster? Take the stairs two at a time, perhaps?”
And, ah, at last she startled a laugh out of him.
“You will be fortunate indeed, Duchess,” he said, “if I have any energy left by the time we reach my bedchamber.”
“Then save your breath, you foolish man,” she said.
He appeared not to be lacking in either energy or breath, though, when he finally set her down inside his bedchamber.
Hannah moved against him and wrapped her arms about him and sighed with contentment—and desire and an anticipation that had her blood pumping almost audibly through her body.
“If you wish,” she said, “you can continue masterful, Constantine, and toss me on the bed and have your wicked way with me. Or if you do not wish, for that matter.”
He picked her up again and tossed her.
Quite literally. She bounced three inches into the air before sinking into the mattress.
Oh, she had very definitely chosen the right man.
He proceeded to have his wicked way without stopping to unclothe either one of them first, except in strategic places.
It was, Hannah thought when it was over, worth sacrificing her royal blue evening gown for, even if it was one of her favorites. It must be creased beyond redemption.
And she was committed to her spring affair beyond redemption too.
“Mmm,” she grumbled when he moved off her and rearranged them so that her head was on his arm and her body was curled against his—the bedcovers had somehow materialized around them.
And she promptly fell asleep.
Chapter 8
HANNAH WAS SEATED on the window seat in her private sitting room at Dunbarton House, her legs drawn up before her. It was one of her favorite poses when she was not on public display, but she was reminded of that first night at Constantine’s the week before. This seat was wider, though, and padded with comfortable cushions, and it was daylight and the window looked out on a long green lawn and colorful flower beds rather than on the street. It was a lovely day. Yet here they were, indoors.
“You are quite sure you do not want to go out, Babs?” she asked, turning her head to look at her friend. Typically, while she sat idle, Barbara was sitting very straight-backed on her chair, working diligently at an intricate piece of embroidery. “I feel guilty for keeping you inside.”
“I am quite happy,” Barbara said. “There has been nothing but a whirlwind of activity since I arrived here, Hannah, and I am feeling almost overwhelmed by it all. It is pleasant to have a quiet day.”
“But there is the Kitteridge ball tonight,” Hannah reminded her. “Are you sure you are up for it?”
“Of course,” Barbara said. “If I do not go, then you cannot, Hannah.”
“Because I will be unchaperoned?” Hannah asked with a smile.
“Even you would not be brazen enough to attend a ball alone,” her friend said, looking up.
“I could dash off a letter to Lord Hardingraye or Mr. Minter or any of a dozen others, and I would have a willing escort in no time at all,” Hannah said.
“Not Mr. Huxtable?” Barbara raised her eyebrows.
“After our appearance together last evening at the theater,” Hannah said, “even
though you and the Parks and Mrs. Park’s brother and Lord and Lady Montford were there with us, I do not doubt that drawing room conversations throughout London this afternoon have firmly established us as lovers. Nevertheless, there is still the game called propriety to be played, Babs. Mr. Huxtable will not be my escort tonight even if no one else will be and I am doomed to remain at home.”
“Oh, I shall come,” Barbara said, picking up her work again. “There is no need to write to any gentleman.”
“Only if you are sure,” Hannah told her. “You are not my paid companion, Babs. You are my friend. And if you would like an evening at home, then so should I.”
“I must confess,” Barbara said, “that having attended one ton ball with you, Hannah, I am quite eager to attend another. Am I becoming quite … decadent, do you think?”
Hannah smiled at the top of her head.
“You have a long, long way to go before you can legitimately apply that epithet to yourself,” she said. “Unlike me.”
The sunshine beaming through the window was making her feel drowsy. She had woken up at five this morning and had roused Constantine to bring her home, but it had been well after six before they had actually left. She had been quite right about the danger of actually sleeping with a man, especially a man who had somehow got up during the night without waking her and removed all his clothes. They had both been warm and sleepy and amorous, and they had already been tangled together. A whole hour had passed very pleasantly indeed before they got out of bed.
“Was it very difficult,” Barbara asked after a few minutes of silence, her head bent over her work, “to change from who you were to who you are, Hannah? After you married, I mean.”
Hannah did not answer immediately. Barbara had never asked such a question before.
“Not at all,” she said eventually. “I had a very good mentor. The best, in fact. And I did not at all like who I was. I liked who I became. I like who I have become. The duke taught me to grow up, to value myself as I was created to be. And he taught me how to be a duchess, his gift to me. He taught me to be independent and self-reliant. He taught me to need no one.”
That last point was not strictly true. She had not realized quite how much she needed him until he was gone. And he had never told her that she needed no one. Quite the contrary, in fact. He had always told her that she needed love and the precious cluster of persons that would surround that love when she found it—her little community of belonging, he had called it. He had assured her that she would find it one day. He had taught her in the meantime not to be needy, but to rely upon her own inner strength to resist grabbing at any pale substitute for love.
Like sex, she thought now, closing her eyes briefly. It was far more intoxicating than she had expected it to be. It would be very easy to come to rely upon it, to live for the hours at Constantine’s house when all her needs could be satisfied.
But not all. She must never forget that. She must never make the mistake of believing that the needs Constantine satisfied in her were the fundamental needs of her being.
They had nothing to do with love. He had nothing to do with love.
“I liked you, Hannah,” Barbara said. “Indeed, I loved you dearly. I often remember how wonderful it was to have you always close, just a brisk walk away across fields and meadows. And I often wish you were still there.”
“I would soon find myself abandoned if I were,” Hannah said. “You will be marrying your vicar soon.”
“He is not exclusively my vicar,” her friend said with a smile for her embroidery, “though he is exclusively my Simon. I love him dearly, you know. He is bookish and intelligent and quite incapable of holding a frivolous conversation, though he does try, the poor dear. He wears eyeglasses and is losing his hair a little at the forehead and temples even though he has not quite reached his middle thirties yet. He is perhaps an inch shorter than I am, though when he is wearing riding boots we are of a height with each other. And he has the kindest smile in the world—everyone says so. But he has a special smile just for me. It pierces right through to my heart.”
Her needle was suspended above her work. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her eyes shining as they gazed at her embroidery and saw a man who was physically far away.
Hannah felt a twinge of envy.
“I am very happy for you, Babs,” she said. “I know you thought you were doomed to spinsterhood even though you had several quite eligible offers over the years. But you waited and found love.”
“Hannah,” her friend asked, her needle still in the air above her work, “do you ever wish you had waited?”
The flush deepened in her cheeks, and she lowered her needle again.
“No,” Hannah said softly. “No, never for a single moment.”
“But—” Barbara set the cloth down on her knee before she had worked even one more stitch. “But you were in no fit state to make such a momentous decision at that particular time. You were so terribly upset. Justifiably so.”
“I had a guardian angel,” Hannah said, “and his name was the Duke of Dunbarton. I told him that once. I thought he would choke on his port.”
“But Hannah,” Barbara said, “he was so old. Oh, I do beg your pardon.”
“He was only fifty-four years older than I was,” Hannah said with a half-smile. “Only old enough to be my grandfather. Indeed, he once presented me with numbers that proved I could quite reasonably have been his great-granddaughter. You might as well give up, Babs. I will never admit that I married him in haste and regretted it ever after. I married in extreme haste and never regretted it for a moment. Why should I have? I was pampered and rich, and I was elevated into this world.” She gestured at the room around them with one arm. “And now I am free.”
She turned her head rather sharply to look out through the window.
Tears? Tears?
“Hannah,” Barbara said, “you ought to come back home. You ought—”
“I am home,” Hannah said, interrupting.
Her friend gazed at her with unhappy eyes.
“Come for my wedding,” she said. “You can stay with Mama and Papa. The cottage will be nowhere near up to your usual standards, but I know they would love to have you. And it would make my wedding day complete if my dearest friend was there. I know that Simon wishes to meet you. Oh, please come.”
“He will not wish it when he knows what I have become,” Hannah said. “And I would be dealing deceitfully with the Reverend and Mrs. Leavensworth if I were to stay beneath their roof as I am. Theirs is a different world from the one I inhabit, Babs. Yours is a different world. A more innocent, more moral world.”
“Come anyway,” Barbara said. “They will love you for yourself, as I do. I am straitlaced and puritanical, Hannah. I am still a spinster who has grown up very close to the church. If you were to shake me, I daresay I would become invisible within a cloud of old dust. I hate what you have done to yourself in the past week or so because I do not believe you are happy. And I believe you will only grow unhappier as your liaison with Mr. Huxtable progresses. You think you want pleasure, when what you really want is love. But I digress, and I promised myself that I would never scold you or reproach you. Come to my wedding anyway. Is it not time to come back? It has been more than ten years.”
“That is entirely the point,” Hannah said. “I am living in a different lifetime now, Babs, and in a different universe. The old ones no longer exist for me. I do not want them to exist.”
“What does that make me?” her friend asked. “A ghost?”
“Oh, Babs,” Hannah said, and she had to turn her head away again to hide the tears welling in her eyes, “don’t ever abandon me.”
She heard a rustling behind her, and then she was being enfolded in a tight hug. They clung wordlessly to each other for a while, Hannah feeling very foolish indeed. And, strangely, almost as griefstricken as she had felt on the day the duke died.
“Silly goose,” Barbara said in a voice that was not quite s
teady. “Why would I drop your friendship when you are so rich? And when you take me to ton balls and insist upon buying me a perfectly frivolous bonnet every time I wangle an invitation to London from you?”
Hannah swung her legs over the side of the window seat and brushed her hands over the muslin skirt of her dress.
“It was a particularly splendid bonnet, was it not?” she said. “If you had not allowed me to buy it for you yesterday, Babs, I would have bought it for myself, and where would I have put it? I already have a whole dressing room and the guest room adjoining it positively bursting at the seams with clothes—or so rumor has it, and everyone knows how reliable rumor is.”
“I have the guest room adjoining your dressing room,” Barbara said, straightening up and turning to fold her embroidery.
“You are greatly to be pitied,” Hannah said. “It must be extremely difficult, Babs, to get through the door, even if you walk sideways.”
Barbara laughed.
“Will you come to my wedding?” she asked softly.
Hannah sighed inaudibly. She had hoped that matter had been dropped.
“I cannot, Babs,” she said. “I will not go back. But perhaps you and your vicar would like to come and spend at least a part of your honeymoon with me in Kent.”
A maid came into the room at that point, bringing their tea, and the conversation moved on to other topics.
She was not unhappy, Hannah thought. Barbara was quite, quite wrong about that. And she was not going to become unhappier. How could she when she was not unhappy to start with?
She could hardly wait for tonight, after the ball was over. The need she felt might be a superficial one, but it was very powerful nonetheless.
She did not believe she would ever tire of Constantine’s lovemaking. She would have to, of course, by the time the Season ended. But that was long in the future. She did not have to even start thinking about it yet.
She got up to pour the tea.
***
A NOTE WAS DELIVERED to Constantine’s house early in the afternoon from Cassandra, Countess of Merton, Stephen’s wife, inviting him to dine at Merton House before the Kitteridge ball. He had no other engagement and was pleased to send back an acceptance.
