by Mary Balogh
His female cousins and Cassandra were actually calling her Hannah, he had noticed during the day.
“You must not expect to hear any argument from me,” she said now. “But having made such a boast, Constantine, you must live up to expectations. I insist upon it.”
“I’ll be going down to Ainsley the next morning,” he said. “I must go. Everything is probably settled happily by now, but I must go in person to smooth things over with Kincaid and the other neighbors. And to thank Wexford for handling the matter on my behalf. And to assure Jess that I am certainly not disappointed in him. I may not see you for a week or more.”
“That will be tiresome,” she said. “But I daresay I shall survive, you know. And I daresay you will too. You must go.”
Suddenly the end of the Season seemed not very far off at all. Indeed, if it were not for his affair with the duchess, he would probably decide that it was not worth coming back to London this year. But he could not contemplate putting an end to their affair quite yet. And perhaps …
Well, he would think of that some other time.
She had told him this morning that she loved him. What exactly had she meant by that? It was not a question he could ask aloud, though he would dearly like to know the answer.
“In the meantime …” He slid his arm from beneath her head, raised himself onto one elbow, and looked down at her. “Tomorrow night seems a long way away.”
He bent his head and kissed her—a lazy exploration, first with his lips, then with his tongue deep inside her mouth.
“It does,” she agreed with a sigh when he raised his head again.
He rubbed his nose back and forth across hers.
“I will respect your wishes, Duchess,” he said, “even though your guests probably have their own idea of what is going on between us out here. Let me love you without dishonoring those wishes.”
“How?” She reached up one hand and set her forefinger along his slightly crooked nose.
“No penetration,” he said. “I promise.”
“And so respectability will be preserved,” she said. “Everything but penetration, and our guests believing the worst. It is the story of my life.”
He rose up onto his knees and straddled her body. He slid her gown off her shoulders and beneath her breasts and smoothed his hands over her, fondled her, rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, lowered his head to suckle them one at a time, and kissed her mouth again, his fingers tangling in her hair, his tongue sucked deep and then luring hers into his mouth to be suckled in its turn.
Her hands pressed over his back, under his shirt, down inside his drawers.
She was hot with passion.
He was throbbing with need.
Not a good idea after all. And what the devil difference would it make if he entered her and rode to completion with her? It was what they both wanted. It was what they had both lived without for far too many days and nights.
He moved to one side of her, his mouth still on hers, and slid a hand beneath her skirt, up over the smoothness of her silk stockings, along the heated flesh of her inner thighs and up …
“No.”
Surprisingly, the voice was his own.
He withdrew his hand, lowered her skirt, and raised his head.
“Damn you, Constantine,” she half shocked him by saying. “And thank you.”
And she wrapped her arms about his neck and drew his head back to her own. She kissed him softly and warmly. He could feel her heart thudding in her bosom, the heat of her arousal, the determined effort she was making to return their embrace within the bounds of decorum.
“Thank you,” she said again a minute or two later, hugging him close. “Thank you, Constantine. I am not sure I would have been able to resist. You are so gorgeous. I was perfectly right about you from the start.”
Did that mean he might have …?
He was glad he had not.
But dash it all, he deserved some sort of medal of honor.
There was probably not a person in the drawing room who did not believe he was enjoying everything there was to enjoy with her.
She had a strange—and touchingly wonderful—sense of honor.
They strolled arm in arm back to the house, and he remembered again the words she had spoken this morning—and not since. Because he had not said them back to her? Could he? Would he?
They were the most dangerous words in the English language when strung together. They were so completely irrevocable.
He would have to think about saying them.
Perhaps tomorrow night.
Or when he returned from Ainsley.
Or never.
Coward.
Or wise man.
“I will have to go up to my bedchamber before returning to the drawing room and ordering the tea tray brought up,” she said. “I probably have grass clinging to my person from head to toe. My hair surely looks like a bird’s nest. I must look thoroughly tumbled.”
“I wish you were,” he said with a loud sigh.
She laughed.
“Tomorrow night,” she said. “And the promised orgy.”
He escorted her upstairs to her room and went along to his to comb his hair and make sure that he did not look as if he had been rolling in a haystack somewhere.
***
HANNAH SHOOK OUT her dress, adjusted it at the bosom, washed her hands, and repaired her hair as well as she could without taking it all down, and peered dubiously into the mirror above her dressing table. Were her cheeks as flushed as she thought they were? And her eyes as bright?
Ignominiously, she wished he had not kept his promise outside. That way she could have enjoyed all the pleasure without assuming any of the guilt. She could even have scolded him afterward.
But really that was an ignominious way to think. She was very glad—very glad indeed—that he had kept the promise.
Oh, how she loved him!
She hurried across her dressing room and reached out a hand to open the door. Someone rapped on the other side before she could do so and opened it without waiting.
Ah, impatient man!
She smiled before two things registered on her mind. Constantine was as pale as a ghost. And he had changed during the minutes since he had left her outside the door. He was dressed for travel in a long cloak and top-boots. He held a tall hat in one hand.
“I must ask a favor of you, Duchess,” he said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “I did not bring my own carriage. I came here with Stephen and Cassandra. I must beg the loan of a horse—Jet, if I may, to get me back to London. I’ll get my own carriage there and proceed on my way.”
“To Gloucestershire?” she said. “Already? Now?”
Foolishly, all she could think of was that he did not want the promised orgy of lovemaking after all.
“There was another letter waiting in my room,” he said. “They are going to hang him.”
“Wh-a-a-t?” She gaped at him.
“For theft. As an example to other would-be thieves,” he said. “I have to go.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked him.
“Save him,” he said. “Talk sanity into someone. Good God, Hannah, I do not know what I am going to do. I have to go. May I take Jet?”
His eyes were black and wild as he raked the fingers of one hand through his hair.
“I’ll go with you,” she said.
“You most certainly will not,” he said. “A horse?”
“The carriage,” she said, and she opened the door again and swept out of the room ahead of him. “I’ll give the orders. Take my carriage and go directly to Ainsley Park. It will save you at least half a day.”
She went out to the stable and carriage house herself, as if her physical presence could hasten him on his way. Horses and carriage were readied with great speed, though it seemed agonizingly slow to Hannah, and to Constantine, who paced, like a caged animal.
She took his hands in hers agai
n when she saw that the carriage was almost ready, and the coachman was hurrying up, dressed in his livery.
But she could not think of anything to say. What did one say under such circumstances?
Have a safe journey?
I hope you get there in time?
But in time for what?
I hope you can talk them out of hanging poor Jess.
You probably will not be able to.
She drew his hands to her face and held them to her cheeks. She turned her head and kissed his palms one at a time. Her throat was sore, but she would not shed tears.
She looked up at him. He stared blankly back. She was not even sure he saw her.
“I love you,” she whispered.
His eyes focused on her.
“Hannah,” he said.
Her name again. It was almost like a declaration of love. Not that she was consciously thinking of such trivialities.
He turned and climbed into the carriage and shut the door behind him, and within moments the carriage was on its way.
Hannah raised a hand, but he did not look out.
***
HIS PRESENCE at Ainsley would achieve nothing, Hannah thought with a great sinking of the heart as she watched her carriage disappear at some speed down the straight driveway.
That poor man was going to hang for theft. And Constantine would never forgive himself for taking him in to live at Ainsley and then somehow failing to keep him safe from harm. This was something from which he would never ever recover even though, of course, it was all none of his fault.
There must be a way of saving Jess Barnes. He had taken fourteen chickens from the coop of a neighbor and then returned them and apologized. Constantine’s manager had paid the value of the chickens even though they had been returned. And for all that a man was to lose his life—as an example to others.
The judicial system was sometimes capable of asinine and terrifying madness.
An old adage leapt to her mind: “One might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.” But one could hang for either. Or for a few chickens.
Someone must be able to help. Someone with influence. Constantine, despite his lineage, was a mere commoner. There must be …
She looked toward the house and then hurried toward it, holding her skirt up out of the way, half running. And it would have been quicker, she thought as she ran up the steps beneath the pillared portico and through the front doors, to have gone around to the side and into the drawing room through the French windows.
Good heavens, it must be very late indeed. Everyone would wonder where she was, where the tea tray was. Everyone was tired.
Everyone was still in the drawing room, she saw when she hurried into it after a footman had darted ahead of her to open the doors. They all turned to look inquiringly at her. Belatedly she realized that she must look flushed and disheveled—again. A few of those who were seated got to their feet. Barbara came hurrying toward her.
“Hannah?” she said. “Is something wrong? We heard a carriage.”
She took Hannah’s hands, and Hannah squeezed them tightly. Her eyes found the Earl of Merton.
“Lord Merton,” she said. “A private word with you, please. Oh, please. And please hurry.”
It was fortunate that there was a chair directly behind her. She collapsed onto it, her hands sliding from Barbara’s as she did so. She was shaking uncontrollably. Her teeth were chattering. Her thoughts were racing about inside her head. She was, she realized in some dismay, going all to pieces.
And then the Earl of Merton was on one knee before her, and her hands were in his very steady ones.
“Your Grace,” he said, “tell me what it is. Is it Con? Has he met with some accident?”
“He has g-g-gone,” she said. She closed her eyes briefly, imposing some control over herself. “I am so sorry you have not all had tea yet. Will you order the tray, Babs, please? But may I talk to you outside, Lord Merton?” She tightened her hands about the earl’s.
No one moved.
“Hannah,” Barbara said, “tell us what has happened. We are all concerned. Did you quarrel with Mr. Huxtable? But no, it is more than that.”
The earl’s hands were still warm and steady. Hannah looked into his blue eyes.
“How may I be of service to you?” he asked her.
He did not know. None of them did. Oh, foolish Constantine, to have been so secretive all these years.
It was not her secret to divulge.
But the time for secrets had passed.
“He has gone to Ainsley Park,” she said, “his home in Gloucestershire. And home to a large number of unwed mothers and handicapped persons and reformed criminals and others rejected by society. One of the handicapped—I think he must be a little like Constantine’s brother—let the fox in with the chickens and tried to compensate for the loss so that Constantine would not be disappointed in him, by taking chickens from a neighbor to replace them. He returned the chickens and apologized, and the manager of the project paid for the chickens in addition, but even so poor Jess has been sentenced to hang.”
She gasped for breath. She was not sure she had paused for one during her explanation.
There were other gasps in the room. A few of the ladies clapped hands to their mouths and closed their eyes. Hannah was not aware of much, though, beyond the intent eyes of the Earl of Merton.
“So that is what Constantine has been doing in Gloucestershire,” Lady Sheringford half whispered.
Hannah leaned a little closer to the earl.
“He took my carriage,” she said. “He thinks he can save that poor man, but he probably will not be able to. Will you let me take your carriage? And will you escort me to London?”
“I’ll go myself to Ainsley Park if I can discover where in Gloucestershire it is,” he said. “I’ll do all in my power—”
“I thought the Duke of Moreland …” she said.
“Elliott?” He searched her eyes with his own.
“Oh,” she said, and the sound came out as a near wail. “I wish my duke were still alive. He would save Jess with one look in the right direction. But he is dead. The Duke of Moreland’s word will count for a great deal.”
“Elliott and Con have been bitter enemies since before I knew either,” he said.
“That is because Constantine was selling the Merton jewels to finance the project at his brother’s behest,” she said. “It was all his brother’s idea, though he embraced it wholeheartedly himself. But the Duke of Moreland accused him of robbing his own brother and even of debauching the poor unwed mothers in the neighborhood, and Constantine would not contradict him, partly because he feared the duke would put an end to his brother’s dream, and largely because of pride. The duke accused instead of asking.”
She watched him draw in a deep breath, hold it, and then release it slowly.
“I am not sure Elliott will be willing to help, Your Grace,” he said. “Let me—”
But Lady Sheringford was on her feet and approaching across the room.
“Of course he will help, Stephen,” she said briskly. “Of course he will. He would not have remained angry with Constantine all these years if he did not care deeply for him. And if he even hesitates, Nessie will talk him into helping. She will be easy to persuade. She always likes to think the best of people. I have suspected for years that she would forgive Constantine in a heartbeat if he would only ask her forgiveness for whatever it was he did to hurt her.”
“I must go,” Hannah said, getting to her feet and withdrawing her hands from the earl’s clasp. “Even now it may be too late.” She slapped her hands to her cheeks. “But I have a houseful of guests.”
Suddenly everything was taken out of her hands. The guests would all go, both to London and to Ainsley Park, if they followed mere inclination, someone declared—perhaps Lord Montford. But they could do nothing but get in the way. They would remain, then, and Stephen would go with her grace. Everything at Copeland ran so smoothly because of th
e duchess’s careful planning, the Countess of Sheringford said, that her presence was not strictly necessary until they all left tomorrow morning. And Miss Leavensworth had been a perfect substitute hostess at tea yesterday and would be again at breakfast tomorrow. It would be a delight to have Miss Leavensworth return to town tomorrow in their carriage, Lady Montford said. Which was an extremely generous offer, Mrs. Newcombe declared, as of course they would gladly have taken Barbara with them, but she would have been severely cramped, poor dear, in the carriage with them and the twins. Of course Hannah could leave without any worries at all, Barbara added. She must go.
And Mr. Newcombe knew just where Ainsley Park was situated. Although he had never been there, it was no farther than twenty miles from his own home. He had even heard some good things about the training school there. He had not realized that the owner and Mr. Huxtable, his fellow guest here, were one and the same. If he had, he would have enjoyed a good heart-to-heart chat with him on the subject.
Cassandra had hurried from the room. She was going to come too and had gone to prepare the nurse and the baby for an imminent departure.
“Come, Hannah,” Barbara said, quiet and efficient in her usual way. “You must change your clothes and have a bag packed. I will see to everything else.”
Lord Sheringford had gone to order up the Merton carriage.
An hour later Hannah was on the way to London. The Earl of Merton sat opposite her with Cassandra. He was holding the baby, who was fast asleep. Apparently Cassandra had fed him before leaving.
Where was Constantine now? How far had he gone?
Would he be in time?
Would it matter even if he were?
Would the Duke of Moreland go?
Would he be in time?
Would his influence be powerful enough to stop the madness of hanging a mentally handicapped man whose only crime was trying to put right a wrong that had happened because of his carelessness?
