by Hawke, Jessa
Ania shook her head wonderingly. “Who would have though Lady Connols to be the type to be carried away by passion? I rather thought that was the stuff of serials and books!” she cried. She had thought, at first, when her aunt came to visit and delivered the news, that it was just idle gossip and did not want to hear about it. Brent Connols, after all, had been so kind to her during her coming-out-ball that she had thought a union of at least friendship would have been possible between them. But as her aunt had salaciously implied, the legal proceedings had, indeed, proved that Brent Connols was not the legitimate son and inheritor of the Connols dukedom and fortune and with that piece of news, Ania’s parents had called off the engagement.
The worst bit of news, perhaps, had come earlier that morning, when Lord and Lady Cromwell had marched themselves into the very sitting room where Ania and Margaret sat now, interrupted the embroidery that was keeping Ania’s hands—and temporarily, her mind—busy, and delivered the latest news. Everyone knew, of course, of Lord Connol’s elder son, Nicholas, borne of his union with his wife before the scandal had rocked the ton, and who had, in light of the recent revelations, been named the new inheritor of the dukedom and estate.
“But what does all this mean?” Ania had asked, needle poised above her ring, temples beginning to throb. She had had a bad feeling about the upcoming news, and as it turned out, her premonitions were more than correct. Lord and Lady Cromwell had exchanged an uncomfortable look and turned to their daughter unwillingly.
“What it means, Ania,” Lady Cromwell intoned without quite meeting Ania’s green gaze, “Is that Duke Nicholas Connols is your new betrothed.”
Ania swallowed a scream at the news and found that she had somehow managed to prick herself with the needle at the most opportune moment, allowing her a small, audible gasp at the blood she drew to mask the outrage she felt at the news. The possibility of a certain kind of freedom that she had been expecting to have with Duke Brent Connols had, in just a moment’s time, slipped away, and Ania’s head swam with the news. She knew the truth, of course, and that her parents wanted to avoid any scandal associated with their name, which is why she was no longer being allowed to marry Brent, but something was still bothering her. Why Nicholas, why someone who was so closely associated with the whole sordid mess?
Never one to hide her opinions, Ania had decided to probe further. “Why have any association with the Connols’s at all?”
Lord Cromwell looked decidedly uncomfortable at that, and a bit as if he wished his daughter would sew her own lip shut with the needle she was still holding. “It seems that our estate holdings are not as up to par as we might have hoped,” he grouched, looking over at his wife, a nervous, birdlike creature from who Ania had inherited her hand-wringing.
Ania was shocked. She knew that her family had not exactly been swimming in wealth, but that everything was quite as bad as they could not even take a step away from a family whose reputation would surely sully theirs? She felt as if someone had given her a sharp blow to the stomach, even as an image of Brent Connols’s face popped up in her head. She would not admit it to anyone, not even Margaret, but she had been using his blue eyes and close-cropped blond hair as the foundation for her latest dashing male character. It was undoubtedly inappropriate to do such a thing, but then, few things about Ania’s life were appropriate, if ever they were discovered. Besides, she was engaged to the man—would it have been too much to hope that with marriage might come a certain knowledge of bedroom sports that she thought might be more enjoyable with an attractive man rather than an ugly one?
Well, that life was no more. Ania had had to bid Brent Connols a bitter goodbye. As Margaret attempted to calm her feelings of impending doom, Ania recalled the first time she had ever seen the young duke to be. It was not that she was a wallflower by any mean; she supposed the incessant people-watching was a product of her creativity, and so she found herself on the balcony of the drawing room alone during her coming-out ball. It had proved to be a most advantageous spot, given that it overlooked the terrace below, where a particularly noisy tryst had been arranged between Cornelia Vanderwilt and Bryce Amderwood; their meeting had begun with the lady’s helpless giggles and ended behind the rosemary bush that alternatively shook and resounded with the lanky gentleman’s groans. They were so loud Ania thought it was a wonder nobody else had caught on to what was going on, but then supposed that the water burbling in the nearby fountain provided an effective noise mask. She was leaning out over the balcony railing to gain a better peek at the lady’s bare leg that was beginning to inch out from behind the bush when a rather large male hand clasped itself around her waist.
“You’ll do yourself a mischief, leaning out that far,” a friendly voice calmly said behind her, and Ania stifled the scream of surprise that had been threatening to escape her lips. She turned around and found herself looking into a pair of nice blue eyes that twinkled with laughter. Brent Connols’s ears were pricked by the noisy little rosemary bush, and he looked out beyond Ania’s head—he must have stood at least two heads taller than her—and hinged on the thumping piece of flora. A smile creased his face, and Ania felt herself sag in relief; Brent Connols was not going to chastise her for spying on the young couple’s tryst.
“I’ve always wondered,” he said, quite soberly, “how people avoid getting thorns stuck in their hair once they are finished with such clandestine meetings.”
Ania found herself chuckling aloud at the thought. “Perhaps they do as the primates do,” she found herself saying aloud. “You know, picking through each other’s hair before they rejoin more polite society.”
At Brent’s laugh, Ania found herself relaxing easily into his company. They stayed together for the rest of the evening, even though Ania knew that it was quite inappropriate. Still, there was something about their exchange that made her know almost immediately that they were going to get along splendidly. When he called on her and Margaret the next day for a carriage ride, she found herself thinking how lucky she was that she had found herself somebody with who she could be friends. It was the best marriage she could ever hope for, she often thought, since who but a friend—and her sister—could ever understand her extracurricular activities, ones that did not go a long way in ensuring that she was the perfect future duchess? Expertly trained and long since an expert in hiding her imperfections and sparks of imagination behind a smooth façade, Ania hoped that if Brent was the kind of man who could laugh with her at another couple’s foibles, perhaps he was the kind of duke who would allow her some small measure of freedom to carry on as she wished.
Alas, it seemed not to be. Ania was not pleased.
“Did you truly think you two had a connection during that time, Ania?” Margaret asked her, wondering at it all.
“Yes,” Ania answered, bending her head, the waves of her light brown hair falling about her face. Darn curls, never could stay up as they were ordered to. “And now, I have to marry his brother, that—that rake!”
Nicholas Connols listened to the purr of the girl’s voice in his ear as she expertly licked his ear and shifted the weight of her pert little bottom in his lap.
“What do you want me to do to you, darling?” she whispered, and he felt himself riding to the occasion.
“Keep your mouth busy,” he countered, and the girl scrambled to her knees in front of him, sliding a certain heavy part of his anatomy in between her lips. Her work down there was skilled, to be sure, but Nicholas found himself unable to lose himself in the moment completely. He was not sure what he was looking for, but he knew for certain he would not find it in this house of ill repute, despite the fact that the house was stocked with women to cater to every physical need. The problem was, thought Nicholas as he felt himself swell inside of the blonde’s mouth as she rubbed her tongue along the length of his shaft, was that it was all so casual. There was nobody except for Brent that he could share his thoughts with, and certainly not here. What he wanted, he was slowly realizing, was s
omething more than the short-term payoff of the random tumblings inside of these houses. Certainly, the women were grateful, for he prided himself on being a tender lover; he loved women. Loved their curves, their softness, and their delighted squeals as he took them to newer and newer heights, but the fact of the matter was that he was finding the conversations outside of the bedroom quite tiresome. Perhaps it was time he searched for something more.
Just then, with a testament to this house’s superb timeliness, the door to the room slid open and another woman entered. She had skin like dark honey and bright blue eyes, and as was previously arranged, she came up to the blonde kneeling on the floor and began a slow, sensuous rub of her shoulders. The blonde stopped her tongue-stroking to tangle her fine limbs with the new woman, and for a while, Nicholas worked himself, watching the dance between the two females in front of him. They sank to the floor and giggled as they positioned themselves appropriately to take him into both of their mouths simultaneously.
Was he willing to give this up? Nicholas couldn’t help but wonder as he sank into the pleasure of the moment. Something was still nagging at him, and it was only as of late that it was coming into sharper focus for the young duke-to-be. As much as he was enjoying the little scenario he had orchestrated for himself, he knew that his favorite part of being with a woman came before all of this. It was the thrill not of the hunt, but of a built-up anticipation for them both; a laugh here, a soft chuckle and rapier wit elsewhere. He did not know if such a woman even existed, one who could contain both of these qualities within herself at the same time, but hope springs ever eternal. Even if such a woman existed, she would undoubtedly be a bluestocking of the highest order, and unlikely to be particularly suited to his, ah, more physical needs. Besides, nobody in his circle married for love, and he supposed that with the most recent developments in his life, he would have to take on a bride in a more timely manner, somebody who was perfect and knew how to run a household. That thought alone would have made him yawn aloud if he wasn’t being attended to quite so carefully.
Nicholas Connols was well-known amongst the ladies of both the ton and the less reputable houses; his reputation was no secret to Ania, or rather, it wasn’t after her mouthy aunt had come to visit and gossip all about it. The aunt had been particularly jolly when recounting some of his more famous exploits, which made Ania feel a thousand times worse.
“They say he’s quite the animal,” the aunt had said with a wink that Ania felt all the way down to her stomach, which threatened to revolt as soon as she realized that this was the man who was destined to be her husband. Never before had she felt quite so trapped, quite so terrified of what was to come next. Animal? Oh, for heaven’s sake, what did she know about animals? She knew about feelings, certainly, but had only one outlet for releasing them, and it was not one that anyone would dare shout from the rooftops.
“Ania, if he is brothers with Brent, and Brent is as good as you say he is,” Margaret pleaded, “Then perhaps it stands to reason that Nicholas may have some good in him, as well.”
Ania peeked out from one mess of thick, dark eyelashes at her sister. “Do you really think so?” she asked, a bit stuffy from all the tears.
“Yes, well, I do hope so,” Margaret backpedaled. “Besides, he is quite a sight for sore eyes.”
Ania gaped at her sister slightly. “Margie!” she cried, using her sister’s childhood nickname that was shared only between the two of them. “You’re so bad! When did you even see him?”
“Oh, on the carriage ride to the park the day after you met Brent,” Margaret casually replied, a dimple creasing her cheek ever so slightly.
Ania recalled only the merest glimpse of a stocky, strong, dark figure fast astride a horse passing by. He seemed awfully reckless and dangerous; not at all the kind of qualities she felt would make a suitable union for her. But perhaps there was hope yet that a man who could understand the darker pleasures of life could also understand somebody like her.
Or was that ever too much to even dream about? Well, Ania was nothing if not a dreamer.
That, and the future Duchess Connols, a role she was being forced to take on in her family’s quest for financial reinstitution.
Well then. Ania squared her shoulders and wiped the rest of the tears from her eyes. A hero is a hero, even if he happens to be nothing more than a woman.
* * *
Nicholas had the acute sense that he had been called in front of a firing squad. The five plus solicitors that had gathered into the room all stared down the bridges of their noses through their spectacles, and the expressions on their faces were all so grim that Nicholas felt as if he was a schoolchild who had just done something naughty in the classroom. While it was true that he had indeed just done something naughty with a ripe little redhead, he was not so sure he deserved these particular glances.
“Your Grace, here are the papers that switch over the titles. Lord, ahm, Connols, has looked them over and given them his signature of approval. All that remains is for you to accept.”
Nicholas Connols winced at the mention of his father’s name. Ever since the whole ungodly ordeal had come out into the light, it had rocked his entire family off their feet. Although he knew that his parent’s marriage had been distant for many years, he was used to a certain kind of civility at home; now, he had the distinct displeasure of watching the usually calm and impassive Lady Connols appear disheveled, angry, and not a bit remorseful at the dinner tables while Lord Connols’s mouth appeared like a gathered set of purse strings whenever he and his besmirched wife had to appear out in public together. Thank heavens his relationship with Brent had not suffered; Nicholas did not know by what miracle he and his brother had grown up in such camaraderie, but it appeared that Brent bore him no ill will despite the sudden switch of their fortunes. Perhaps it was because Brent relished all the aspects of life that a title did not necessarily provide—the thrill of a good marketing scheme, numbers and ledgers, and books; having a fortune and a title would leave him no time at all to pursue such decidedly dull pursuits.
Nicholas was of a different breed, a little more aimless, a little less likely to wake up at the indecently early hour Brent had forced him to on this day to meet the solicitors who were sorting out the inheritances in light of the changed circumstances. As the wealth of boring paperwork was spread out before him for his perusal, Nicholas felt panic rise up again in his throat. There was so much, it seemed, involved in becoming his father’s heir; suddenly, more was expected of him in a week than had been in the sum of his entire natural life. He nodded and attempted to make his expression interested, but the truth of the matter was that Brent was far better suited to understanding all the legal specifications of the case than he was. Ye gods, perhaps he should name his brother manager of his estate, thought Nicholas, and as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he realized it was the perfect thing to do. Brent would be happy as a clam, considering workings like these were as exciting to him as reading the latest serial, the more dramatic the better, was to Nicholas.
“What’s this?” Brent suddenly demanded, and this snapped Nicholas’s attention away from his musings to the present. “What manner of incestuous nonsense is this?” Nicholas had rarely heard temper in his brother’s voice, so the matter must be concerning, to say the least.
“It says there is a betrothal involved,” said one of the solicitors drily, cowering a bit at Brent’s fierce look. “To one Lady Ania Cromwell.”
Nicholas felt his chest squeeze as he heard the name of his brother’s betrothed spoken aloud. Although he knew that Brent had not felt any great love for his fiancé, he had been looking forward to an easy friendship and a calm relationship with the lady in question. That fact was no secret as Brent began to bluster and go red in the face. “And now—now she is to be wed to Nicholas?”
The solicitor did not appear to be happy to be the bearer of the news. “It appears that Lord Connols had invested a great deal of money in propping up the lady�
�s family holdings and has entered a clause into the documents that reads that if the marriage between Nicholas—Your Grace—and the lady does not take place, then the dukedom will not be settled on anyone.”
The brothers Connols looked at each other, aghast. It appeared that their father had quite the vindictive streak in him, and was determined to break apart what was left of the family. If Nicholas did not marry Ania Cromwell, then his holdings would go into back taxes for the Queen, and neither Nicholas nor Brent would see a penny of his money.
“Well, surely my father cannot expect that I would fulfill this wish. She was to be my brother’s wife, it’s—it’s indecent!” cried Nicholas, feeling a vein throb in his temple. It was the same vein whose pulse he tried to slow by many stress-releasing visits to the brothels.
“It appears that it is so,” answered the solicitor, and Nicholas felt his heart drop in his chest.
“And what of the lady in question?” he asked, trying desperately to call to mind the face of Ania Cromwell, and coming up blank. “What if she decides that she does not want to agree to this?” Even as he asked, Nicholas understood the futility of the situation. Surely, the state of the matter was that while noble, the lady’s title held no monetary value and she would need to marry him in order to supply her family’s coffers in some steady supply. Furthermore, within their circles, nobody asked the young wives to be of their opinions on their upcoming nuptials or husbands, for that matter.
It appeared that in addition to inheriting a dukedom, he would also be inheriting a wife. An interesting proposition, providing his brother wasn’t so attached to the lady that it would cause an unspeakable rift between them.
