by Stacy Reid
Constance sighed. “He is no longer interested in me, Phillipa. I have rejected him twice now.”
Phillipa frowned delicately. “I am certain he will offer for you again soon.”
“I do not wish to marry him.”
“It is unlikely you are going to receive a better offer.” Philippa flushed as she realized what she had said.
Constance looked away. Phillipa was right, Constance was unlikely to ever receive any other offer. It didn’t matter.
Viscount Litchfield was charming when he wanted to be, but it was all surface. The gentle way he had treated her, the laughter, the dancing, and the carriage rides had meant nothing to him. He was shallow, and his supercilious manner of late had certainly not endeared him to her. He had actually hinted that she should be thankful he was willing to marry her despite her inferior circumstances. It upset her to know that she had not seen through Litchfield’s superficial charm and accepted his first offer at all. Was her judgment so impaired?
She stood abruptly. She needed to be alone with her thoughts for a few moments. “I have been meaning to visit Lady Lawrence’s conservatory. I heard that it is one of the most beautiful in London.”
Phillipa blinked at her sudden change of topic. “I will come with you.”
“No!” Constance hastily amended her tone. “You are needed elsewhere. I spotted your sister in the ball, and Payton looked utterly forlorn. It is a shame the Honorable St. John broke their engagement. Please spend some time with her instead. I assure you I will be quite safe in the conservatory on my own.”
Phillipa hesitated, then nodded and departed.
Constance heaved a sigh. Emotions rioted within her. She hated that everyone felt she should accept Lord Litchfield again simply because she had said yes before. He had cried off, for heaven’s sake! And truth be told, a part of her had been relieved when he had withdrawn his offer. She knew now, the feelings she’d had for him had been warm at best, but at the time she’d had nothing to compare them with. She’d thought those modest feelings were perfectly right and acceptable.
Until she’d seen Mondvale for the first time. He had stolen her breath away.
He’d been present at a ball she was attending. They hadn’t even been introduced. It had appalled her to know she could possess such a raging desire for a perfect stranger. It had also instantly made her doubt her feelings for Lord Litchfield. He must have sensed something different in her that night as they danced, for he had drawn her into the gardens and kissed her for the first time. She had felt nothing as he pressed his lips to hers, other than a vague annoyance. Which had flummoxed her. She had been so sure passion for one’s betrothed was a real thing. How could the poets have gotten it so wrong? She had pulled away, giving him a puzzled smile, then turned to flee.
And ran smack into Mondvale.
Unfathomable eyes had looked down at her, and a sardonic twitch had appeared at the corner of Mondvale’s mouth. A primal thrill had surged through her, as it had continued to do each of the four times she had glimpsed him since that fateful night.
Constance had known then, without a doubt, that Lord Litchfield was not the man for her. The one positive thing about her fall from society’s grace was not having to explain her change of heart to him or her family. He’d saved her the trouble. Even now with her reputation in tatters, she could never marry him.
See? There was a silver lining to every storm cloud.
She danced down the stairs leading out into the vibrant, shrubberied gardens and took the path heading toward the conservatory. She rounded the bend and paused. A tingle caressed her lips and neck, and she held her breath. There was no one in sight, but she felt as if someone was watching her.
After several moments with no movement about, she expelled the breath, feeling ridiculous.
With hurried steps, she slipped inside the conservatory where it was much warmer. She halted. There it was again, that strange, tingly feeling. Her pulse quickened. She knew exactly what it was—Mondvale’s gaze upon her. For a timeless moment she was still, hardly daring to breathe. Every instinct she possessed told her he was somewhere in the dark, watching her. The sensation that coursed through her at the thought bordered on fear…combined with a dash of excitement. It took enormous willpower to not flee back inside to the ball.
Where was he?
Close. She could feel him.
She had never known such awareness of another.
But to remain here, alone with him, would be courting further disaster. She turned to leave. The din of laughter and music spilled into the night, but instead of filling her with excitement, dread curled through her. There was nothing for her in the ballroom but hurt.
But the idea of possibly facing Mondvale was nerve-racking. It had been different when she’d only discreetly observed the Lord of Sin from afar, spinning girlish fantasies about her wicked prince charming. Everything about him had seemed exciting, and tempting, and mysterious. Now, he just seemed…dangerous.
She took a few steps back toward the ball and again hesitated. For all she knew, he was watching her from the terrace or the gardens, and not from inside the conservatory itself. She hadn’t actually seen him, and the thought of returning to the ball to face the sly whispers and innuendos was unbearable. She squared her shoulders, turned back, and walked deeper into the conservatory.
“Even more curious,” his voice drawled ever so softly, prickling the hairs at the nape of her neck. She spun toward the voice, nerves and excitement surging to life inside her.
Instinctively, she knew she had been hoping for just such an encounter the whole time she had watched Mondvale tonight. Now that the occasion was upon her, she doubted her sanity, and wondered dizzily if this daring encounter would lead her into the arms of her prince charming…or only into further ruination?
Chapter Two
Constance had missed seeing the stone bench near the entrance of the conservatory, hidden by shadows and overgrown plants. Mondvale sat splayed in the most insolent manner, his cravat undone, a glass of champagne dangling loosely from his hand. She could sense the leashed power of his personality beneath the casual façade he presented.
A blush heated her cheeks. Was she interrupting a clandestine meeting? From the quick frown on his face, she had the oddest thought that he had retreated here for privacy, and she had intruded. She cleared her throat cautiously. “Your Grace, I… Pardon my intrusion, I was not aware someone else was in here.”
Despite the dimness of the light, she was able to make out the curl of his lips.
“Liar,” he drawled with an icy bite. It was said so softly, it took a while for the word to sink in.
She stiffened in affront.
Silver eyes slid over her in an encompassing look that was as physical as a caress. “You have been watching me with avid fascination, devouring me with your gaze, since I entered Lady Lawrence’s ballroom.”
Constance’s heartbeat thudded in her eardrums. It was so embarrassing to know he had been aware of her regard. Should she deny his humiliating assessment? It was only half true. She had escaped to the conservatory to be away from it all, not to follow him. “My apologies. I was watching you because you reminded me of someone else.” Her excuse sounded inane even to her own ears. His unswerving gaze made her uneasy and propelled her into further speech. “I see now my error, but I assure you, Your Grace, I did not follow you out here.”
He gave her a dark, jaded smile, placed his champagne glass on the bench, and rose to his feet, stepping into the light that spilled from the gas lamp in the far corner. She stumbled back, trying to ignore the unwilling interest he roused in her. But she couldn’t look away from him, awed by the ruthless beauty of his face. High cheekbones intensified the aristocratic cast of his features, and cruel sensuality curved the hard line of his mouth. He was tall with powerful shoulders and muscular legs, and she flushed, mortified for noticing. He was clad in black from head to foot, with the exception of his snow white shirt and cravat, an
d the silver waistcoat which fitted his lean frame to perfection. Each time she had spied him, he had always dressed with simplicity, in dark, well-tailored clothes, never with flamboyance.
She found the reaction he stirred in her curious, thrilling—that low tightening in her stomach and the slow drum of her heart when their gaze collided. He had the most compelling eyes she had ever seen—pure silver, making them appear as shards of ice.
She fancied it was his eyes that caused the ache inside her, the desire to partake of the wickedness lurking deep within them. It did not matter that his splendid eyes were partially obscured by dark-rimmed spectacles. They should have detracted from the dangerous aura he gave off, but the slight imperfection only added to his appeal. She found everything about him electrifying.
Caution urged her to return to the ballroom. Her mother would be horrified at her lack of decorum. Her brothers would lock her away to know how she had flagrantly dismissed conventions and dallied with a man like the Lord of Sin in a dark conservatory, unchaperoned.
“Ah. If you did not follow me here, I must assume the pleasures I had been hoping to find between your sweet thighs will not be forthcoming?”
She met the mocking glint in his eyes evenly. “Do you expect me to swoon because you use such uncouth words?” She was proud of how steady her voice was.
She did not understand what he meant by pleasures between her thighs, but she would be mortified to reveal her ignorance. Instinctively, though, she knew it was not a flattering remark.
“If you truly did not come out here to tumble, I will grant you a moment to flee before I toss up your petticoats and take what you have been silently offering the whole night,” he said flatly.
She clasped her hands to hide their shaking and curled her mouth at the corners in false confidence. “I reiterate: I did not follow you out here. Nor have I given you any reason to speak to me in such an ungentlemanly and derisive manner. You need not apologize, but I ask you not to measure me by your previous…acquaintances…and I will not measure you by the foolish words which have passed your lips.”
She was riveted by the almost imperceptible color that suddenly highlighted his cheekbones. He was blushing?
He executed a curt bow. “Forgive my rudeness. Indeed, you did not deserve my vulgarity, and there is no excuse for my behavior.” The intensity in his voice made her shiver. He stepped closer. “I am Lucan Wynwood.”
She waited for him to add his titles. He didn’t. Which vaguely surprised her. He did not act like the other men of her acquaintance, titled and privileged, all of whom would have emphasized their exalted rank.
She nodded in response to his apology, her heart pounding even harder. That had hardly been a formal introduction. By all rights, she should run from him, from this secluded place, and this entirely forbidden conversation. But her feet refused to move.
Her name sprang to the tip of her tongue, but she could not bring herself to reveal it. He may have heard the rumors. Right now, he was not looking at her with the same contempt in his eyes as did everyone else, and she did not wish to field such a look from him. Nor did she want the look of contempt to shift to not-so-subtly undressing her with his eyes, as some men had been bold enough to do, invariably followed by inappropriate suggestions. Despite his initial rudeness, Mondvale did seem genuinely contrite.
So she used one of her middle names and chose one of her brother’s lesser titles as her surname. She told him, “I am Miss Desiree Hastings,” and sent a swift prayer to the heavens to forgive her deceit.
At least now she should be able to have a normal conversation, not filled with innuendoes and veiled criticism. She desperately yearned for such normalcy, if only for a stolen moment.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hastings. Would you like me to escort you back to the ballroom?” As if he realized what he suggested, he laughed lightly, and she was charmed. “Or perhaps, just to the terrace steps?”
She backed away and turned to wander deeper into the conservatory, toward a table and chair that sat in a brick-paved alcove. “I thank you, but I am most happy to remain here.”
He prowled after her. “I would be remiss if I did not point out how precarious it is for your reputation, to be alone with me.”
She glanced back at him. “It is very sweet of you to be worried about me, but I assure you it is unnecessary.”
He seemed nonplussed as he stared after her, and she wondered what she had said.
“Sweet?” he queried.
She nodded. “Quite.”
He smiled faintly in the moonlight, drawing her gaze to the sensual slant of his lips. “You do not consider it reckless to be alone with me?”
Tension crackled in the air between them. “You could always leave,” she pointed out, while hoping he would stay.
Surprise flared in his gaze, and then wariness. He radiated such power he should have been intimidating, but she felt inexplicably safe with him.
“I was here first, but I will be a gentleman and depart.” He tilted his head and made to leave.
Loneliness washed over her. She didn’t want him to go. A waltz filtered on the air, and the words escaped before she could stop them, shocking even herself. “Or perhaps we could dance?”
He froze, then with infinite slowness spun back to her.
She held her breath, fearing and hoping he would say yes. A loud roaring sounded in her ears, but she did not break his gaze. She was being inexcusably reckless, but she wanted to feel something instead of hopelessness, however fleetingly.
A frown chased his features. “You would like to dance?”
“Yes.”
She moved closer to him, halted a few steps away, and cleared her throat of the ball of nerves that had lodged there.
He looked down on her, his face neutral, but she sensed he was struggling to decide whether or not to leave. That intrigued her. According to all the hushed whispers that circulated the ballroom, he should have been taking ruthless advantage of her virtue. But the Lord of Sin had not even tried to steal so much as a kiss.
It struck her suddenly…perhaps he did not find her appealing? Horror burned through her whole body at the notion. She could only blame her momentary idiocy on the three glasses of champagne she had consumed earlier to bolster her nerves.
She opened her mouth to apologize for being forward, poised to flee his presence.
He reached out and pulled her to him, melting her words in a soft gasp.
She shivered as a shattering sense of awareness surged though her. Of his height, his strength…his delicious scent.
“I would be delighted to dance with you, Miss Hastings.”
“Thank you,” she murmured as he swept her into the waltz. Pleasure suffused her. She had not danced in months, and she loved to dance.
She wanted to question why he had accepted her brazen offer. He must think her incredibly forward. But instead, she relaxed, feeling secure in her anonymity. She had already decided she would not venture out again after tonight’s farce. She would not abide society’s disdain any further, but would insist on returning to Dorset, or to Norfolk, to visit Sebastian and Jocelyn at Sherring Cross.
Therefore, she would make the most of this midnight fantasy, dancing with the Lord of Sin, and hold the memory close, until she felt brave enough to venture into society again.
He twirled her with authority and a surety of steps. He was a graceful dancer, a strong partner, and she felt free as she soared with him. She held his gaze, a smile bursting on her lips. The entire situation was dreamlike—dancing with the Duke of Mondvale as though everything were normal in her life, and he an interested gentleman suitor.
She suddenly wished she had not lied about who she was. Would he have reacted the same way if he knew her to be the infamous Lady Constance, the Beautiful Bastard? She couldn’t help wonder if he was aware of the rumors, and if he would have stayed in the conservatory with her had he known. Let alone dance with her…
She forcefully p
ushed such thoughts from her mind and concentrated on the joy of waltzing. As they twirled, they spun into a pocket of shadows, which coiled around them, cocooning them intimately. The moonlight glanced off the sharp angles of his face, and she could clearly see the dark glitter in his eyes as he gazed down at her. Above them, the night sky shimmered with thousands of stars, and the smell of roses and jasmine perfumed the air. The entire moment was magical, surreal.
When the last strains of the violin filtered through the air, regret curled inside her. She wished the waltz had not ended. But though she badly wanted to, she could not stay out here forever. Phillipa would be coming to look for her any moment.
“Thank you for dancing with me,” she said softly, hating to break the quiet intimacy by speaking.
He tilted his head. “Why does a beautiful lady need to seek dance partners in the conservatory?”
Her heart lurched in her chest. He thought her beautiful? It had not sounded like empty flattery.
She lifted her hands to encompass her surroundings with a laugh. “I only wanted a few moments away from the crush. I was told that Lady Lawrence’s gardens and conservatory are magnificent and wished to see them for myself.” She smiled at him. “Then we met, and I heard the strings of the orchestra…and I could not help being impertinent.”
“Ah, so the lady knows she is being bold,” he said teasingly, moving to walk beside her.
She was. And she was also very conscious of her gown intimately brushing the length of his trousers as they strolled past a vast flower arrangement displayed on the central table.
“The blossoms are breathtaking,” she murmured, caressing the petal of a flower she could not identify. She bent and inhaled its perfumed scent. “There are times when I am awed by nature’s beauty.”
She was startled when he dipped his head and inhaled deeply as well, his eyes closing in appreciation of the sublime scent. She glided along the table, and he stepped with her. He ran the tip of his fingers over a yellow flower, and she imagined what his touch on her would feel like.
