Mary Balogh - A Secret Affair

“You called me vain tonight,” she said, “when in reality I am simply honest.”

“It would be rather foolish,” he said, “if you went about calling yourself ugly.”

“And massively untruthful,” she said.

She drained her glass as he gazed across the table at her.

“And you have called me greedy tonight,” she said.

His eyebrows arched upward.

“I hope, Duchess,” he said, “I am too much the gentleman to accuse anyone of greed, least of all the lady who is my lover.”

“But you have implied it,” she said. “At the theater you chose to view my jewels and hear about them with amusement. And here at this table you have presumed to know my motive for marrying the duke.”

“And I am wrong?” he asked.

She spread her hands on the table on either side of her plate. She had removed all her jewels at home and returned them to their respective safes. But she had put on other rings. She always felt a little strange without them, truth to tell. They sparkled up at her from every finger except her thumbs.

She drew them off one at a time and set them in the center of the table, beside the candlestick.

“What is their total worth?” she asked when they were all there. “Just the stones.”

He looked at the rings, at her, and at the rings again. He reached out a hand and picked up the largest. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and turned it so that it caught the light.

Oh, goodness, Hannah thought, there was something unexpectedly erotic about seeing one of her rings in his dark-skinned, long-fingered hand.

He set the ring down and picked up another.

He spread them apart with the tip of a finger so that they were not all clustered together.

And then he named a sum that showed he knew a thing or two about diamonds.

“No,” she said.

He doubled the estimate.

“Not even close,” she said.

He shrugged. “I give in.”

“One hundred pounds,” she said.

He sat back in his chair and held her eyes with his.

“Fake?” he said. “Paste?”

“These, yes,” she said. “Some are real—the ones I received for the most precious occasions. All the jewels I wore to the theater this evening were real. About two-thirds of those I own are paste.”

“Dunbarton was not as generous as he appeared to be?” he asked.

“He was generosity itself,” she told him. “He would have showered me with half his fortune and probably did, though of course most of it was entailed. I had only to admire something and it was mine. I had only not to admire it and it was mine.”

He had nothing to say this time. He regarded her steadily.

“They were real when they were given to me,” she said. “I had the diamonds replaced with paste imitations. They are very good imitations. In fact, I probably underestimated the value of those rings on the table. They are probably worth two hundred pounds. Perhaps even a little more. I did it with the duke’s knowledge. His consent was reluctantly given, but how could he refuse? He had taught me to be independent, to think for myself, to decide what I wanted and refuse to take no for an answer. I believe he was proud of me.”

His elbow was on the table, his chin propped between his thumb and forefinger.

“There are certain … causes in which I am interested,” she said.

“You have given away a minor fortune in the proceeds of your diamonds for causes, Duchess?” he asked. “Not so minor either, at a wager.”

She shrugged.

“A mere tiny drop in a very large ocean,” she said. “There is suffering enough in the world, Constantine, to feed the philanthropic leanings of a thousand rich people who like to believe they have a conscience and that it can be soothed with the giving of a little money.”

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.

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?”