Mary Balogh - A Secret Affair

“And so you will go through life unhappy,” he said softly, “merely because of a little pride.”

Touché.

But he had no idea—no idea what he was suggesting.

“I want to go home to Dunbarton House,” she said. “It is late.”

Or early.

He got to his feet and closed the distance between them. He set his hands on the arms of her chair, leaned over her, and kissed her openmouthed.

It was a horribly gentle, even tender kiss.

Horrible because it was the middle of the night, she had made love with him and slept with him, she had sat here and talked with him, and she did not know where her defenses were. If she could have located them, she would have wrapped them about herself and been safe again.

But again—safe from what?

He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. His own were shadowed and very dark.

“You had better go and dress, then,” he said. “My coachman might be scandalized if he saw you dressed like that, even if you are covered from chin to toes.”

“If I were to step out like this, Constantine,” she said, “he would see nothing but duchess. Believe me. People see what I choose to have them see.”

“Is that something Dunbarton taught you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “and he taught me well.”

“I believe,” he said, “he did. Whenever I have seen you over the years, I have seen nothing but duchess. Very beautiful, very rich duchess. I am only just learning the error of my perceptions.”

“Is that good?” she asked him. “Or bad?”

He straightened up.

“I have not decided,” he said. “I have seen you as a rose without the multiplicity of petals. But I have begun to realize my error. You have more layers than the most complex of roses. And the heart of the rose has yet to be revealed. I begin to believe that there is a heart. Indeed, I more than believe. Go and get dressed, Duchess. It is time to take you home.”

And contrarily, given the fact that she had been the one to say it first, she felt bereft. As if he did not want her to stay. And shaken. He saw her as a rose, and slowly but surely he was finding his way past the petals to the heart. If she allowed it. How could she stop it?

Eleven years of learning and discipline were in danger of crumbling within weeks of her setting out on her lone course in life.

It was not going to happen.

For he could not possibly be the one. Not the one the duke had promised she would find one day. And she needed to be heart-whole when she finally met that man. Perhaps after all she should not have dabbled in the sensual.

She got to her feet and turned toward the door.

“Like a child who needs her hand held?” she said haughtily. “I came alone in your carriage. I will return alone in it. Be sure it is at the door in ten minutes’ time.”

Her exit was marred slightly by the sound of a low chuckle.

SINCE IT WAS RAINING the next day, Constantine spent most of the morning writing to Harvey Wexford, his manager at Ainsley. There were a few questions he needed to answer and a few minor details he needed to comment upon. More important—and something he did every week—there were all sorts of private little messages to send to various residents at Ainsley. He might leave their management and training and well-being in Wexford’s capable and compassionate hands with every confidence that things would run perfectly smoothly, but he did not forget his people when he was away from them, and he was determined that they know it.

There were fifth birthday greetings to send to Megan, young daughter of Phoebe Penn, for example—and the book he went out to buy her before luncheon since the child, together with her mother, was learning to read. And there were congratulations to Winford Jones, the young ex-thief, who was deemed skilled enough as a blacksmith to take a position with someone looking for an assistant in a Dorsetshire smithy. And further congratulations to Jones and Bridget Hinds, who were going to marry before they left—taking young Bernard, Bridget’s son, with them. And another book for Bernard since at the age of seven he could already read. And commiserations to Robbie Atkinson, who had fallen from the hay loft and broken his ankle. And get-well wishes to the cook, who had taken the unprecedented step of remaining in her bed for two whole days with a severe head cold, though she had ruled her kitchen with an iron thumb from that bed.

Constantine spent the afternoon at the races with some of his male acquaintances since the weather had cleared up somewhat, and the evening at a soiree given by Lady Carling, Margaret’s mother-in-law, on Curzon Street. That was another of those occasions on which he was forced to spend time at the same function as Vanessa and Elliott, but since Lady Carling had opened up more than one room for her guests, they were able to occupy different rooms from one another most of the time and effectively ignore one another’s existence.

Constantine thought of Hannah’s suggestion last night that he talk to Elliott at last—so that he might be less unhappy. He drew some amusement from imagining how Elliott would react if he were to seek him out and suggest that they sit down and talk out their differences right here and now.

There was nothing to talk about. Elliott believed the very worst of him, and Constantine did not care.

Ass and mule.

Two sides of the same coin.

It really was as simple as that.

Hannah was not at the soiree.

Constantine left early, considered going to White’s for a while, and went home to bed instead. Having a mistress could do that to a man—it could make him choose sleep over his friends at night when the opportunity presented itself.

He called at Dunbarton House the following morning. He half expected that the ladies would be either still in bed or else out shopping. But they were at home. The duchess’s butler, who had gone to see if indeed they were, showed him into the library, which was an unexpected setting in which to find the duchess, though she had a book open on her lap, he noticed, while her friend was seated at the desk, probably writing a letter to her vicar.

The duchess closed her book, set it aside, and got to her feet.

“Constantine,” she said, coming toward him, one hand extended.

“Duchess.” He bowed over her hand, and for once she allowed him to raise the back of it to his lips. “Miss Leavensworth.”

That lady set down her pen and turned toward him, her cheeks unnaturally pink.

“Mr. Huxtable,” she said gravely.

“Miss Leavensworth,” he said, “I wish you to know that I asked you to dance with me at the Kitteridge ball because I wished to dance with you. My ill-mannered probing for information about the duchess’s roots was an afterthought and an ignominious one. I do beg your pardon for upsetting you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Huxtable,” she said. “It was a pleasure to dance with you.”

“And I have not forgotten,” he said, “that you hope to see the Tower of London before you return home to Markle, and that the duchess has not been there for ages. The weather is much improved today. Indeed, I do believe the sun is about to force its way through the clouds. Would you care to come there with me this afternoon? And perhaps to Gunter’s afterward for ices?”

“Ices?” Miss Leavensworth’s eyes widened. “Oh, I have never had one, but I have heard that they are simply heavenly.”

“Then definitely to Gunter’s afterward,” he said. He looked at Hannah.

She would say, of course, that they had another engagement this afternoon.

“We will be ready at half past twelve,” she said instead.

By which she probably meant a quarter to one.

“I will not keep you any longer, then,” he said, “from your reading and your letter writing.”

And he inclined his head to both and took his leave without further ado.

She had been wearing a plain dress of pale blue cotton, one shade lighter than her eyes, he remembered as he strode out of the square. No jewelry. And her hair had been caught back in a simple knot at the nape of her neck.

Plain and unadorned.

She had looked achingly lovely.

The duchess, that was.

She looked more her usual self when he arrived outside her door again promptly at half past twelve. He had his carriage with him this time as it would accommodate the three of them in more comfort than his curricle would have done, and it really was quite a distance to the Tower.

Both ladies were ready. Perhaps as a matter of sheer principle the duchess would have kept him waiting if the outing had involved her alone, but it did not, and Miss Leavensworth’s face was alive with eager anticipation. And the Duchess of Dunbarton, Constantine thought, loved her friend.

There was much to see at the Tower. Neither lady wished to see the old dungeons or the torture chambers, though, or the place and instruments of execution. The duchess, in fact, shuddered with what looked like very genuine horror when a yeoman of the guard suggested that they might enjoy the displays.

They went to view the menagerie instead and spent a considerable amount of time there gazing at the unfamiliar wild animals, especially the lions.

“How splendid they are,” Miss Leavensworth said. “I can see why they are known as the kings of the jungle. Can’t you, Hannah?”

But the duchess was not so easily pleased.

“But where is the jungle?” she asked. “Poor things. How can they be kings in a cage? It would be better to be a humble rabbit or tortoise or mole and be free.”

“But I daresay they are well fed,” Miss Leavensworth said. “And they are sheltered from the worst of the elements here. And they are much admired.”

“And of course,” the duchess said, “the admiration of others makes up for a multitude of sins.”

“I am glad I have seen them,” Miss Leavensworth said firmly, refusing to be deterred by the misgivings of her friend. “I have only been able to read about them in books until now and see drawings of them. And books never take account of smell, do they? Whew!”

“Shall we go and see the Crown Jewels?” Constantine suggested.

Miss Leavensworth was enthralled by them. And as coincidence would have it, her fiancé’s relatives, with their children, came there to look at them less than five minutes after they had arrived there. There were exclamations of surprise and delight and some hugs, and she had to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Newcombe and Pamela and Peter Newcombe to Constantine—the duchess had met them a few mornings ago when they had fetched Miss Leavensworth for the visit to Kew.

“I need fresh air,” the duchess announced after a few more minutes. “Constantine is going to take me up to the battlements of the White Tower, Babs, and now is the perfect time for us to go since you are terrified of heights. We will come back here in a short while.”

“We will remain with Barbara for as long as you need to see the view, Your Grace,” Mrs. Newcombe assured her. “Do take your time. All we have left to see is the dungeons, at the children’s insistence, and there is no hurry.”

The duchess took Constantine’s arm, and they climbed to the top of the White Tower together—the highest point apart from the four turrets at its corners.

“Tonight?” he asked as they went.

“Yes,” she said. “I will need it. I am to attend a dinner and reception at St. James’s Palace this evening and it is certain to be a dead bore. But when one receives a royal summons, you know, one does not reply that it does not suit one’s purposes to attend, even if one is the Duchess of Dunbarton. Barbara is to dine with the Parks. You may send your carriage at eleven.”

They stepped out onto the battlements of the Tower to find that all the clouds had moved off, leaving blue sky and sunshine in their place.

The duchess opened her parasol and raised it above her head. She was wearing a bonnet today, tied securely beneath her chin. It was just as well. There was a significant breeze up here.

They walked all around the battlements, admiring the various views over the city and the countryside beyond before coming to a stop when they were facing the River Thames.

She tipped back her parasol and lifted her face to the sky. One of the ravens for which the Tower was famous was flapping about up there.

“Do you ever think,” she asked, “that it would be wonderful to fly, Constantine? To be all alone with the vastness and the wind and the sky?”