A Secret Affair

Chapter 2

THEY WENT TO FETCH their bonnets and walked to the park. It was a fine day considering the fact that it was not even officially summer yet. It was partly sunny, partly cloudy, with a light breeze.

Hannah raised a white parasol above her head even though there were actually more cloudy periods than sunny. Why have such a pretty confection, after all, if one was not going to display it to full advantage?

“Hannah,” Barbara said almost hesitantly as they passed between the park gates, “you were not serious over tea, were you? About what you plan to do, I mean.”

“But of course I am serious,” Hannah said. “I am no longer either an unmarried girl or a married lady. I am that thoroughly enviable female creature—a widow of wealth and superior social standing. I am even still quite young. And widows of good ton are almost expected to take a lover, you know—provided he is also of good ton, of course. And preferably unmarried.”

Barbara sighed.

“I hoped you were joking with me,” she said, “though I feared you were not. You have grown into the manners and morals of this fast world you married into, I see. I disapprove of what you intend. I disapprove of the morality of it, Hannah. But more important, I disapprove of your rashness. You are not as heartless or as—oh, what is the word?—as jaded, as blasé as you believe yourself to be. You are capable of enormous affection and love. An affair can bring you nothing but dissatisfaction at best, heartbreak at worst.”

Hannah chuckled. “Do you see the crowds of people up ahead?” she said. “Any one of them would tell you, Babs, that the Duchess of Dunbarton does not have a heart to be broken.”

“They do not know you,” Barbara said. “I do. Nothing I say will deter you, of course. And so I will say only this. I will love you anyway, Hannah. I will always love you. Nothing you can do will make me stop.”

“I do wish you would stop, though,” Hannah said, “or the ton will be treated to the interesting spectacle of the Duchess of Dunbarton in tears and wrapped in the arms of her companion.”

Barbara snorted inelegantly, and they both laughed yet again.

“I will save my breath, then,” Barbara said, “and simply gaze about at this extraordinary scene. Does your masterful man, who may or may not be in London, have a name, by the way?”

“It would be strange if he did not,” Hannah said. “It is Huxtable. Constantine Huxtable. Mister. It is very lowering, is it not, that fact, when I have consorted with almost no one below the rank of duke and marquess and earl for the past ten years and more. Even the king. I have almost forgotten what the word mister means. It means, of course, that he is a lowly commoner. Though not so lowly either. His father was the Earl of Merton—and he was the eldest son. His mother, lest you should assume otherwise, was the countess. There was marvelous stupidity there, Babs, at least on her part and that of her family. And marvelous resistance, I suppose, on the part of the earl. They married, but they did so a few days after their eldest son was born. Can you imagine any worse disaster for him? I believe the actual number of days to have been two. Two days deprived him forever of becoming the Earl of Merton, which he would have been by now, and made him plain Mr. Constantine Huxtable instead.”

“How very unfortunate,” Barbara agreed.

A little way ahead of them the ton had gathered in great force and was affecting to take exercise as carriages of all descriptions and riders on all kinds of mounts and pedestrians in all the latest fashions milled about a ridiculously small piece of land considering the size of the park, trying to see everyone and be seen by everyone in return, trying to tell the gossip they had just heard themselves and listen to any that someone else had to impart.

It was spring, and the ton was hard at play again.

Hannah twirled her parasol.

“The Duke of Moreland is his cousin,” she said. “They look remarkably alike, though in my estimation the duke is the more purely handsome, while Mr. Huxtable is the more sinfully so. The present Earl of Merton is his cousin too, though the contrast between them is quite marked. The earl is fair and good-looking to a quite angelic degree. He looks amiable and as far from being dangerous as it is possible to be. Besides, he married Lady Paget last year even though the rumor had still not quite died that she had murdered her first husband with an axe. That story reached me even in the country. Perhaps the earl is not quite as meek and mild as he looks. I hope he is not, poor gentleman. He is so good-looking.”

“Mr. Huxtable is not fair?” Barbara asked.

“Oh, Babs,” Hannah said, giving her parasol another twirl. “Do you know those busts of Greek gods and heroes, all white marble? They are beautiful beyond description, but they are also ridiculously deceiving because the Greeks lived in a Mediterranean land and certainly would not have looked as though they were ghosts. Mr. Huxtable’s mother was Greek. And he has taken his looks entirely from her. He is a Greek god brought to magnificent life—all black hair and dark complexion and dark eyes. And a physique—Well, you may judge for yourself. There he is.”

And there he was indeed, with the Earl of Merton and Baron Montford, the earl’s brother-in-law. They were on horseback.

Oh, she had been quite right about him, Hannah decided, looking critically at Mr. Huxtable. Memory had not deceived her even though she had not seen him for two years, having spent last spring in the country for her mourning period. His physique was perfection itself and showed to great advantage on horseback. He was tall and slim, but he was shapely and well muscled in every place where a man ought to be. He had long, powerful-looking legs, always a great advantage in a man. His face was perhaps harsher and more angular than she remembered. And she had forgotten his nose, which must have been broken at some time in his life and not set quite straight afterward. But she did not revise her opinion of his face. It was handsome enough to make her feel quite pleasantly weak at the knees.

Sinfully handsome.

He had the good sense to dress in black—apart from his buff riding breeches and white shirt, that was. His riding coat was black and molded the powerful muscles of his chest and shoulders and upper arms like a second skin. His boots were black too, as was his tall hat. Even his horse was black.

Goodness, he looked downright dangerous, Hannah thought approvingly. He looked unattainable. He looked like an impregnable fortress. He looked as if he would be able to pick her up in one hand—while she was storming the fortress, that was—and crush every bone in her body.

He was very definitely the one. For this year anyway. Next year she would choose someone else. Or perhaps next year she would give some serious consideration to finding someone to love, someone with whom to settle down permanently. But she was not ready for that yet. This year she was ready for something quite different.

“Oh, Hannah,” Barbara said, doubt in her voice, “he does not look like a very pleasant man. I do wish—”

“But who,” Hannah asked as she walked into the crowd with her half-smile firmly in place, “wants a pleasant man for a lover, Babs? He sounds like a dreadful bore, whoever he might be.”

SO HERE HE WAS AGAIN, Constantine Huxtable thought. Back in London for another Season. Back in Hyde Park, surrounded by half the ton, his second cousin Stephen, Earl of Merton, riding on one side of him, Monty—Jasper, Baron Montford, his cousin Katherine’s husband—on the other.

It might have been yesterday that he was here last. It was hard to believe another year had gone by. He had thought he might not bother to come at all this year. He thought it every year, of course. But every year he came.

There was just some irresistible lure that brought him back to London in the springtime, he admitted to himself as the three of them tipped their hats to a couple of elderly ladies in big bonnets who were being driven slowly by in an ancient barouche manned by an even more ancient coachman. The ladies acknowledged the greeting with identically raised hands and nodding heads. As if they were royalty.

He loved being home at Ainsley Park in Gloucestershire. He was never so happy as when he was there, immersing himself in the busy life of the farm, in the equally busy activities in the house. There was scarcely a moment to call his own when he was in the country. And he certainly could not complain of loneliness there. His neighbors were always eager to invite him to participate in all their social entertainments, even if they were a bit dubious about his activities at Ainsley.

And at Ainsley itself … Well, the house was so teeming with people that he had taken up residence in the dower house two years ago in order to preserve some privacy in his life—as well as to make his rooms in the house available for new arrivals. The arrangement had worked perfectly well until a small group of children had discovered the conservatory attached to the dower house this past winter and made a playhouse out of it. And then, of course, they had needed to use the kitchen to find dishes and water for their dolls’ tea parties. And …

Well, and one day, in the absence of his cook, Constantine had found himself raiding the pantry to find the sweet biscuit jar for them—and then joining their tea party, for the love of God.

It was no wonder he made his escape to London every spring. A man needed some peace and quiet in his life. Not to mention sanity.

“It always feels good to be back in town, does it not?” Monty said cheerfully.

“Even if I have just been banished from my own home,” Stephen said.

“But the ladies must be allowed to admire the heir without the interference of mere men,” Monty said. “You would not really wish to be there, would you, Stephen? When your sisters have gone to all the trouble of inviting a dozen other ladies to join them in their admiration and to bring gifts, which Cassandra will have to admire and they will all have to examine and, ah, coo over?” He shuddered theatrically.

Stephen grinned. “You have a point, Monty,” he said.

His countess had recently borne him a son. Their first. An heir. A future Earl of Merton. It really did not matter to Constantine. After his father there had been his brother Jonathan—Jon—as earl for a few years and now there was Stephen. Eventually there would be Stephen’s son. He and Cassandra might proceed to have a whole string of spares over the next number of years if they chose. It would make no difference to Constantine. He would never be the earl himself.

It did not matter. He had always known that he would not. He did not really care.

They stopped to exchange pleasantries with a couple of male acquaintances. The park was full of familiar faces, Constantine saw as he looked idly around. There were almost no new ones at all, and those few there were belonged mostly to very young ladies—the new crop of marriageable hopefuls come to the great marriage mart.

There were a few beauties among them too, by Jove. But Constantine was surprised and not a little alarmed to discover how clinical the inward analysis was. He felt no stirring of real interest in any of them. He might have done so without any fear of seeming presumptuous. His illegitimacy was a mere legal trifle. It prohibited him from inheriting his father’s title and entailed property, it was true, but it had no bearing on his status in the ton as the son of an earl. He had been brought up at Warren Hall. He had been left comfortably well off on his father’s death.

He might shop at the marriage mart if he chose and expect considerable success. But he was thirty-five years old. These new beauties looked uncomfortably like children to him. Most of them would be seventeen or eighteen.

It really was a little alarming. He was never going to get any younger, was he? And he had never intended to go through life as a single man. When, then, was he going to marry? And, more to the point, whom would he marry?

He had made his prospects somewhat dimmer, of course, when he acquired Ainsley Park a number of years ago and proceeded to populate it with society’s undesirables—vagabonds, thieves, ex-soldiers, the mentally handicapped, prostitutes, unwed mothers and their offspring, and assorted others. Ainsley was a hive of industry and was gratifyingly prosperous after a few years of nothing but expenses—and hard work.

A young wife, however, particularly one of gentle birth, would certainly not appreciate being taken to live among such company and in such a place—and in the dower house to boot. A month or so ago his living room had been commandeered as a nursery for the dolls too tired to keep their eyes open after their tea in the conservatory.

“Let me guess,” Monty said, leaning closer to Constantine. “The one in green?”

He had been staring quite fixedly, Constantine realized, at two young ladies with two stern-looking maids a couple of paces behind them—and all four had noticed. The girls were giggling and preening themselves while the maids were closing the gap to one and a half paces.

“She is the prettier of the two,” Constantine conceded, looking away. “The one in pink has the better figure, though.”

“I wonder which one,” Monty said, “has the richer papa.”

“The Duchess of Dunbarton is back in town,” Stephen said as the three of them moved on. “Looking as lovely as ever. She must be just out of mourning. Shall we go and pay our respects?”

“By all means,” Monty said, “provided we can get from here to there without being mowed down by the next six carriages in line and without mowing down the next six pedestrians in line. They always will stray from the footpath, to their imminent peril.”

He proceeded to lead the way, weaving a skillful path among carriages and horsemen until they reached the pedestrians, most of whom were strolling safely on the path designed for them.

Constantine saw her at last. But how could anyone not once he paid the proper attention to his surroundings? She was all willowy, delicate whiteness and pink-tinged complexion and lips and blue, fathomless bedroom eyes.

If the woman had chosen to be a courtesan instead of Dunbarton’s wife she would be the most celebrated one in England by now. And she would have made a veritable fortune. Of course, she had made a fortune anyway, had she not, by persuading that old fossil to marry for the first and only time in his life. And then by squeezing him dry of everything that was not nailed down by the entail.

She had a suitably respectable-looking companion with her. And she was holding court, favoring a large number of persons gathered about her—almost exclusively male—with her enigmatic half-smile and occasionally one of her white-gloved hands, on the forefinger of which winked a diamond large enough to bash out the brains of any man incautious enough to be impudent.

“Ah,” she said, turning her languid gaze from her court, most of which was forced onward by the crowd, “Lord Merton. Looking as angelically handsome as ever. I do hope Lady Paget appreciates the value of her prize.”

She was soft-spoken. Her voice was light and pleasant. Of course, she must never need to speak loudly. When she opened her mouth to speak, all about her fell silent to listen.

She favored Stephen with her hand, and he carried it to his lips and smiled at her.

“She is Lady Merton now, ma’am,” he said. “And I certainly appreciate the value of my prize.”

“Good man,” she said. “You have made the correct answer. And Lord Montford. Looking really quite … tamed. Lady Montford is to be commended.”

And she offered him her hand.

“Not at all, ma’am,” Monty said, grinning as he kissed the back of it. “I took one look at her and … was instantly tame.”

“I am glad to hear it,” she said, “though that is not quite what a little bird once told me. And Mr. Huxtable. How do you do?”

She looked at him almost with disdain, though she arched the look from beneath her eyelashes and somewhat spoiled the effect—if she had indeed intended disdain, that was. She did not offer him her hand.

“Very well indeed, Duchess, I thank you,” he said. “And all the better for having seen that you are back in town this year.”

“Flatterer,” she said, making a dismissive gesture with her ringed hand. She turned to her silent companion. “Babs, may I have the pleasure of presenting the Earl of Merton, Baron Montford, and Mr. Huxtable? Miss Leavensworth, gentlemen, is my dearest friend in the world. She has been kind enough to come and stay with me for a while before returning home to marry the vicar of the village where we grew up.”

Miss Leavensworth was tall and thin with a long, Nordic face, slightly protruding upper teeth, and fair hair. She was not an unhandsome woman.

She curtsied. They all bowed from the saddle.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Leavensworth,” Stephen said. “Are the nuptials to be soon?”

“In August, my lord,” she said. “But in the meantime I hope to see as many places of interest in London as I can. All the museums and galleries, anyway.”

The duchess was looking his horse over, Constantine could see. And then his top-boots. And then his thighs. And then … his face. She raised her eyebrows when she found him staring directly back at her.

“We must move on, Babs,” she said. “I fear we are blocking the path, and these gentlemen are holding up traffic. They are so very … large.”

And she turned and processed onward toward the next wave of admirers come to greet her and welcome her back to town.

“Goodness me,” Monty murmured. “There goes one very dangerous lady. And she has just been let off the leash.”

“Her friend seems very sensible,” Stephen said.

“It would seem,” Constantine said, “that only titled gentlemen are to be granted the great honor of kissing her hand.”

“I would not lose any sleep over that, if I were you, Con,” Monty said. “Perhaps it is only untitled gentlemen who are favored with a leisurely toe-to-head scrutiny instead of a hand.”

“Or maybe one should make that unmarried gentlemen, Monty,” Stephen said. “Perhaps the lady fancies you, Con.”

“But perhaps I do not fancy the lady,” Constantine said. “It has never been my ambition to share a mistress with half the ton.”

“Hmm,” Monty said. “Do you think that is what Dunbarton did, poor devil? Though, speaking of which, he apparently had one devil of a reputation as a dangerous character when he was a young man. He never looked like a cuckold after his marriage, did he? He always looked more like the cat who had climbed right into the cream bowl to bask and bathe there while he lapped it up.”

“I have just thought of something,” Stephen said. “It was just last year, maybe even on this very date, and in just this place that I first set eyes upon Cassandra. You were with me, Con. And if memory does not deceive me, Monty, you rode up with Kate while we were looking at her and remarking upon how uncomfortably hot she must be beneath her heavy widow’s weeds.”

“And you went on to live happily ever after with her,” Monty said. He grinned again. “Are you predicting a like fate for Con with the gorgeous duchess?”

“The sun is not shining,” Constantine said, “and it certainly is not hot. And the duchess is not in heavy mourning. Or walking alone with her companion while no one takes any notice. And I am not looking for a leg shackle, thank you kindly, Monty.”

“But then, Con,” Stephen said, waggling his eyebrows, “neither was I.”

They all chuckled—and then noticed Timothy Hood driving a spanking-new high-perch phaeton drawn by a pair of perfectly matched grays. Their attention was effectively diverted from the widow in white who had looked at him, Constantine realized now that he had had a minute or two to think about it, not so much disdainfully as provocatively.

He really was not interested. He chose his mistresses—and he took one almost every year when he was in town—with an eye to his maximum comfort for the duration of the Season.

There would be no comfort at all in a woman whose daily pastime seemed to be gathering as many adoring men about her as she could—and her ability in that regard was considerable.

He did not dance to any woman’s tune.

Or at the end of any puppet strings.

Certainly not the notorious Duchess of Dunbarton’s.