A Secret Affair

Chapter 3

OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS Barbara was confirmed in her conviction that Hannah had moved into a puzzlingly and disturbingly different world from the one they had known together in their Lincolnshire village. A less moral world. During those days Hannah told two whoppers of lies, which she would not even admit were lies.

Not real lies.

The first happened when the two of them were stepping out of a milliner’s shop on Bond Street late one morning, a footman behind them more than half hidden beneath four large hatboxes. Their intention was to see the boxes safely deposited in their waiting carriage and then proceed to a bakery a little way along the street for refreshments. But as fate would have it, Mr. Huxtable was approaching alone along the pavement. He was still some distance away and might easily have been avoided, especially as he appeared not to have noticed them among the crowd of shoppers. But Hannah waited for him to draw closer and see them.

He touched the brim of his hat, inclined his head politely, and asked them how they did.

“We have been shopping for hours,” Hannah said with a weary sigh.

That part at least seemed like a mere exaggeration to Barbara rather than an out-and-out lie. An hour and a half was longer than just one hour, after all.

“And we are absolutely parched,” Hannah continued.

Barbara was a little uncomfortable. Hannah was, of course, trying to attract Mr. Huxtable, but did she have to be so blatant about it?

But the big lie was coming up, and Barbara did not see it coming.

Mr. Huxtable responded with the gallantry almost any true gentleman would have shown under the circumstances.

“There is a bakery or a pastry cook not far from here,” he said. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you ladies there and buying you tea?”

And instead of looking grateful or perhaps embarrassed, Hannah looked sorrowful. Barbara observed the expression in surprise.

“That is extraordinarily kind of you, Mr. Huxtable,” she said, “but we are expecting visitors and must hurry home.”

And the coachman had to gather the ribbons in a hurry, and the footman had to scramble to open the carriage door, and Mr. Huxtable bowed and handed them in.

Hannah nodded graciously to him as they drove off.

“Hannah?” Barbara asked.

“One must never appear too eager,” Hannah said.

“But you practically asked him to take us for tea,” Barbara pointed out.

“I remarked on the fact that I was thirsty,” Hannah said. “That was perfectly true.”

“Are we expecting visitors?” Barbara asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” Hannah admitted, “but one never knows.”

She had lied, in other words. Barbara disapproved of lies. But she said nothing. Hannah was playing her game, of which Barbara also disapproved, but Hannah was an adult. She could choose her own course in life.

The second lie was told a few evenings later, when they were at a ball hosted by Lord and Lady Merriwether. Barbara had not wanted to attend it. It was a ton ball, and she had been to nothing grander than a country assembly her whole life.

“Nonsense,” Hannah had said when she voiced her concern. “Show me your feet, Babs.”

Barbara had lifted her skirt to just above her ankles, and Hannah had looked down at her feet, a frown between her brows.

“As I suspected,” she had said. “You have one right foot and one left. Perfect for dancing. I might have allowed you to remain at home if you had had two left feet, as some people do, poor things. Usually men. But you are coming. There is no point in arguing. You are coming. Tell me that you are.”

Barbara was—of course—at the ball, and she was quite sure her eyes might pop right out of her head if she was not careful. She had never even dreamed of such splendor. She was going to be writing very long letters home tomorrow.

They were practically mobbed as soon as they set foot in the ballroom. Or rather, Hannah was mobbed and Barbara was caught in the middle of the crowd with her. It amazed and half amused her to watch the transformation of her friend when she was in public. She hardly even looked like the person Barbara had known all her life. She looked like a … Well, like a duchess.

Mr. Huxtable was in the ballroom. He was with the two gentlemen with whom he had ridden in the park and two ladies. But he did not remain with them for long. He moved about and stopped frequently to converse with different groups.

And Hannah, Barbara observed, was careful to position herself so that she frequently caught his eye. The exchanged glances were usually accompanied by a flutter of Hannah’s white feathered fan and a glance that succeeded once or twice in looking almost forlorn. As though she were unhappy in the crowd and needed rescuing.

There were probably a few dozen ladies in the room, Barbara thought, who would have been delighted to be similarly unhappy and in need of rescuing. The power Hannah had over men was truly astounding, especially as she appeared to make no great effort to wield it. Of course, she had always drawn eyes wherever she went, even as a girl. She was one of the purely beautiful creatures of this world.

Finally Mr. Huxtable answered her silent plea and came striding across the floor.

He bowed first to Barbara and wished her a good evening. Then he bowed to Hannah.

“Duchess,” he said, “would you be good enough to dance the opening set with me?”

She looked sorrowful again.

“I regret that I cannot,” she said. “I have already promised it to someone else.”

What? Barbara blinked. Hannah had explained to her when they were on their way here that she never allowed any man to reserve a set in advance with her—not since the days when the duke still danced, anyway. And Barbara had not heard her friend agreeing to dance with anyone since they arrived. There was more to come.

“Perhaps the second, then?” Mr. Huxtable said. “Or the third?”

Hannah closed her fan and set the tip against her lips.

“I am sorry, Mr. Huxtable,” she said, sounding truly remorseful. “I have promised every dance. Perhaps some other time.”

He bowed and went away.

“Hannah?” Barbara said.

“I will dance every set,” Hannah said. “One must not appear too eager, Babs.”

And her court was back, vying for her attention again.

Such blatant and strange lies, Barbara thought. How could inviting a man’s attention and then spurning it when he gave it actually attract him? How could it convert him from a stranger into a lover?

Barbara hoped it would not. She truly believed that Hannah would be making a grave mistake in taking any man as a lover. And Mr. Huxtable, though he appeared to be a perfect gentleman, also looked very dangerous indeed. The sort of man who would not be content to be toyed with forever.

Barbara could only hope that his final reaction would be to ignore Hannah altogether.

And then Barbara’s thoughts were very effectively distracted when one gentleman asked Hannah to present him, and he bowed over Barbara’s hand and asked if he might lead her into the opening set.

She could barely restrain herself from looking down to make sure that she really did have one right foot and one left. Suddenly her mouth felt dry and her heart felt like a hammer and she very badly wanted Simon.

“Thank you.” She smiled serenely and set her hand on the gentleman’s sleeve. She had already forgotten his name.

Hannah meanwhile was displaying one of the most important attributes she had acquired over the past eleven years—patience. One must never appear too eager—or eager at all, in fact—when one wanted something. And she wanted Constantine Huxtable. He was even more attractive than she remembered from other years, and she had no doubt he would be a satisfactory lover. Probably a great deal more than satisfactory, in fact.

But she knew he did not believe that he wanted her for a lover. That had been obvious during their meeting in Hyde Park. He had stared rather stonily down at her from his vantage point on horseback, and she had concluded that he despised her. Many people did, of course, without ever really knowing her—which, to be fair, was largely her doing. But they flocked about her, nonetheless. They could not keep their eyes off her.

The duke had taught her how to be not only noticed, but irresistible.

No one admires timidity or modesty, my dearest love, he had told her on one occasion early in their marriage, when she had possessed an overabundance of both. My dearest love had been his name for her. He had never called her Hannah. Just as she had never called him anything but Duke.

She had learned never to be timid.

And never ever to be modest.

And to be patient.