A Secret Affair

Chapter 5

CONSTANTINE HUXTABLE did not take bachelor rooms in the area of St. James’s and all the gentlemen’s clubs, as many gentlemen did when they were in town alone. Instead, he leased a house each year in an area quite respectable enough for his status in society, but not quite fashionable enough to impinge upon his privacy.

Or so Hannah guessed as the coachman handed her down onto the pavement outside his door and she looked curiously up and down the street. It was still daylight. They were to dine relatively early.

A servant had already opened the door of the house. Hannah lifted the hems of her cloak and dress, climbed the steps, and swept past him into a square, spacious hall with a black and white tiled floor and landscapes in heavy gilded frames hanging on the walls.

Constantine Huxtable was standing in the middle of the hall, all in black, as usual, and looking really very satanic indeed.

“Duchess?” He made her an elegant bow. “Welcome to my home.”

“I hope,” she said, “your chef has excelled himself this evening. I have not eaten since the garden party, and I am famished.”

“He will be dismissed without a reference tomorrow morning if he has not,” he said, stepping forward to take her cloak.

“How very ruthless you are,” she said and stood where she was, a few steps inside the door.

He pursed his lips slightly and came even closer in order to lower her hood and then undo the clasp that held her cloak closed at the throat. He removed the garment and handed it to the silent servant without taking his eyes off her. They moved very deliberately down her body and back up to her head and down to her eyes.

There was not a flicker of surprise in his eyes. But there was something there. Some suggestion of heat, perhaps. He had been taken by surprise.

Hannah wished that after all she had brought a fan.

“You are looking particularly lovely this evening, Duchess,” he said and offered her his arm.

He led her to a room that was small and square and cozy. Heavy draperies drawn across the window shut out the last vestiges of the daylight. The only light came from the fire crackling in the hearth and two long tapers in crystal holders set on a smallish table in the middle of the room. The table was set for two.

This was not the dining room, Hannah guessed.

He had chosen a more intimate setting.

He crossed to a sideboard and poured two glasses of wine before pulling on a bell rope. He handed one of the glasses to Hannah.

“On an empty stomach, Mr. Huxtable?” she asked. “Do you wish to see me dancing on the table?”

“Not on the table, Duchess,” he said, clinking his glass against hers in a silent toast.

She sipped her wine.

“But I need no encouragement to dance elsewhere,” she told him. “The wine will be wasted on me.”

“Then I hope that at least it tastes good,” he said.

It did, of course.

The butler and a footman entered with their food, and they took their places at the table.

The chef was excellent, Hannah soon discovered. They ate in near-silence for a while.

“Tell me,” she said at last, “about your home, Mr. Huxtable.”

“About Warren Hall?” he said.

“That was your home,” she said. “It is the Earl of Merton’s now. Do you have a good relationship with him?”

But they had been riding in the park together.

“An excellent one,” he said.

“And where do you live now?” she asked.

He indicated the room with one hand.

“Here,” he said.

“But not all year,” she said. “Where do you live when you are not in town?”

“I have a home in Gloucestershire,” he told her.

She stared at him while their soup bowls were removed and the fish course was set before them.

“You are not going to tell me about it, are you?” she said. “How tiresome of you. Another secret to add to the one concerning your quarrel with the Duke of Moreland. And to add to the mystery of why you have an excellent relationship with the Earl of Merton when he stole the title that should rightfully be yours.”

He set his knife and fork down quietly across his plate. He looked into her eyes across the table. His looked very black.

“You have been misinformed, Duchess,” he said. “The title was never to be mine. There was never any question that it might be. It was my father’s and then my younger brother’s, and now it is my cousin’s. I have no reason to resent any of them. I loved my father and brother. I am fond of Stephen. They are all family. One is meant to love family.”

Ah, she had rubbed him on the raw. His voice and manner were perfectly controlled, but …

Too controlled?

“Except the Duke of Moreland,” she said.

He continued to look at her and neglect his food.

Their plates were borne away and another course brought on.

“And what about your family, Duchess?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“There is the duke,” she said. “The current duke, that is. He is blameless and harmless and about as interesting as the corn and the sheep upon which he dotes. And the duke, my husband, had an army of other relatives, with none of whom he was remotely close.”

“And your family?” he asked.

She picked up her glass, twirled it slowly for the pleasure of seeing the light of the candle refracted off the crystal, and sipped the wine.

“None,” she said. “And so there is nothing to say. No secrets to hide or divulge. Let me tell you about my home in Kent—Copeland. The duke bought it for me five years ago. He always referred to it as my quaint little country box, but it is neither quaint nor little nor a box. It is a manor, even a mansion. And it has a park that rolls away in all four directions from the house in a rural splendor that is half cultivated, half not. At least, it is all well kept, but it is all natural woodland and natural grassland and a natural lake. There are no arbors or parterres or wilderness walks. It really is quite … rustic. That is something the duke might have called it without any sacrifice of accuracy.”

She cut into her beef, which looked and felt as if it had been cooked to perfection.

“It is all perhaps a little too natural for you, Duchess?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I fear it is. I feel that I ought to impose my human will upon it all, that it ought to look pretty, as the garden this afternoon looked pretty.”

“And yet?” He paused in his eating again.

“And yet,” she said, “I confess to liking it as it is. Nature needs to be tamed sometimes. It is only civilized. But ought we to force it to be something it is not meant to be just for the sake of beauty? What is beauty?”

“Now there,” he said, “is a question for the ages.”

“You must come and see for yourself,” she said, “and tell me what you think.”

“I must come?” He raised his eyebrows. “To Kent?”

“I shall arrange a brief house party a little later in the Season when everyone is starting to find the endless round of balls here tedious,” she said. “It will all be perfectly respectable, I assure you, though everyone will know by then, of course, that we are lovers. People always do know these things, even when they are not true. Which will not be the case with us. You will give me your opinion about the park.”

“And you will follow my advice?” he asked.

“Quite possibly not,” she said. “But I will listen anyway.”

“I am honored,” he said.

“And I am full,” she announced. “You will give your chef my compliments, Mr. Huxtable?”

“I will,” he said. “He will be vastly relieved to know that he is not to be dismissed tomorrow morning. Do you not want cheese or coffee? Or tea?”

She did not. She had been trying all evening to distract herself with conversation. And she had been trying to pretend to herself that she was hungry—which she ought to be since she really had not eaten since the garden party, when he had filled a plate with dainties for her from the table on the upper terrace.

She rested one elbow on the table, set her chin in her hand, and gazed at him between the two candles.

“Only dessert, Mr. Huxtable,” she said and felt all the delicious anticipation of what she had dreamed about through the second half of her year of mourning and planned during the months since Christmas.

Anticipation and trepidation too. She must certainly not show the latter. It would seem quite out of character.

She was so glad it was him. She would have been disappointed if he had not been in town this year. Not devastated. She had had other, perfectly eligible alternatives in mind. But none quite to match Constantine Huxtable.

She thought he might be an extraordinary lover. In fact, she was quite confident that he would be.

And she was about to find out if she was right. He had stood up, pushing his chair out of the way with the backs of his legs, and he was coming the short distance around the table to offer her his hand.

It was warm and firm, she discovered as she set her own in it. And he seemed somehow taller and broader when she got to her feet. His cologne, the same as she had noticed before, wrapped about her senses again.

“Let us go and have it, then,” he said, “without further ado.”

She looked up at him through her eyelashes.

“I do hope this chef does not disappoint,” she said.

“If he does, Duchess,” he said, “I shall not only dismiss him in the morning, I shall also take him out to some remote spot and shoot him.”

“Drastic measures indeed,” she said. “And what a waste it would be of all that Greek beauty. But doubtless it will be quite unnecessary. For he will not disappoint. I will not allow it.”

He tucked her arm through his and led her from the room.

THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE was sometimes quite inadequate to express one’s thoughts, Constantine had been realizing all evening. What words were there to describe something that was more beautiful than beautiful and more perfect than perfect?

He had always thought of the Duchess of Dunbarton as a perfectly beautiful woman even when he had not felt particularly drawn to her.

Tonight she exceeded those superlatives.

He could not remember ever seeing her in any color but white. He had always thought it remarkably clever of her to make that single color her signature, so to speak. But of course, this departure from the norm was equally clever—and stunning.

She looked … Well, she looked those words that did not exist. Stunning was perhaps the only word that was even remotely adequate.

His cook might have served them leather and gravel for all the attention he had paid to his meal. And all the while he had had to concentrate hard upon not gawking.

The color of her gown and jewels transformed her from an ice queen into some sort of fertility goddess. And her hair, which every male member of the ton had probably dreamed of seeing tumble about her shoulders, was in a billow of riotous waves down her back while it hugged her head in shining smoothness.

The décolletage of her gown left little to the imagination and yet teased it nevertheless. Just one inch lower …

Monty had called her dangerous that afternoon in Hyde Park.

She was more dangerous than the Sirens of mythology.

And she had carried on a conversation that contained almost none of the innuendo that usually characterized their verbal exchanges. Indeed, when she had got to talking about her home in Kent, she had sounded … warm. As if she genuinely liked the place.

She was very, very clever. He was going to have to be very careful, he thought as he led her in silence up the stairs in the direction of his bedchamber. Though he did not know quite over what he needed to exercise care. They were about to become lovers, after all. And they would remain lovers, probably, for the whole Season.

Not any longer than that, of course. And if she wished to make it not so long, well then, that was her choice. He was not going to be heartbroken, was he?

There was a single branch of candles burning on the low chest in the corner of his room. The bedcovers had been turned back, the curtains drawn across the window, a wine decanter and glasses left on a tray beside the bed. Everything was ready.

He closed the door behind them.

The Duchess of Dunbarton sighed audibly as she slipped her arm from his and turned toward him. It sounded almost like the purr of a contented cat.

“There is nothing quite like the pleasure of anticipation, is there?” she said. “It has been humming through my blood since this afternoon, I must confess. I am not at all sorry I decided to cancel my earlier appointment and come here instead.”

She set the tip of her finger lightly against the point of his chin and moved it slowly back and forth. Her eyes followed her finger.

“I am not altogether sorry either,” he admitted.

“You will savor every moment, I trust,” she said. “I do hope you are not one of those men who feel they must demonstrate their masculinity by the speed with which they run the race.”

Her eyes came up to his though she did not raise her head.

“Alas, Duchess,” he said, “I do plan to run a race. A marathon. Do you know your Greek history?”

“Many miles?” she said. “Many hours? Almost superhuman endurance?”

“You do know it,” he said.

Her hand slipped downward to rest on his shoulder. Her other hand came up to rest on the other.

“You had better not expend any more energy on talk, then, Mr. Huxtable,” she said. “You had better begin this endurance race, this marathon, without further delay.”

And her glorious blue bedroom eyes gazed dreamily into his.

He lowered his head and set his lips to hers.

He rested his hands on either side of her small waist while she slid her hands about his neck and pressed her lips back against his own.

She was hot, already very much aroused despite her clear warning to him not to forget the importance of foreplay.

He had not expected a passionate woman, and perhaps he would be proved right once they got fully launched into this encounter. Perhaps after all she would be the skilled, experienced, sensual, controlled lover he had thought she would be. And perhaps she was clever enough, confident enough, to throw passion into the mix as well.

He enjoyed passion, though he rarely got it with any of his mistresses, he realized. Passion involved some feeling, some emotion, a little bit of risk. Most of the women he had bedded had been looking for some companionship and a lot of vigorous sex. And that had always suited him too. Better no passion at all than too much of the wrong sort.

Passion could lead to an unwelcome emotional attachment. He did not want any woman attached to him that way. It had never been his wish to hurt any woman.

But the objective thoughts were only fleeting. She had pressed her bosom against his chest, her abdomen and thighs against his, and her mouth had angled and opened over his.

He felt a flaring of intense desire.

At last!

It was many months since he had had a woman. He had not realized quite how famished he was.

He lifted his hands to cup her face, to hold it a few inches from his own. And he slid his hands around the base of her head to the jeweled clasp that kept her hair confined. He unclasped it and let it fall to the carpet. He took her hair in both hands to rearrange it. It needed no encouragement but spread across her back and over her shoulders in a gleaming cloud of soft waves.

He almost hissed in an audible breath.

She looked ten years younger. She looked … innocent. With bedroom eyes that even in the dim candlelight looked very blue. An innocent Siren—an enticing oxymoron.

“I cannot do the like for you,” she said, “though some might say your hair is a little overlong for fashion. You must not cut it, though. I forbid it.”

“I am to be your love slave and ever obedient?” he asked, dipping his head to kiss her behind one earlobe, holding her hair back with one finger as he did so. He flicked his tongue over the soft flesh there at the last moment, and had the satisfaction of feeling a slight tremor run through her.

“Not at all,” she said, “but you will do what pleases me because it pleases you. I shall remove your coat since you wear no hair clasp.”

It was not easy. His valet had a hard enough time getting him into his coats so that they fit him, as fashion dictated, like a second skin. But her fingers fluttered over his chest beneath it and up over his shoulders and down along his arms, and his coat obediently followed the path her hands took and soon fell to the floor behind him.

It was not, he thought, the first time she had done that.

Her eyes moved over his shirt and cravat, and then her hands moved up to the latter and deftly removed it. She undid the buttons at his throat and opened the top of his shirt.

Constantine watched her as she worked, her eyes on what she was doing, her lips slightly parted.

There was no hurry. Absolutely no hurry at all. They had all night, and there were no prizes for the number of times he would mount her. Once might well be enough on this first occasion.

“You look magnificent in a shirt,” she said. “Manly and virile. Take it off.”

She was not going to do it for him?

He looked into her face as he pulled his shirt free of his waistband, undid the buttons at his wrists, crossed his arms, and drew the garment off over his head. She watched what he was doing, and then her eyes roamed over his shoulders, his upper arms, his chest and down to the waistband of his pantaloons. She set her fingertips against his chest.

He nudged her hands aside with the backs of his, drew the satin of her gown to the edges of her shoulders, and then slid his thumbs into the décolletage of her gown at the center. He slid them outward, hooking the bodice under her breasts as he did so—something he had wanted to do every moment as they dined.

Her breasts were not particularly large. But they were firm and well shaped and uptilted—helped by her stays, it was true—and they fit, warm and soft, in his hands. Her skin was fair, almost translucent in comparison to his. Her nipples were rosy and pebbled with sexual desire. He lowered his head and sucked one into his mouth. He rubbed his tongue over the tip.

He felt, rather than heard, her deep inward breath.

He moved his mouth to the other breast.

“Mmm.” She made a sound of appreciation deep in her throat, threaded her fingers through his hair, and lifted his head. She tipped her own head back, hair streaming behind her, her eyes closed, and brought her breasts against his chest and then the rest of her body against his. She brought his face to her own, her mouth opening as it touched his.

He wrapped his arms about her, bringing her even closer, and abandoned himself for a long while to a kiss in which tongues thrust and parried and circled and stroked and teased and arms strained and breath quickened.

Then her arms moved down his back, her fingers pressing hard into his flesh. They kept on going when they reached his waist—beneath his pantaloons and his drawers. They spread over his buttocks.

“Take these off,” she said into his mouth, pressing the backs of her fingers against the fabric.

Again—she was not going to do it herself? But she had already proved to him tonight that she was mistress of the unexpected. She watched as he removed first his shoes and stockings, and then his pantaloons and drawers. And she held her gown beneath her bosom—until he was finished. Then she released her hold, and the emerald green satin slithered down to the floor, and she stood before him in her stays and her silk stockings and slippers.

He would surely have taken her there and then if he had not had a glimmering of an understanding of how confining stays must be for a woman—and if he had not promised a marathon. He unlaced her instead and dropped the stays on top of her gown.

A strange thing, fashion. She doubtless would not feel dressed without her stays, but she did not need them. She was slender and firm-muscled and shapely. Her breasts were firm and youthful. Her legs were long and slim. Sometimes she gave the illusion of being small in stature, but it was an illusion.

She sat on the side of his bed, her arms braced behind her, and lifted one of her legs toward him, her toes pointed. He drew off her stocking and then the other when she offered him that leg.

He leaned over her, bearing her back to the mattress, and kissed her deeply and open-mouthed, covering her breasts with his hands as he did so. He moved between her spread legs. Her arms were stretched out along the bed.

“How long does it take to run a marathon?” she asked when he lifted his head some time later. There was color in her cheeks, he could see.

“A whole night if necessary,” he said. “Of course, it is always possible to cheat a little, to take shortcuts when no one is looking, to reach the finish line in considerably less than the whole night.”

“I am all in favor of doing naughty things when no one is looking,” she said, her fingers tiptoeing over his shoulders.

“Very well, then,” he said.

It was a huge relief actually. He was already aroused to the point of discomfort.

He straightened up and slid his hands beneath her, lifting her fully onto the bed, and turning her so that she lay along it instead of across. He peeled back the covers to the foot of the bed and lay down on his side, half over her, his head propped on one hand.

Her hands lay palm-down on the mattress.

He cupped her chin with one hand and kissed her as his hand moved downward, between her breasts, over her flat stomach, over the mound below, and between her legs. She was warm and moist there. He found her opening and pressed two fingers a little way inside her.

“Mmm.” That deep sound in her throat again.

He rolled on top of her, spread her legs wide with his own, slid his hands beneath her to hold her firm, found the opening again, and thrust his full length deep into her.

There was the shock of heat, wetness, tight muscles, soft woman.

He imposed control on his breathing, on his bodily reactions. The time of greatest enjoyment had come—at last—and he would not rush its conclusion, even with the encouragement she had given and his own driving need. He held still and noticed the almost rigid tension of her body only gradually relaxing. He waited for her.

The Duchess of Dunbarton.

Hannah.

He had a sudden mental image of her as he had seen her in the park that afternoon when he had been with Stephen and Monty.

Her arms wrapped loosely about his waist. Her legs lifted from the bed one at a time to twine about his. Heat radiated from her.

He lifted his head and looked down into her face.

Her eyes were in shadow. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth.

“The finish line is in sight,” he murmured, “though it is still some distance off.”

She had nothing to say. Her eyes closed, and he felt her clench hard about him.

He withdrew from her, heard her wordless murmur of protest, and pressed inward hard and deep again. And he repeated the motion until the rhythm matched his heartbeat and his whole being seemed immersed in the wet heat at the heart of her.

She was exquisite.

It was exquisite.

But it—the sex—could not be enjoyed without the awareness of who was giving him such pleasure. And she was clever to the end. Instead of the skilled moves he had expected—and had thought he wanted—she lay open and receptive and almost passive.

He had steeled himself for long endurance during foreplay and had been reprieved—though he would have enjoyed every moment of it if she had not reprieved him. He used the unexpended energy and control on the real play, the intercourse, the sex with the woman who would be his mistress for the next few months.

He played long and hard and deep in her until thought was gone and only the pounding pleasure-pain of thrust and withdrawal remained, and the woman’s open receptiveness.

Hannah’s receptiveness.

She was hot and slick with sweat and the juices of sex. Her breathing was labored.

And then even endurance went, and the ache of physical need broke the bonds of his control. His hands went beneath her again and held her while he plunged faster and harder and then pressed deeper than deep and held and … released into her. Spilled into her.

He felt all the tension drain from his body as he relaxed down onto her. She had her head turned on his shoulder, her face away from him. She held him with her arms and legs—and he felt her gradually relax with him.

He drew free of her, felt the coolness of the air against his damp body, and reached down to pull the bedcovers up over them. He turned his head to look at her. Her hair was damp and in a riot of curls. Her eyes were blue again in the candlelight and were gazing back into his.

“I was quite right about you,” she said.

“Is that good?” he asked her. “Or is it bad?”

“To be perfectly honest,” she said, “I was not right. You are far better than I expected, Mr. Huxtable.”

“Constantine,” he said. “Con to most people.”

“I shall always call you Constantine,” she said. “Why shorten a perfectly wonderful name? And you have passed the audition with flying colors. You have the part for a lengthy spell.”

Lengthy?

“Until the summer, that is,” she said. “Until I go home to Kent to stay and you go to wherever it is you live in Gloucestershire.”

“How do you know,” he said, “that you have passed the audition?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t be foolish, Constantine,” she said.

And it struck him that he was not certain she had climaxed with him. She certainly had not done so before or after him.

Had she? Climaxed, that was?

And what did it mean if she had not? That he had failed her? Her words indicated quite the contrary. That for her even sex was a matter of power and control, then? Oh, and some enjoyment too. She had certainly enjoyed herself.

He would prefer to know, though, that she had enjoyed herself to completion. He would not ask her, however.

“I shall put you to the test again later,” he said. “For now you have exhausted me, Duchess, and I need to recoup my strength.”

“Hannah,” she said. “My name is Hannah.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, rolling onto his back and setting the back of one hand over his eyes. “Duchess.”

He was not going to get too close to her. Which was a somewhat absurd thought under the circumstances.

He was not going to get emotionally close.

She was not going to control him.

That was something that was not going to happen.

He really was exhausted. Pleasantly so. He stretched luxuriously beneath the covers. He could feel her body heat along his right side. He could smell her—a mingling of expensive perfume and sweat. An erotically pleasant smell.

He drifted off to sleep.

And woke up an indeterminate amount of time later to find the bed empty beside him, the curtains drawn back from the window, and the Duchess of Dunbarton, clothed only in his white shirt and her white-blond hair, sitting on the wide window ledge, her legs drawn up before her, her arms wrapped about herself, gazing out through the window.

Fortunately—very fortunately—the candles had all burned themselves out. She would have made a very interesting window ornament to anyone glancing up from the street below, even clad in his shirt.

The fact that the candles had burned out, of course, meant that he must have slept most of the night. Though he could see when he gazed into the corner that the tapers were still fairly long.

She had had the good sense to snuff them, then, before taking up her place in the window.

“Anything interesting going on out there?” he asked, linking his hands behind his head.

She turned her head to look at him.

“No, nothing at all,” she said. “Just as there is not in here.”

Well. He had walked straight into that one.