A Secret Affair

Chapter 6

THERE WAS JUST empty night out there, Hannah saw when she parted the curtains and gazed out. There were no carriages, no pedestrians, no light in the windows of the houses opposite, except perhaps one flickering in a downstairs window about six houses down. She had blown out the candles in this room before looking out.

She closed the curtains and stood for a few moments at the foot of the bed. Constantine was fast asleep, one arm draped over his eyes. He was breathing deeply and evenly. One of his knees was raised and making a small tent of the bedcovers. She could see him quite clearly even in the darkness.

She wondered if he would sleep all night and smiled slightly. He had said she had exhausted him, and she was not surprised. He had run his marathon after all.

She was really very sore indeed. It was not an altogether unpleasant sensation.

She shivered in the night air and looked around for her gown. She could see it in a dark heap on the floor under her stays, no doubt horribly creased. And she could see the lighter outline of his shirt. She bent and picked it up and held it to her face for a moment. It smelled of his cologne and of him.

She pulled it on over her head, pushed her arms through the sleeves, and hugged it about herself. Goodness, but he was large. She approved of his largeness.

She considered climbing back into bed beneath the covers and curling up beside him, warming herself with his body heat. But she did not want to sleep with him. There was a certain loss of control in slumber. One never knew what one might say when asleep or when one first awoke, before one was fully conscious and aware. Or what one might feel in those unguarded hours.

She went back to the window, parted the curtains again with the backs of her hands, and looked at the sill. It was not exactly a window seat, but it was wide enough nevertheless. She pulled the curtains right back and sat on the sill, pulling her feet up onto it, wrapping her arms about herself for warmth. She rested the side of her head against the glass.

All was quiet. And dark. And peaceful.

She could still hear his deep breathing. It was a strangely comforting sound. Another human being was close.

She was not sorry. She was never sorry for anything she did, especially as she rarely acted out of impulse. All was planned and controlled in her life—as she liked it.

The only thing you can neither plan nor control, my dearest love, the duke had once told her, is love itself. When you find it, you must yield to it. But only if it is the one and only true passion of your life. Never if it is anything less than that, or life will consume you.

But how am I to know? she had asked him.

You will know. It was the only answer he had been willing to give.

She was a little afraid that she would never know love. Not that kind of love, anyway. Not the all-consuming, once-in-a-lifetime kind of which the duke had spoken—from personal experience. It surely did not happen to everyone. Maybe not to many people at all. Maybe not to her.

She had loved him. She shivered and hugged herself more tightly. Sometimes she thought she had never loved anyone else in her life but him. But that was surely not true, and there were degrees of love. She loved Barbara.

No, she was not sorry for tonight.

And she was not feeling guilty. There was no reason in the world why she should not be here with her lover, in his bedchamber, having just had marital relations with him. Except that they had not been marital, had they? Her vocabulary was really quite puritanical at times. She must do something about that. She was free and unattached, and so was he. They might have relations as often as they chose without feeling guilt.

She ought to have noticed that she could no longer hear his breathing. His voice took her by surprise.

“Anything interesting going on out there?” he asked.

She turned her head to look at him, but her eyes had adjusted to the slightly lighter darkness of the outdoors and all she could see for the moment was a dark silhouette.

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

“Are you complaining, Duchess,” he asked, “because I used up so much energy that I had to sleep?”

“And are you looking for another compliment, Constantine?” she asked in return. “I believe I have already told you that you far exceeded my expectations.”

He had thrown back the covers and was getting out of bed. He bent down to rummage among the heap of their clothing, and pulled on first his drawers, and then his pantaloons. He turned his back to her, and she heard the clink of glass against glass. He came toward her carrying two glasses of wine. He handed her one and stood with one bare shoulder propped against the window frame. He looked long and lean and virile.

All of which attributes Hannah viewed with open approval as she sipped from her glass. She could not possibly have chosen a more perfect male specimen if she had tried. He was even more splendid without his clothes—and even half clothed—than with. With many people clothes disguised a multitude of imperfections.

And he had exceeded her expectations.

Foolishly, given the fact of her soreness, she started to throb down there even thinking about how large and hard and very satisfactory he had been.

He crossed one leg carelessly over the other and drained his glass before setting it down on the end of the windowsill and crossing his arms over his chest.

“You are terribly beautiful,” she said.

“Terribly?” She could see him raise his eyebrows. “I inspire terror in you?”

She drank some more.

“You are often referred to as the devil,” she said. “You must know that. It is a little terrifying to have run a half marathon with the devil himself.”

“And survived,” he said.

“Oh, I will always survive,” she said. “And I thrive on terror—for I am never terrified, you know.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t suppose you are.”

They gazed silently out at the street for a few moments while she finished her wine. He took the empty glass from her and set it down beside his.

“Your brother, the earl,” she said. “Was he your only sibling?”

“The only surviving one,” he said. “The eldest and the youngest—the only ones tough enough to live through childhood. And then Jon died when he was sixteen.”

“Why?” she asked. “What was the cause of his death?”

“He should have died four or five years sooner than he did,” he said, “according to the physicians. He always looked different from other people—in facial features and physique, I mean. My father always called him an imbecile. So did most other people. But he was not. His mind moved slowly, it is true, but he was by no means stupid. Quite the opposite. And he was love.”

Hannah sat very still, hugging the shirt to herself. He was gazing out the window as if he had forgotten her for the moment.

“Not loving,” he said, “though he was that too. He was love itself—a love that was free and unconditional and total. And he died. I had him four years longer than I was supposed to have him.”

It was the nighttime and the darkness that made him talk so openly, Hannah suspected, and the fact that he had just been sleeping and had not yet fully armored himself with his usual defenses. She had been right not to sleep herself.

“You loved him dearly,” she said softly.

His eyes rested on her. They looked very black.

“I also hated him,” he said. “He had everything that ought to have been mine.”

“Except health,” she said.

“Except health,” he agreed. “And wisdom. He loved even me. Especially me.”

Hannah shivered again, and he reached down with both hands, clasped her upper arms, and lifted her off the sill just as if she weighed nothing at all. He wrapped his arms tightly about her as soon as her feet touched the floor, crushing her to him, and his mouth came down, open and hard, on her own.

Any attempt to struggle would be pointless, Hannah thought in the first startled moment, and it was always best not to indulge in a fight one could not win anyway. Not that she would not fight if this were something she really, really did not want, but—

Well, it was easier to stop thinking. And enjoy. For she did want it. And him.

She stepped closer until her bare feet touched his, wrapped her arms about him, and kissed him back with hot fervor. There was something different about this kiss. It was not the same game they had played earlier, before lying down on his bed. There was something more … real about this. More raw.

She stopped thinking.

And then his shirt was off over her head and his lower garments were on the floor again, and they were on the bed once more, tangled together, rolling together, first one on top and then the other, hands and mouths everywhere, even teeth, and this was indeed no game.

This was raw passion.

And she was giving as good as she got.

This was …

She should put an end to it, Hannah thought. She should say no and he would stop. She knew he would. She was not at all afraid. Not that she needed to be afraid. He was her lover. She had chosen him for just this. But—

He was on top of her, thrusting her legs wide, and she was a moment or two late saying no. Indeed, she never did say it.

He plunged inside her.

It felt like a dagger being stabbed into a raw wound.

She flinched, gasped, tried to relax, and …

And he was gone.

At least, he was not gone exactly. He was out of her body, but he was still on the bed beside her, propped on one elbow, looming over her. She was very glad she had snuffed the candles. Not that the darkness gave much cover from eyes that had become accustomed to it.

“What?” he asked.

She reached up one hand and ran the tip of her forefinger down the center of his chest.

“What indeed?” she said.

“I hurt you?” he asked.

“It was time to stop,” she said. “Once is quite enough for one night, Constantine. I must be getting home. You must not expect that I will spend all night with you now that we are lovers. That would be tedious.”

“You were not a virgin, were you?” he asked.

It was a question asked in jest, of course. But she took just a little too long to answer, and when she did, it was with haughtily raised eyebrows, the full effect of which was probably lost in the darkness.

“You were a virgin?” It was not a joke this time. It was not even really a question.

She was thirty years old. There had been no barrier left. There had been no blood. But she had still been a virgin in every way that counted.

“Is there a law against virginity?” she asked him. “I have never chosen to take a lover until now, Constantine, when I chose you. I thought you would be superior, and you are. Not that I have anyone with whom to compare you, it is true, but only a fool would wonder if perhaps you are only mediocre.”

“You were married,” he said, “for ten years.”

“To an elderly gentleman who was really not interested in that aspect of our marital relationship,” she said. “Which was just as well because I was not interested in it either. I married him for other reasons.”

“You became a duchess,” he said, supplying the only reasons there could possibly be, “and a wealthy one.”

“Positively rolling in riches,” she agreed. “And I am unlikely ever to acquire that ghastly title of dowager duchess as the current duke will almost certainly never marry. He has a mistress and ten children, ranging in age from eighteen to two, but he took her out of a brothel and will not, of course, marry her.”

“That is rather unsavory knowledge for a lady to have,” he said.

“Fortunately,” she said, “the duke—my duke—never did withhold the most interesting pieces of information from me. He heard all the most salacious gossip and came home and entertained me with it.”

“So,” he said, “no marital relations, Duchess. But what about the army of lovers you took during your marriage? Apparently took, that is.”

“You listen to too much gossip,” she said. “Or, rather, since we all listen, you believe too much. Do you really believe I would break marriage vows?”

“Even when you were getting no satisfaction from your husband?” he asked.

“I may be a merry widow now, Constantine,” she said. “Indeed, I intend to make very merry with you for the rest of the spring, though not again tonight. I may be a merry widow, but I was a faithful wife. And not because I was coerced into fidelity, though you may jump to that odious conclusion. It would be odious, you know. My duke was anything but a tyrant—to me, anyway. I chose to be faithful, just as I now choose to take a lover. I am always in control of my own life.”

He stared down at her in silence for a few moments, and for the first time it struck her that it must have taken enormous control on his part to withdraw from her when he was fully aroused, and then lie still and talk with her.

If she had said no in time, he would have stopped sooner, and they would not have had this conversation. That would teach her a lesson about hesitation.

It did not matter, though. Nothing was changed. Not for her. For him, perhaps. He had thought he was getting an experienced mistress.

“Well,” he said softly, “an outer petal falls away from the rose. Are there any more within, I wonder?”

He was not expecting an answer. He got none. Whatever was he talking about, anyway?

“I might have run the race with you with somewhat less, ah, vigor if I had known,” he said. “I might—”

“Constantine,” she said, interrupting him, “if you ever try to patronize me or be gentle with me or humor me as a delicate lady, I shall—”

“Yes?” he said.

“I shall drop you,” she said, “as I would a live coal. And by the next day I shall have another lover, twice as handsome and three times as virile as you. I shall not spare you another thought.”

“And that is a threat?” he asked, sounding anything but threatened.

“Of course not,” she said scornfully. “I never make threats. Why ever would I need to? It is information. It is what will happen if you should ever try to treat me as anything less than I am.”

“I was merely telling you,” he said, “that the way a man makes love to a virgin is different from the way he does it with an experienced woman. I would have given you no less pleasure, Duchess. Perhaps I would have given you more.”

His free hand, she realized, was stroking lightly over her abdomen. It was warmer than her own flesh.

“I suppose,” she said, “you make love to a virgin at least once a fortnight.”

She could see his teeth very white in contrast to the rest of his face. He was smiling. That was a rare enough event—and there was no daylight with which to see it properly.

“One hates to boast,” he said, “or exaggerate. Once a month.”

He bent his head and kissed her softly on the mouth.

“I am sorry,” he murmured.

She tapped him sharply on one cheek.

“You must never ever say you are sorry,” she said. “You must never even feel sorry. If you always act with deliberate intent, there is nothing to be sorry about. And if you act in ignorance, there is nothing to apologize for. I do not apologize for having been a virgin until an hour or two ago. It was what I chose to be. And I do not apologize for withholding the information from you. It is something you did not need to know. It was, as you said on the night of the concert when I asked about your quarrel with the Duke of Moreland, none of your business. And while we are on this topic, I will tell you now that for the rest of this spring, while we are having our affair, I will be faithful to you. And I expect that you will be faithful to me. I will go home now.”

“There may be no more petals on the bloom,” he said, “but there are certainly thorns enough on the stem. I do believe, Duchess, you may be quite confident of my fidelity for the next few months. I would not have the physical stamina to take on another one like you—or even unlike you, for that matter. Lie there for a while, and I will go and rouse my coachman. He will not be delighted. He expects to be called out early in the morning, but I believe this hour qualifies more as middle of the night than morning.”

He got out of bed as he spoke and pulled on his clothes.

Hannah lay where she was until he had left the room.

Well, this had been an interesting night. And not an altogether comfortable one. It had not turned out anything like what she had expected.

For one thing, the actual … experience had been far more carnal than anything she had imagined. Oh, and probably at least twice as pleasurable too, even if it had left her annoyingly sore.

But it had also left her with the uneasy suspicion that having a lover was going to involve a little more than just sprightly innuendo and vigorous bed sport. And she really had not expected or wanted more.

She suspected that this liaison with Constantine Huxtable was going to involve some sort of relationship, just as her marriage had.

She did not want a relationship. Not this time.

Except that she did. She just wanted it to be one-sided or on her terms. She realized that fact with some surprise. Right from the start she had wanted to know more about him—everything about him, in fact. She had told him so. He was such a dark, mysterious man. Certain things were known about him. But she did not know anyone who knew him. Her duke had not, though he had spoken of him from time to time. He had suspected that Constantine’s brooding darkness held hatred, that his often charming social manner held love, and that therefore he was a complex, dangerous, impossibly attractive man. He had actually said that.

It was probably in those words that she had found the seed of her decision to take Mr. Constantine Huxtable for a lover.

Tonight he had told her he had hated his young, mentally handicapped brother. And yet she could tell him with the greatest confidence that he had loved his brother too. Probably to the point of great pain.

What she had not realized until tonight, fool that she was, was that a relationship could not be an entirely one-sided thing. He had found out more about her tonight than she had about him.

Good heavens!

Her reputation would be in tatters if he told the ton what he had discovered tonight. Not that he would tell, of course.

But he knew.

How provoking!

She did not want a relationship. She wanted only … well, she must learn to use the word. The duke had always used it in her hearing, and she was not missish. She wanted only sex with Constantine Huxtable.

And it really had been glorious tonight, the sex. It had not even been painful until afterward. While it had been happening, it could have gone on all night as far as she was concerned. Poor Constantine. He would be dead.

Hannah snorted inelegantly as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and found her stockings.

SHE DID NOT WANT HIM to go with her, but Constantine gave her no choice. He handed her into the carriage and climbed in beside her. He took her hand in his and rested it on his thigh.

She looked more her usual self in her white cloak, the wide hood pulled up over her head.

He would never see her the same way again, though. Which was understandable, of course. He had seen her without the clothes and the careful coiffure. He had possessed her body.

But it was not just that.

At least in one respect she was not the woman everyone thought her to be, that everyone assumed her to be. The sort of woman she had surely gone out of her way to pretend to be.

Her marriage to the duke had never been consummated. That was not particularly surprising in itself. There had been endless speculation about it, in fact. But all those lovers she had flaunted before society—Zimmer, Bentley, Hardingraye, to name just a few.

Not lovers.

He had been her first.

It was a dizzying thought. He had never before been anyone’s first. He had never wanted to be.

Good Lord!

“You will need a few days to recover, Duchess,” he said as the carriage neared Hanover Square. “Shall we say next Tuesday, after the Kitteridge ball?”

She would never allow him the last word, of course—though she had at the garden party yesterday afternoon, had she not? It was her turn, then.

“Next Monday night,” she said. “The duke keeps a box at the theater, but there is no one to use it except me. I have promised Barbara that we will go. I shall invite Mr. and Mrs. Park too, and perhaps their son, the clergyman, if he is in town. You will escort me.”

“The perfect group,” he said. “A clergyman, a clergyman’s betrothed—though not to the aforementioned clergyman, the first clergyman’s parents, and the Duchess of Dunbarton with her new paramour, sometimes known as the devil.”

“One always likes to provide interesting topics for drawing room conversations,” she said.

Yes, he could imagine one did if one happened to be the Duchess of Dunbarton.

He lifted her hand to his lips as he felt the carriage turning into the square and then slowing and stopping. He lowered his head and kissed her mouth.

“I shall look forward to Monday night with the greatest impatience,” he said.

“But not Monday evening?” she asked.

“I will tolerate it,” he said. “Dessert is always more appetizing at the end of a meal, after all, as we discovered this evening.”

And he rapped on the inside of the carriage door to indicate to his coachman that they were ready to descend.

Someone had already been roused inside the house. The doors opened even as Constantine stepped down to the pavement and turned to hand the duchess down.

A moment later he watched her ascend the steps unhurriedly, her back straight, her head high. The doors closed quietly behind her.

This felt a little different from his usual springtime affair, Constantine thought.

A little less comfortable.

A little more erotic.

What the devil had he meant—I also hated him.

He had never hated Jon. Not even for the merest moment. He had loved him. He still mourned him. Sometimes he thought he would never stop grieving. There was a huge, empty black hole where Jon had been.

I also hated him.

He had spoken those words to the Duchess of Dunbarton, of all people.

What the devil had he meant?

And what else was she hiding apart from the minor, now-revealed fact that she had come to him tonight as a virgin?

The answer was absolutely nothing, of course. She had readily admitted that she married Dunbarton for the title and the money. And now she was using her freedom and power to take a little sensual pleasure for herself.

He could hardly blame her.

He turned and frowned at his coachman, who was waiting for him to climb back inside the carriage.

“Take it home,” he said. “I’ll walk.”

His coachman shook his head slightly and shut the door.

“Right you are, sir,” he said.