by Kim Bowman
“I’m not convinced.” Throckmorton’s mouth dipped into a deeper frown.
Simon peered from Percy to the duke. “Marriage to Percy includes a dukedom, a vast inheritance, financial security, and the promise of happiness for Constance and her children. For what it’s worth, Percy offered his own money to fund our missions, but I talked him out of it.”
“Perhaps you should have listened to him, brother.”
“I regret nothing,” Simon admitted. “I’ve done no wrong.”
“So, what would you have me do?” Throckmorton asked. “I stand to lose more than I can bear. I will not allow Constance to suffer on my account.”
Percy understood. “In order to preempt any agreement you’ve made with Burton, I suggest an announcement be made posthaste to keep the man from creating a scene.”
Percy strode to the door. Throckmorton hadn’t agreed, yet he knew what the man would do. Love had a terrible way of tilting the scales. And at that particular moment, he was thankful for the theatrics he’d adapted as second nature. His hand hesitated on the knob when Simon’s words stopped him in his tracks.
“Make things right, Stanton.”
“That has always been my intention,” he replied. He wasn’t worthy of Throckmorton’s or Simon’s trust, or least of all, Constance’s affections. But he was reliable.
“Make it so,” Throckmorton demanded.
Percy nodded, hesitating slightly before slipping out into the hallway as quietly as he’d entered the room.
One thought weighed heavily on his mind. Would Constance want him?
Chapter Fourteen
Dancers laughed gaily beneath gilded candelabras as they circumnavigated the polished oak floor, stomping a staccato beat to the lilting strains of the four-man orchestra. Constance tapped her silk-slippered pointed toe, eager to join in the merriment. Flanked by Winifred and Eleanor, who giggled behind wafting fans, she listened half-heartedly as they discussed the merits of eligible men present. In the forefront of her mind, one thought held sway: staying far away from the man who could potentially ruin her life. Lord Montgomery Burton.
“Lord Billings is quite extraordinary, is he not?”
“Honestly, Winifred. The man is twice your age. Surely you would be better suited to Lord Todd. He’s young, pleasant in demeanor, and most of all, he gazes longingly at you when you are not aware,” Eleanor boasted, her broad smile revealing dimples in her cheeks.
“Todd has not made his intentions known. Billings, however, has been quite amiable. Perhaps Todd could learn a thing or two from him.”
Constance settled her gaze on Billings. Small with a rodent’s posture, he was a most disagreeable choice for her friend. She frowned and worried her upper lip. Winnie could do so much better.
“You should give Todd your attention, Winnie,” Constance said.
Eleanor nodded. “Yes. He’s quite well-heeled.”
Winifred fanned herself rapidly as the man in question spun a beautiful brunette across the dance floor.
“Todd would be most agreeable to a woman who can choose her own destiny.”
“How so?” Winnie asked.
Constance smiled. She and Eleanor had worked hard to ease Winifred out of her bookish shell. “For one thing, dearest,” Constance said, locking gazes with Winifred, “he only has eyes for you.”
“You could have fooled me,” her friend spat, examining the twirling dancers. “I don’t believe the man’s spoken two words to me since I arrived.”
“Have you given him reason to believe you’d receive him?” Eleanor prodded.
Winifred snapped her fan. “Heavens no!”
“You must hint at your affections, Winnie. Else you’ll lose Todd to Justine Ludd,” Constance said. “Watch the way she bats her eyes at him. It’s shameful.”
Constance observed the seductive curve of Justine’s arm, her body angled at Todd in such a way to heighten the effect of her half-lidded, wanton gaze. Intent on figuring out a way to nullify the woman’s display, she barely noticed Burton angrily pushing his way into the throng.
“Fans,” Eleanor signaled. “Lord Burton must not pluck our bud from the vine.”
Bud? Why did the comparison remind Constance of Thomas? “Leave the wilted blossom be.” Suddenly she knew. While instructing Winnie on how to encourage Todd’s affections and chose her own destiny, she’d secretly been longing for the same right. She wanted to be rescued from the ball. And the only man capable of standing up to Burton — Thomas Sexton — hadn’t been invited.
Not the only man. Marquess Stanton had exchanged quite a duel of words with Burton and won. And he was in attendance. She smiled.
Burton drew closer. Trying to hide her alarm, she sighted Guffald staring at her forlornly. Though handsome, worthy of any woman’s love and affection, he didn’t appeal any more than Burton. Part of her ached for the uniformed man and eagerly wished she could accept what he offered. Guilt, unnecessary to be sure, but heartfelt, stabbed her heart anew. What she wouldn’t give to be able to choose a husband amongst the eligible men present like her friends, free of the worry she carried on her shoulders. Unlike her friends, she had no choice. If she wanted to keep her father from financial ruin, if she didn’t want her child to grow up a bastard, she would marry and fast. Hers would not be a love match.
“There you are.”
Constance jumped, startled out of her doldrums. She pushed aside her friend’s fluttering fans, watched Burton switch directions, and then, danger past, gazed up into the most hospitable of eyes.
“My lord,” she purred, peering at him through her lashes, exhilarated by his nearness.
“Were you trying to hide from me, Lady Constance?” Stanton prodded, his dark eyes reflecting glimmers of light from the chandelier.
“I would never dream of giving you such a slight, my lord. Allow me to introduce you to my friends. Lady Winifred Simmons and Miss Eleanor Mason.”
Winifred and Eleanor curtsied, gave their excuses, and quickly scurried away.
“Odd’s fish. What have I done to frighten away your friends?” he asked, his quizzing glass balanced on his nose as he observed their hasty departure with feigned upset.
Constance grinned and replied with admirable gravity, “No, my lord. You happened upon a private moment between friends, that is all.”
He tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his arm, intent on leading her to the other end of the room. On contact, a heated excitement spread throughout Constance’s body. Shocked by the betrayal, she retracted her arm.
“Is anything amiss?” he asked. His brow rose quizzically.
“Forgive me,” she said, placing her hand on her drumming heart. “I fear you’ve given me quite a shock.”
His eyes locked on hers. “By taking your arm?” he decreed. “I have done even more outrageous things and have been called to heel by the ton because of them. If I have overstepped, please do not take offense.” The devilish grin on his face suggested he was not apologizing and would do it again if given the chance.
“You give yourself too little or too much credit. I cannot decide which.”
“Were you in the know, you’d condemn me most readily.” He winked and then bowed low, releasing his scent of sandalwood and spice. Upon rising, his eyes held a passionate twinkle. Earthy and brown, friendly and trusting, his eyes were laudanum for her nerves. Though they had only just met, Stanton’s charm, his casual mocking of the ton, self-loathing, and fashionable wit had earned her favor. Yet, even as her heart opened to him, it was hard to forget Thomas. The man she wanted but couldn’t have. Stanton’s non-threatening, mischievous flamboyancy bewitched, but she couldn’t be parted from Thomas’ memory and the feelings she held most dear. Nor could she forget Burton, a loathsome character bent on ensnaring her like a ravenous spider. In both cases, the danger was real to her person and her immortal soul.
“I take it, from your silence, you censure me.”
Lost in her musings, she hadn’t realized a le
ngthy silence had descended between them. She quickly apologized. “No, my lord. My silence was not a reflection on your character.”
Stanton took her hand in his and stroked his white gloved fingers over her nimble digits. “I’ve never met a woman like you.”
“Nor I a man like you,” she affirmed. Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Thomas was a pirate. He would never be an affluent peer like the man who stood before her. Just as the pristinely dressed rake before her wasn’t a pirate.
The music stopped.
Stanton placed a finger on his nose as if deep in thought. “How to reveal this without causing a stir,” he proposed.
“Reveal what? Causing what stir?” she asked, intensely curious.
“There is no other way to explain except straightforwardly,” he said, taking both her hands in his. “You’ve captivated me, Lady Constance.”
“How can that be, my lord? You do not know me. Perhaps it’s just the splendor of the evening, rigorous dancing, music, and candlelight that has transformed your mind.”
“One needn’t smell the rose before acknowledging its beauty.” He referenced the flower again.
A flush spread upward from her toes. She wasn’t quite sure why she was astounded by her reaction to him. But she was.
“Lest one gets nipped by its thorns?”
“Forgive me,” he said, his expression serious. “If I wax poetic it’s because I find myself wondering when I shall see you again. You’ve already admitted that your father doesn’t enjoy the formalities of the ton.”
Puzzled, she said, “Yes. I have. Go on.”
“What I meant to say is, I’ve studied your character, and I am quite sure you will make a suitable bride.”
She smiled tightly, a jolt of confusion racing through her body. Was the marquess interested in her? Surely that was too much to hope for. She inhaled deeply. “For someone… someday.” Good God! She couldn’t bear it? Soon, the whole world would know she was destined to be Lady Burton, and it would be too late.
“No,” he said. “Not someone. Me.”
Constance blinked, uncertain she’d heard correctly. “But you don’t know me, my lord. Surely—”
“I know no better way to say it than this. I have already spoken with your father, and he has given me his blessing. Say you’ll agree to be my bride, Lady Constance. Give me the pleasure of announcing that you’ve accepted my hand.”
Her head spun and a dizzying, sickening wave of shock weakened her limbs. Stanton had to grab her to keep her from fainting dead away. She couldn’t believe her ears. The marquess had asked for her hand and her father had approved? What had happened to his agreement with Burton? Was the marquess the man her uncle had solicited to come to her aid? She snapped her mouth shut and gazed about the room frantically. Did Burton know? If he did, he would turn murderous!
“I-I—” her voice broke.
“Do you doubt my character?”
“N-no, my lord.”
“Do you loathe my fashion sense? My hideous face?” He offered her an arresting smile that charmed her to her toes, and it was impossible not to smile back.
She resisted the urge to touch his face. “No,” she said, absorbing his infectious grin. “It isn’t like that at all.”
He stood nearly a head and a half higher than she. She gazed up into his face, noting his adoring brown eyes stood out like dark chocolate against his powdered skin. Flamboyant, by his own admittance, materialistic to a fault, he enjoyed wealth and prestige, but compassion shone from his eyes. His dark brows rose inquiringly. His high cheekbones accentuated a sculpted aquiline nose and close to it, sported a black beauty mark. His full lips curled ever so slightly as if concealing a hidden, amusing enigma she would have to strive a lifetime to solve. Indeed, he was handsome, almost royally so, beneath his foppish resolve and powdered exterior.
There would be repercussions. Marrying the marquess opened doors she’d feared closed forever. His name and fortune guaranteed her father’s financial stability, a father for her child, and the salvaging of her reputation. But it would also leave Lord Burton without a bride. Could Stanton effectively protect her, her father, or himself when the devil found out her father had chosen another?
“Your silence condemns me,” Stanton said.
She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. His eyes dipped to her bosom and then drifted up slowly, locking on hers, exciting her in ways she couldn’t define. She could see herself loving a man like the marquess — eventually. Out of self-preservation, out of love for her unborn child, she made a spontaneous decision.
“I admit you’ve taken me by surprise, my lord.”
“Life is meant to be lived to the fullest. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed with your choice, should you accept my hand.”
Something tangible in his smile triggered her core. Immediately, she was quite certain of her answer. “I accept.”
His mouth drew up into a chivalrous smile. Instinctively, she moistened her lips and parted them, suddenly longing to know if he would taste as sweet as the man who haunted her dreams.
“There you are!” Burton barked, pushing his way toward them, breaking the spell. “It’s time,” he said, grabbing her by the hand. He jerked her toward him.
Stanton caught Burton’s arm. He lifted his quizzing glass and continued as if nothing was amiss. “I see you’ve righted yourself, sir. To your credit, Throckmorton’s servants have proven most adept.”
“No thanks to you,” the surly Burton barked. “Take your hands off me.”
“In the time it took you to see yourself set to rights, it appears you have forgotten your manners. Or is it customary for you to manhandle your hostess? I will let you go when you drop your arm and refrain from behaving in such an objectionable manner.”
“Objectionable? You’re the one who cost me hours of shameless upheaval!”
“I was only doing you a service.” Stanton pointed with his looking glass at Burton’s cravat. “And see what an improvement Throckmorton’s valet has made to your person?”
Burton released her hand and advanced on Stanton. “How dare you!”
“I dare what I will. Who are you to say otherwise?”
“I am… I am…” Burton stuttered.
“Boorish, sir! If there’s one thing I cannot stand, it’s a sniveling bore.”
Stanton dismissed Burton, giving him no time to object. He moved toward Constance, put his arm protectively around her waist, and led her toward the orchestra where her father waited. He nodded to her father, who silenced the musicians. Stanton leaned toward her, patting her back. He smelled of sandalwood and freedom and wore a victorious grin. Winifred and Eleanor rushed to the forefront of the crowd, gathering around their host.
Her father began to speak. “My distinguished guests, I have an announcement to make.”
Burton shoved his way through the crowd until he stood a few feet away. Constance’s stomach coiled. But no matter how much Burton scared her, she finally felt as though she had a say as to which direction her river forked. Closing her eyes, she said a silent prayer that the dreadful man wouldn’t make a scene.
Her father continued. “Tonight, I would like to announce the engagement of my daughter, Lady Constance Danbury, to—”
Burton stepped forward, a look of satisfaction illuminating his face. Unperturbed, Stanton cocked out one hip, took out his snuff box, dabbed his nose, and inhaled. Raising his quizzing glass toward the offensive man, he winked as Throckmorton finished.
“Percival Avery, the Marquess of Stanton, heir to the duchy of Blendingham.”
Applause erupted.
Burton’s eyes blazed with unbridled fury, conveyed in the contemptuous set of his mouth, hardened features, and the chill that hung on the edge of his words. “Mark my words, my lady. You will be mine,” Burton professed as he stepped back into the crowd, his eyes measuring the two of them as they were surrounded by well-wishers.
Visibly shaken, Constance stripped her attention fro
m Burton to her guests as one by one they congratulated her and Lord Stanton. Even as Burton’s threat echoed in her mind, she couldn’t stop the bubbling excitement racing through her limbs whenever Stanton gazed down at her, capturing her gaze with an affectionate glint in his eyes. An unrelenting promise, a maddening hint of arrogance swirled about him, compounded by the dizzying currents that flickered through her whenever he smiled. She felt oddly plain next to him and yet, he made her feel cherished, desired, and entirely feminine.
“Thank you,” she whispered, once the crowd thinned and the orchestra resumed the next dance.
He bowed. “I daresay I should be thanking you, Lady Constance.”
Like her own personal knight, the Marquess of Stanton had entered her life and turned her world right side up. She was betrothed to the next duke of Blendingham. Once they were married, she would be a marchioness. Her father would be safe from his creditors. Even now, it appeared that the fractured relationship he’d tendered with Uncle Simon was on the road to recovery as the brothers slapped each other on the shoulders, congratulating each other on a job well done.
By obtaining an advantageous marriage, she’d been spared humiliation, had a home for her unborn child and an honorable name to give him or her throughout his or her life. Though Stanton’s merciful deliverance had diminished her mortification, Constance worried that she’d woven a more intricate and deadlier web than Burton could have spun. She had given herself to a pirate, was pregnant with said pirate’s child, and was now in jeopardy of losing Stanton’s trust and compassion should that truth become known.