“Insufferable!” Jane angrily tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet, intending to retie them. She was all fingers and thumbs. Not least because when he smiled at her like that, her insides turned to mush.
He laughed. “Allow me.”
Before she could protest, he removed her hands from the black satin ribbon that knotted at her chin and pressed the reins into her grasp. Automatically, her hands closed over the leather straps. Her arms tensed for battle, but the chestnuts remained quiescent, perhaps aware their master was near.
She watched Constantine unbutton his driving gloves and strip them from his hands. Large hands they were, with long, capable-looking fingers.
He turned to her. “Now, let me see what we have here.”
His fingertips brushed the underside of her chin as he gathered the tangled ribbons of her hat. Tingling warmth radiated from that spot, like ripples in a pond.
She didn’t know why she’d allowed him to take over this task; it brought his compelling features in disconcerting proximity to hers.
Black brows drawn into a slight frown, Constantine worked at the stubborn knot. He was so close, Jane felt the warmth of his breath feathering over her lips. His irises were not pure emerald, as she’d thought, but a slightly lighter hue, flecked with black.
As he wrestled with the recalcitrant knot, Constantine muttered something under his breath, drawing her gaze to his mouth. The upper lip was chiseled and firm, the lower slightly fuller. As well defined as the mouth on a Greek statue—sensual, yet utterly masculine. She thought of those lips crushing hers in the muniments room that night. Her breathing hitched; her own lips parted in longing.
His gaze flickered up to her face. She blushed to have been caught staring at his mouth. Something dangerous burned in his eyes, but he only allowed her a glimpse before lowering them again to his work.
“There,” he said softly, letting the ribbons fall. She looked down to see that he’d retied them in an elegant bow.
Her lungs seemed to have seized in the moment his eyes had met hers. Jane managed to dredge up the breath to thank him. Her heart pounding, she waited until he’d put his gloves back on to hand him back the reins.
It took many moments to drag her mind back to the point she’d been making before that disturbing interlude. Luke. Had Constantine thought to distract her with all this tying of bonnet strings?
Embarrassment at his success lent an edge to her words. “Would you care to explain to me why, in all your mighty wisdom, O masculine one, you left a small boy to walk home by himself when he has been set upon by bullies, perhaps to face more of the same before he gets there?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” said Constantine. He was positively enjoying this; she could see it in the slight smile playing over his mouth.
He sobered. “Luke is being bullied for a reason. Perhaps it’s because he is small and an easy target; perhaps because he gets to live at the Hall and wear fine clothes. There could be any number of reasons that would seem trivial to you and me.”
“But—”
Constantine held up a hand. “So for us to come in like lord and lady high-and-mighty to rescue him would increase their resentment. And as I don’t intend to imprison the boy in the house, I expect he will come to the village again. And when he does, he’ll receive a worse drubbing than he got today.”
He found a place wide enough to turn the phaeton. While he was occupied with the maneuver, Jane thought about what he’d said.
Reluctantly, she had to agree that it made sense. And it reinforced a notion she’d had for some time: Luke needed a man in his life to deal with such things. Her love for him was not quite enough.
She sighed. “I suppose you are right. Though it kills me to say so.”
Constantine didn’t evince any sign of triumph at her admission. “Luke is not badly hurt, or I would have insisted on conveying him back to the Hall. He knows how to avoid the high street on his return. I don’t think there’s cause to worry that he’ll be set upon again today.”
Transferring the reins into one hand, he found hers with the other. He’d intended the gesture to comfort her, no doubt, but his touch shot through her body like a burning arrow, setting it aflame. With a gasp, she slid her hand away.
They were in the high street, for goodness’ sake!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
So much for his wicked intentions toward Lady Roxdale. Constantine grimaced. One couldn’t make love to a lady suffused with righteous anger over the bullying of her beloved boy.
He’d resigned himself that there would be no kissing those pretty lips on this particular outing. When she’d looked at him with such longing in those clear gray eyes as he tied her bonnet strings, he’d come dangerously close to ravishing her mouth and damning the consequences. Thank God he’d managed to restrain himself. That would not have ended well.
Disconcerting to find that brief interlude on the high street had affected him so powerfully. It was the kind of ploy he’d often used to get close to a woman, but never had such an innocent flirtation stirred such strong desires in him before.
He wanted, quite desperately, to make her want him. Not only as a solution to her problems, but as a husband, lord, and lover, too.
Unfortunately, the power of that desire made him clay in her hands. By the time they reached the Hall, he’d committed to doing a number of things in furtherance of Luke’s interests that he would never have done except to please her. He liked the lad, and he would certainly deal with the bullying in his own way. But the rest … He sighed. He was turning into a sad case.
When Constantine caught up with him later, Luke was unexpectedly recalcitrant. He stonewalled any discussion of the incident in the village no matter how casually Constantine approached the subject. Constantine tried, and so did Jane, but to no avail.
For the moment, there was nothing much Constantine could do besides give the boy some strategies to get out of fights altogether, and if pressed, with which to defend himself.
He’d imagined Jane would scarcely condone such violent measures and was surprised at her quick nod of acceptance when she saw what he was about. Winning her approval gave him the strangest feeling of warmth in the region of his chest.
The better he got to know Jane, the more significance this marriage business seemed to assume.
But he’d need to put the question soon, so they could work on gaining Montford’s approval and making the arrangements to repay the debt on the mill.
Lady Arden would be instrumental in talking Montford around. The two of them were as thick as thieves, after all.
He discovered his relative busily arranging flowers in a vase in the drawing room the following day.
“There you are, Constantine.” Lady Arden finished her work and swiveled the vase so that her arrangement appeared to best advantage.
“Making yourself at home, I see.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Tell me, does Montford know you’re here?”
Despite her assurance, he could tell he’d hit a sore point by the slight quivering of her aristocratic nostrils. She picked up a deadly-looking pair of shears and replaced them in her sewing basket. “No, why should he?”
“Why, indeed? Don’t tell me he’d approve of your meddling, for that I won’t believe.”
She turned her sparkling dark eyes upon him. “Let’s leave the duke out of this discussion. You must—absolutely must—marry Jane.” She threw up her hands. “Why isn’t she in love with you already, for heaven’s sake?”
That startled him. “What an odd thing to say.”
He eyed his relative warily. Lady Arden most often achieved her ends when she set her Machiavellian mind to it. He wanted Jane’s desire and her respect. But love? The last thing he needed was for Jane to think herself in the throes of some grand, enduring passion.
He grinned. Actually, he’d pay good money to see Her Iciness in the throes of passion of a lustful nature. But infatuated women were irrational and a nuisance and downright embarrassi
ng. He didn’t wish for such a lopsided marriage.
He picked up a stem of greenery and twirled it idly between finger and thumb. “When I ask Lady Roxdale to marry me, it will be a purely commercial transaction. Being a Westruther, I’m sure she knows how these alliances work.”
Lady Arden nodded. “Oh, undoubtedly. There was no love between her and Frederick but they dealt admirably together.”
He doubted it, but didn’t argue the point. “Then there’ll be no more talk of love. It will be a business arrangement, no more.”
Just then, the lady herself walked into the room and smiled at him. This time there was no gentle malice or stiff politeness in her expression. She appeared delighted to see him. Her eyes glowed, her cheeks displayed a pretty pink blush.
Constantine sucked in a breath. He felt like he’d been hit in the solar plexus. The greenery fell, unheeded, to the floor.
“You were saying?” Lady Arden murmured.
He didn’t answer.
As he watched Jane walk toward him, he made the most minute and significant discoveries about her. That her eyebrows were not quite evenly arched: one was slightly more peaked than the other, giving her that disconcertingly skeptical mien. That her lips were even fuller and darker than he remembered; that her lashes were black, despite the lighter tone of her hair. And as she drew nearer, he looked into her eyes and realized they were not clear gray, but made like a mosaic from flecks of granite and smoke and flint and silver, a kaleidoscope of precious metal and stone.
Like a fool, he stared down into her eyes without speaking, and that enchanting blossom of color swept along her cheeks.
“I’ll leave you to conduct your, er, business, then, my dear.” With a soft laugh, Lady Arden rustled away.
Constantine forgot to breathe. He was sharply aware of every line and curve of Lady Roxdale’s body, every texture that he longed to stroke and savor, every mystery he intended to explore. In his brain, a door snapped closed, or opened, he didn’t know which, but he knew what it portended.
Come hell or high water, he would make this woman his, in every sense of the word.
Someone cleared their throat. “Your bonnet, ma’am.” It was moments before either Constantine or Lady Roxdale realized that the butler stood a respectful distance away, bearing another of those ridiculously ugly hats.
The lady started as if someone had fired a gunshot.
“Thank you, Feather.” Recovering enough to accept the bonnet, she set it on her head, tying the ribbons beneath her chin.
Constantine drew a deep breath that was a little ragged at the edges.
What had just happened to him? To them both?
Unwilling to examine the answer too closely, he cleared his throat. “It’s a fine day.”
“Yes,” she said, breathless. “I was just about to…”
He held out his arm. “Shall we?”
* * *
The moment had spooled between them, then snapped like a severed thread. Jane felt off balance, disoriented.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Shall we walk, Lady Roxdale?” He was smiling now, yet oddly distant.
After a slight hesitation, she took his proffered arm, catching her breath a little at the hard strength beneath his finely tailored green coat.
Her skirts brushed his long legs as they walked. Unless she held herself away from him in an absurdly awkward fashion, she could not prevent it. Ordinarily, such impersonal contact wouldn’t signify, but with Constantine, she noticed everything. Every gesture of his hands, every turn of his head, every touch, however impersonal.
“Are you happy at Lazenby, Jane?” said Constantine.
Startled, her gaze met his. Then she glanced away. “You have enough worries. You need not concern yourself about me.”
“Oh, but I do concern myself about you,” he said. “In fact, you occupy my thoughts almost exclusively.”
“Really?” She tried for a tone that was dryly skeptical. It came out as more of a breathless squeak.
“Yes. I’m afraid…” He sighed. “I’m afraid I shall be obliged to ask you to marry me, after all.”
Abruptly, her face drained of warmth, and there came that dizzy, disorienting feeling again. She stopped dead, disengaging herself. “Because of the estate.”
He gazed down at her, and his eyes burned with some emotion she couldn’t name. He looked away. The rasp in his voice turned harsh. “Yes. Of course. Because of that.”
She couldn’t seem to swallow past the hard lump in her throat. Marriage to Constantine Black. It was what she’d longed for, wasn’t it? It was the only way to keep Luke.
The reality of it suddenly terrified her.
“I cannot be like Frederick,” began Constantine, squinting into the distance, toward the westering sun.
A glimmer of humor stirred in her. “No. That is rather obvious,” she murmured.
Vividly, painfully so.
He continued, as if he hadn’t heard the ironic comment. “I can never be what Frederick was to you. I would not even try.”
She glanced at him curiously. Surely he didn’t suppose a great love or even a great romance had existed between her and his predecessor?
What had there been? she wondered now. Familial duty and obligation. Liking that had mushroomed (on her side) into infatuation at about the time of her sixteenth birthday. Later, distance. Yes, oceans of it, and resentment, too. But always a civilized veneer.
Jane had learned the art of maintaining appearances only too well.
But she’d failed in part of her obligation, hadn’t she? She hadn’t given Frederick that highly desirable heir. She hadn’t shared his bed after those first few painful, humiliating occasions.
How many hours had she spent castigating herself for that? Had Frederick’s heart been engaged at all in the business? Could she have won him if she’d fought hard enough?
Ah, what did it matter? What had it ever mattered? Frederick had made his choices without any regard to her. One didn’t compete for a lover’s heart as if it were a Derby cup.
A short silence passed before Constantine halted them and turned to face her. “My father once told me that marriage between persons of rank is a commercial transaction and has nothing to do with love. I don’t wish to flummery you, Jane. Obviously, neither of us has had time to form a lasting attachment of that nature. I wouldn’t insult you by pretending I had.”
He smiled down at her, and if he only knew what that smile did to her, he would not feel so noble; he would know the advantage was all his.
“What do you say, Jane? Shall we join together what Frederick has torn asunder?”
This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? She knew it in her head, but her heart rang out a warning as clear as clarion bells.
This man was dangerous. Not because of his wicked past, but because of what she saw—or thought she saw—beyond the rakish façade.
Despite everything she’d heard about Constantine Black’s reprehensible reputation, something about him called to her. Perhaps it was the way his spirit seemed so solitary even while he charmed everyone around him. She knew what it was to feel alone in the midst of a crowd.
Or was she merely beguiled by a spectacular form of male beauty, imagining depths in him that were not there?
No, it was more than his looks that drew her. Constantine Black was no hero from a fairy tale. But he was not the villain he was painted, either. She felt it in her bones.
The thought flashed through her mind that he was a man in pain. What had it been like for him to become a pariah at such an early age? A harsh sentence to bear, no matter how richly deserved that ostracism had been.
She could not find it in herself to hold his past against him as she should. She was beginning to like him too well for his own sake.
But that did not mean he was trustworthy or a safe receptacle for her love. No, she would not fall into that trap again. She would not bestow her heart where it wasn’t wanted.
A particularly bloodless response, if she did say so herself. A dire contrast to the turmoil inside her.
“And your answer?” he asked. How like him to behave as if he were unsure of her reply, as if she’d never made that improper proposal in the chapel only days before.
She bit her lip. “Yes. The answer is yes.”
Her lack of enthusiasm did not seem to distress him. Maybe he hadn’t noticed or it was just that he was a very good actor. Or perhaps he simply did not care very much.
“Thank you. You do me a great honor.” He took her hand and bent to kiss her fingers. The light, hot brush of his lips over her knuckles sent tingles racing up her spine. Oh, Lord! This would not do at all.
Constantine paused, still bent over her hand, and looked up. Caught the flush in her cheeks and the dismay in her eyes. He smiled, as if he sensed how her stupid heart beat harder at his touch.
She thought he might kiss her then, and her courage failed her. She rushed into speech. “I would ask one boon, however. Might we keep our betrothal secret until I can speak with the duke?”
“He is not your guardian any longer,” Constantine pointed out. “You no longer need his permission to wed.”
“That is true. But to smooth our path, we would do better to seek his approval. It would be churlish of me to do otherwise, I believe.”
His mouth tightened. “Very well.” He paused. “I daresay Montford will advise you against the match.”
“He already has,” she said.
“Oh? Did he give reason?”
Her glance flicked to him and away. “I suppose you can guess. Your reputation.”
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