by Candace Camp
“Is Francesca helping you or her brother—or both of you?” Calandra asked.
“What? Why would she be helping me?”
The young woman smiled. “My brother is convinced that she is trying to make a match between you and Dominic.”
Constance blushed. “I am sure she is not.”
Calandra shrugged. “Well, Sinclair is not what I would call an expert in matters of the heart. After all, he is nearing forty, and he hasn’t yet come close to marriage. Still, I must say, there is something about the way that Dominic looks at you….”
The little mare skittered, and Constance looked down, realizing that she had clenched the reins too tightly. She forced her fingers to relax. “I am sure you must be wrong. Lord Leighton has expressed no preference, said nothing…”
“Dominic would not do anything improper, I am sure,” Calandra told her. “He is all a gentleman should be—no matter what sort of rumors you may have heard about him. They say he has lived rather wildly in London the past few years, but I know there is nothing bad about him.” She paused, then added with a small smile, “I confess that when I was younger, I developed a mad crush on him.”
“You did?” Constance looked at her. It occurred to her, with a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach, that Lady Calandra, the sister of a wealthy and powerful duke, would make an excellent match for Lord Leighton.
“Oh, yes. You should have seen him in that Hussars uniform. I can tell you, he cut quite a figure. But I got over that long ago.” She made an airy wave of her hand. “He is not at all the sort of man I would wish to marry.” She sighed. “Not that it appears I have much hope of marrying, anyway.”
Constance chuckled. “My lady, I cannot imagine that you would have any dearth of suitors.”
“Oh, indeed, there are a number who seek my hand. But so many of them are fortune hunters. It is dreadfully hard to tell, sometimes—except that I have learned that those who express undying love the most quickly are usually the ones who most adore my money. Not that it matters, for Sinclair scares them away.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, he scares all my suitors away. Sin can be a bit…overwhelming at times.”
Constance smiled faintly. She had herself felt rather overwhelmed by the formidable duke. “Surely that will not matter to the right man.”
“Mmm. I hope you are right,” Calandra said. “Otherwise, I fear I shall die a spinster.”
The idea of this lively girl, both eligible and attractive, remaining unmarried struck Constance as so ludicrous that she laughed, and Calandra joined her.
“I know, I must sound quite foolish,” Calandra admitted and fell to talking about fashion, a topic that satisfactorily occupied both women through much of the ride.
The climb had been growing steeper as they talked, and now Dominic pulled his horse to a stop and turned to them. “We shall have to walk the rest of the way to the promontory.”
At the prospect of walking, the idea of looking at the view quickly lost its enchantment for Margaret. As they all dismounted, she whined, “All the way to the top? But I am scarcely dressed for walking.”
Her mouth turned down expressively as she looked at the train of her riding habit, looped over her arm, then turned toward Mr. Carruthers, looking up at him beseechingly. “I think I would prefer to stay here. It seems quite pleasant in this little clearing. If, of course, someone would stay with me…”
It was true that the heavy skirts of the women’s riding clothes, with their trailing trains meant to appear at advantage draped over the side of the horse as they rode sidesaddle, were not easy to walk in. Nor were the supple riding boots. However, Margaret had known about the steepness of the climb before they left; she had expressed her doubts about it at the breakfast table. It was distinctly annoying that she had decided to come on the expedition to the promontory despite her laziness, and Constance felt rather certain that she had done it primarily to have a chance to be with Mr. Carruthers.
“I shall be pleased to remain here with Miss Woodley,” Mr. Carruthers offered gallantly.
Constance sighed. “Perhaps I should stay, too.”
She did not really want to stay here tamely in the clearing without even seeing the view from the promontory, but she felt it incumbent upon her not to leave Cousin Margaret alone with a man whom she scarcely knew. It was not inherently scandalous, of course, for a woman to be alone with a gentleman in the afternoon, even in this rather secluded setting, as long as it was not for a very long period of time. However, her cousin was quite young and also quite silly, and Constance was not at all certain what she might do if left to her own devices, especially given the way she had been flirting with Mr. Carruthers. She could not leave Margaret in a situation where she could damage her own reputation.
Calandra glanced at Constance, then at Margaret, and said easily, “Oh, no, you have not seen the view. I shall stay here. I am rather tired, and I have been to the promontory several times.”
Constance cast the young woman a grateful look. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” Calandra told her. “I only came along because I did not want to be there when Muriel returned from her trek around the lake.”
In the end, Mr. Willoughby, whose horse was showing signs of weariness, decided to remain behind, as well, so only Dominic and Constance continued to the top. They walked, leading their horses, and soon were out of sight among the trees. The path became steeper, and they fell silent, needing their breath for the climb.
They passed a small thatch-roofed cottage and shed, nestled against the hillside. It looked, Constance thought, like a cottage from a fairy tale.
“Who lives there?” she asked, pointing.
“No one. It’s deserted. Has been for years,” he answered. “We might as well leave our horses here.” He tied their mounts to the low-hanging branches of a tree in front of the cottage.
“It is called the Frenchman’s House,” he went on. “I have no idea why. There are innumerable stories about it. Some say it was where they exiled some mad FitzAlan ancestor.”
“Oh, no, it must have involved some tragically romantic story,” Constance said in disagreement. “Just look at it.”
Dominic chuckled. “Most likely it was where some favored old servant retired.”
“That is much too mundane,” she protested.
He smiled down at her, and suddenly Constance was very aware of her own body, of the pulse of blood at her throat and the pull of air into her lungs. Her skin was warm with the exercise of climbing, and she felt the caress of a breeze on it.
She was aware, too, of the fact that they were all alone in this secluded spot, something quite rare at any time, but especially in this large house party. Dominic’s eyes traveled over her face, and he reached up to gently brush his thumb across her cheek. The brief, skimming touch seemed to awaken every nerve in her body, and Constance shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“No. Not at all.” Gazing back into his eyes, she knew that he understood why she had shivered—and understood, as well, that the heat in her body came only partly from the warmth of the day.
She thought that he was about to kiss her. She knew that she wanted him to. She wanted, Constance realized, far more than that. She wanted to feel his hands on her body again; she wanted his lips to travel over her. She wanted his mouth to close around her nipple and bathe her in damp heat. Her breasts ached a little just at the thought, her nipples tightening.
Dominic moved fractionally closer. He knew, she thought. He knew exactly what she wanted, and he wanted it, as well. For a moment they stood there, simply looking at each other, and the very air seemed to simmer between them.
Then he stepped back abruptly. “We should keep going. The others will not want to wait too long.”
She nodded woodenly, thinking that it was better this way and yet not liking it at all. He struck out for the top, and Constance followed. The ground turned rockier, and th
e trees thinned out. Now and then he reached out to take her arm to help her up a steep spot, and she felt each touch all through her.
Finally they reached the top, a rocky cliff jutting out over the countryside and offering a sweeping view of the land below.
“Oh!” Constance drew in her breath sharply. “It’s beautiful!”
Dominic nodded, looking out over the vista. “This was always one of my favorite places. I would sit here and look out and dream…all sorts of foolish things.”
“I am sure they were not foolish,” Constance replied.
He shrugged. “Impossible, anyway.” He looked at her and grinned. “Not much call these days for a knight or a corsair.” He gestured out in front of him. “You see the stream going down to Cowden? And there’s the tower of St. Edmund’s in the distance.” Closer to them, he indicated two of the farms that they had ridden past earlier this afternoon.
“You love this land very much, don’t you?” Constance remarked.
He glanced at her, surprised. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s in your voice. And in the way you know your tenants and their families. The way you asked after them.”
The knowledge caused a sharp pain in her chest. It was clear to her that Dominic would do whatever was necessary to help the estate. No doubt that would include marrying an heiress.
“I am surprised that you have stayed away from it so long,” she went on.
He glanced at her, his eyes bright and hard. “My father and I are…estranged.”
Constance did not say anything, reluctant to pry into his affairs, and after a moment, he went on. “He and I had a falling out years ago. He ordered me off the land. After that I could not return—would not have, even if I could. I gave up all ties to Redfields then. I despised the place. I despised my family.”
Constance made a small noise, and he looked at her. “You disapprove,” he said.
“No. I—I am just surprised. I had not realized how much your past troubled you.” She thought of his light manner, the easygoing smile. She had realized that there was a rift between him and his father, but she had not guessed at how deep it ran. The pain was still clear in his voice.
Dominic grimaced. “I have done my best to get away from my past, but I have found it a difficult thing to outrun.”
Constance took his hand, and he smiled down at her. “Dear Constance,” he said, reaching up with his other hand to cup her chin. “You are always so kind, so ready with your sympathy, your warmth. I fear you would be appalled if you knew what my family was really like.”
“I am sure I am a great deal less kind than you give me credit for,” she replied, with a rueful smile. “And whatever your family may be, I know you and I know your sister, and neither of you is wicked.”
“Perhaps Francesca and I were not wicked, only negligent. Selfish…” He sighed, then tugged her toward a large rock. “Come, sit down here with me, and I will tell you about the FitzAlans.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“FRANCESCA AND I WERE close in age, only a year apart,” Dominic began after they had sat down on the rock. He held Constance’s hand in one of his, with the other tracing a light pattern over her palm. He watched his finger on her skin, not looking at her as he told his story.
“We had an older brother, Terence,” he went on. “He was three years older than I. And we had a younger sister, Ivy.” He smiled sadly. “She was the baby. Such a beautiful little girl. I remember, I thought she looked like an angel.”
The loss in his voice pierced Constance with sorrow, and she took his hand in both of hers, bringing it up to lay a soft kiss upon it. For a long moment she cradled his hand against her cheek, then let their joined hands fall back to her lap.
“My brother, however, was anything but an angel. Terence was always a bully. He terrorized Francesca and me when we were young, but Ivy was enough younger than the three of us that he did not bother her. Our governess knew what Terence was, and she did her best to protect Francesca and me from him. There was, of course, only so much she could do, for our parents would hear no ill of Terence.” His mouth twisted with remembered bitterness. “Terence was the heir, the perfect son. As far as my mother and father were concerned, he could do no wrong. Fortunately, Francesca and I had each other, so we were able to join forces to combat him. And, even better, eventually he went off to Eton and we had to put up with him only at holidays.”
He paused, gazing out across the vista before them. “Terence was better as we grew older. I never really liked him, but he left us alone more. I’m not sure if he gave up his bullying or simply confined it to school. At any rate, we did not have to be around him much. After Eton, there was Oxford for a couple of years, and when he grew tired of that, he did a tour of the Continent, then lived in London for a while. Finally, when he did come home to live, I was not often at Redfields. I had started Oxford by then, and after that I was busy being a young blade in London. Francesca was not home much of the time, either. She made her debut and got married. Neither of us realized…”
He stopped. Cold dread filled Constance’s stomach. She almost hoped he would not continue.
“But finally, when Francesca was home visiting, Ivy confided in her. She was, of course, too frightened to tell our parents, too sure that they would not believe her. She told Francesca that Terence had—had been forcing himself upon her for the past two years, since she was only fourteen. And she was in despair.”
“Oh, Dominic,” Constance breathed, and she put her arms around him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I am so sorry.”
He turned into her, sliding his arms around her and resting his cheek against her head. His voice was low and hoarse as he went on. “Francesca wrote to me. She urged me to come posthaste to Redfields and help them. She was frightened, but she hoped that while she was there, Terence would not try anything with Ivy. She had Ivy sleep in the room with her. But Terence tried to get around Francesca. He wanted to take Ivy riding with him, and she fled to Francesca, who confronted him, told him that she knew all about him and what he had done. He denied it, of course. He swore that Ivy was making it all up. Francesca went to my parents with Ivy and told them everything. And my parents…my parents sided with Terence. As they had always done. They would not believe Ivy. Francesca begged them to let Ivy come live with her, but they refused. They said it would reflect badly on them. They were afraid that Ivy would spread her ‘lies’ about Terence, about them.”
Dominic released Constance and sprang to his feet, as though unable to sit still any longer. He paced away from her and back, and she watched helplessly, seeing his pain and wishing that she could take it from him somehow.
“Francesca assured Ivy that all hope was not lost. When I arrived, she told her we would get her out of there. But Ivy did not believe her.” His mouth twisted, and moisture glimmered in his eyes. “And why should she have? All of us had failed her already. For two years she had been subjected to Terence and his attacks, and we had done nothing.”
“You didn’t know!” Constance cried out, jumping to her feet. “You couldn’t be expected to know.”
“I knew what he had been like. I should have paid more attention when I was home. I should have asked Ivy. Dear Lord, surely if I had just looked at her more closely, I would have seen her unhappiness! But I did not. I was having far too much fun cutting a swath through London.” He swung around, staring off into the distance as he said, “Ivy killed herself shortly before I arrived. She stole my father’s dueling pistol, and went out into the woods and shot herself in the head.”
“Oh, Dominic!” Constance went to him, her heart aching with pity. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek against his back. “I’m so sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”
He crossed his hands over hers, holding her tightly to him. “That is why I attacked Terence at her gravesite. No doubt someone has filled your ear with that story. It will not surprise you, I am sure, to hear that my father again si
ded with Terence. He threw me out and told me never to come back. I told him I had no desire ever to set foot in the house again. I left. My uncle, my mother’s brother, bought me my commission, and I went to the Peninsula. I never saw or spoke to my brother or my parents again until Terence died in a riding accident. My father had to take me back then. I was the heir. And I had to return. I never wanted anything less.”
Constance squeezed herself more tightly against him, as though she could force some of his pain out of him. Dominic turned, wrapping his arms around her, and they stood that way for a long time. Constance could hear the steady thud of his heart beneath her ear; his warmth enveloped her. Her body was alive to him, as it always was, but she pushed such wayward feelings out of her mind. She wanted to comfort him; she wished she could somehow leach his sorrow from his body.
Dominic curved his head down over hers. She felt the brush of his cheek against her hair. He squeezed her gently, and his lips pressed into her hair for an instant.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“I only wish I could make it better,” she answered, rubbing her hand against his back in a soothing circular motion.
“You do. Believe me, you do.” He hesitated, tensing slightly, and Constance went still in response, waiting.
Then a fat raindrop plopped upon her shoulder, followed by another on her back.
“What the devil?” Dominic released her and moved back, looking up at the sky.
They had been so wrapped up in their conversation that they had paid no attention to their surroundings. The pillowy white clouds that had made the day cooler had massed into a gray, lowering cover.
“We had better get back.” Dominic grasped her arm, and they started back down the hill, raindrops splattering on them with greater frequency.
The rain made the stony ground slicker, and they slipped again and again as they retraced their steps, slowing their speed. When they reached the trees, the branches provided more cover, but the wind and rain increased at such a rate that it scarcely mattered. Constance let out a little shriek and clutched at her head as the wind tore at her hat. She was too late, and the hat went sailing off through the trees.