The marquess allowed a sigh. “I saw you leave your home without the benefit of a chaperone. I couldn’t allow you to simply walk the streets of London without an escort,” he countered, his voice sounding ever so reasonable.
The words caught her off-guard before she realized that for him to have seen her leave her home meant he had been watching her house. “You were spying on me!” she half-accused.
“I was not,” Randall answered right away. “I just happened to glance out the window when you took your leave of your townhouse. You didn’t have a chaperone, and since I was about to head in the same direction, I merely thought to keep an eye on you. To be sure you arrived at your destination. The streets of London are not safe for a woman such as yourself—”
“You expect me to believe you had business at the same time as me? In the same direction?”
“But I did,” he assured her. “I paid a visit to Lady E’s ‘Finding Work for the Wounded’. As it turns out, the charity’s offices are located right next door to your solicitor’s office.”
Constance listened to Randall’s words, her initial anger subsiding a bit when she remembered him having said that he had seen her the day before. “I do recall you mentioning you had seen me when I was leaving Mr. Barton’s office,” she admitted finally.
Randall nodded. “I did. I was dropping off my donation and paying my respects to Lady Lily.”
At the mention of Lady Lily, Constance suddenly felt a bit of jealousy. Lady Lily? Who was she? “Are you ... courting her?” she asked in a small voice.
Seeing the sudden change in Constance, Randall felt a glimmer of hope. “No. In fact, I was congratulating her on her recent marriage to Mr. Overby,” he replied lightly. “And I admit, I was a bit concerned for her welfare since she was volunteering her services in an office that consists mostly of men whose clients are all men.” When he noticed Constance’s look of shock, he added, “As it turns out, her husband’s uncle is one of the employees there. He is acting as her protector whilst she is there. And he’s doing a fine job. Until he discovered I was there to make a donation, he seemed ready to wrestle me to the ground before allowing me a word with Lady Lily.”
Constance allowed a nod. “She is a blessed woman to have not only a husband she loves but a relative to see to her safety,” she commented, her indignation with him finally dissipating.
“My lady,” Randall said quietly, his manner sobering. “With your permission, I would like to give you something.”
Constance stared at him, wondering at the sudden change in him. “I’m sure that’s probably not a good idea,” she started to say, her head shaking a bit as she watched him remove a slim box from his waistcoat. The pasteboard was covered in dark velvet. Although she had only been given one piece of jewelry the night of her come-out—a gift from her father—she knew what velvet boxes contained. “What ... what is that?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Randall regarded the box a moment, positioning it so the hinge was facing him. “I had Mr. Rundell make this for you,” he replied, opening the top lid to show her the silver choker. The horse charm, a bit askew, slipped into place when he gave the box a slight shake. “You see, I was impressed with your love of horses,” he added. And roses, and bubbles in your bath water and in your champagne glass, and the color purple.
Before Constance had a chance to protest, he removed the choker from the velvet lining and gave her the empty box. She grasped it by reflex. Had she not, it would have fallen to the ground as Randall used his other hand do undo the clasp. He was behind her and wrapping the silver around her neck as she gasped and held her breath, one of her hands going up to finger the horse charm as it settled into the hollow of her throat.
“Mr. Rundell?” she repeated suddenly. “The silversmith?” she breathed, stunned by the weight and feel of the tiny interlocked chains that made up the band on which the charm was attached.
“The very one,” Randall said with a nod, moving around her so that he once again stood in front of her. He angled his head as he regarded the jewelry. The horse rested right in the hollow of her throat, just as Mr. Rundell assured him it would.
Randall noted her stunned expression before he allowed a grin. “It looks far better on you than it does in the box, my lady.” He paused to take a breath. “I do hope you’ll wear it in public. There’s no reason anyone need know it was a gift from me.”
Constance regarded him for several moments, quite certain he intended to offer her carte blanche if she didn’t agree to be his wife. He still hadn’t given her a reason as to why he considered her for the position.
How much has he spent on the necklace? she wondered.
He had been speaking of a married woman, sounding as if he might have felt affection for the young lady. Had he intended to take her as his wife before she decided on another man to marry? If he couldn’t have Constance as his wife, did he intend to employ her as his mistress?
Well, there was only one way to find out.
“Have you ... made an offer to anyone?” she asked, wondering at the odd sensation she felt upon thinking of him with another woman. Is he going to ask me? she wondered, her pulse suddenly racing with the thought.
“I did indeed,” he said matter-of-factly, rather glad the comment no longer had him feeling a bit sick. “She was a maid, you see. A very lovely young woman,” he added with a nod, as if he dared the earl’s cousin to counter his claim.
Constance’s eyes widened. “Why ever would she turn down a marriage proposal when she could have been a marchioness?” she asked, at once feeling relief and then even more nervous. The nervousness had her breathing a bit too quickly, every inhalation enhanced by the sensation of the warm metal around her neck.
“Why indeed?” Randall countered, a sly grin lifting one corner of his mouth. “And yet, she did.” After a pause, he shrugged. “Truth be told, she turned me down in favor of a clerk.”
“A clerk?” Constance moved one hand to rest on her middle, as if she had been struck by a physical blow rather than by the simple word. Relief once again settled on her and she allowed a wan smile.
Seeing her reaction, Randall felt an inkling of hope. “She loves him. Probably has since the boy saved her from ruination.” Waiting a moment, he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. “He loves her, of course,” he said suddenly, wondering why he thought it important she know that last bit.
Constance considered the comment. “Then, will she marry her clerk?” she asked, still a bit stunned that a young woman—a woman who had been a maid—would forgo a life of wealth and privilege in exchange for one that might not be so comfortable.
“She already did. A few days ago, in fact.” Noting her continued consternation, Randall added, “Do not despair on her behalf. She is the Lady Lily I saw at Lady E’s charity yesterday. She is the sister of Lord Trenton. He would not have allowed the union had he thought Mr. Overby unworthy of her.”
Frowning, Constance wondered how she had missed knowing about the connection between Lord Trenton and his sister. She could swear the copy of DeBrett’s at the Norwick estate in Sussex listed only the one living offspring of Graydon Trenton and Charity Fitzsimmons—Gabriel Wellingham, the current Earl of Trenton.
Then the reason dawned on her. “She was illegitimate,” she said in a whisper.
“Indeed,” Randall confirmed.
Constance’s eyes widened again. “And yet, you made her an offer of marriage,” she whispered hoarsely. Despite her quiet words, the comment came out as an accusation.
“I did,” he agreed. “I was ... enamored. I thought her ...” His voice trailed off as he realized the sting of Lily’s decision hadn’t softened as much as he thought. “I thought her a brave young lady who would do me proud.”
He didn’t dare mention that he thought himself in love with Lady Lily, although he probably had only been for a brief time. She had been the first woman he considered for the role of his marchioness. The first woman with whom he ha
dn’t done something scandalous when he had taken her into Lord Weatherstone’s gardens.
When he noticed how Constance seemed to wait for him to say more, he added, “But I believe she was a bit intimidated by the fact that she is the same age as my oldest son.” The words were out before Randall realized to what he admitted.
Inhaling sharply, Constance stared at Randall. “Your oldest?” she repeated, wondering how he could have sons and not had a marchioness. Unless he had married before inheriting, of course. And then been widowed. “Have you ... have you been a widower very long?” she hedged, finding her opinion of the marquess suddenly changing.
His eyebrows drawing together, Randall realized almost immediately why Constance would assume the best of him.
Bless her heart.
“In fact, I have never been married, my lady. My sons are all bastards,” he stated, not bothering to suppress the wince he always seemed to display upon making the admission. He rather wished he could have put off telling the young woman about his boys, but he decided it was far better for her to know now than for her to find out from one of the London gossips who always reveled in putting voice to such details.
Constance suddenly appeared as if she were about to faint. “M ... more than one?” she managed, her breaths once again coming a bit too fast. For a moment, she had thought the marquess was about to ask for her hand in marriage, and despite her original desire to simply live her life as a spinster, she had actually imagined a life as a married woman.
Imagined a life with Randall Roderick.
Randall let out the breath he had been holding. “Four, my lady,” he finally admitted. “The mother of the oldest was married to a man who could not give her a child, and she desperately wanted one, and he needed an heir, and so I ...”
As her vision grayed around the edges, Constance merely gave a nod in response. A moment later, she was falling through darkness.
Chapter 38
A Courtship Begins with a Fainting Spell
One-thirty in the afternoon of September 16
Having some experience with fainting women, Randall Roderick was quick to recognize the symptoms of a woman whose head was about to drop backwards as her body slumped, as if in slow motion, to the ground. The culprit could almost always be identified as a corset drawn too tight by an overeager lady’s maid. However, on this day, he was quite sure he was the reason Constance Fitzwilliam’s eyes clouded over and her head dropped back.
Or at least his news about his bastard sons.
He had an arm behind her shoulders and another behind her knees well before she fell to the crushed granite path.
Dammit all to hell, he thought as he glanced toward the east in an effort to determine how far it was to Lord Devonville’s residence. The fellow marquess was no doubt in residence, and even if he weren’t, his butler, Hatfield, would allow him entrance and a guest bedchamber in which to place Miss Fitzwilliam.
A glance to the west had him spying the park bench he had occupied only the day before. Although it wouldn’t allow for the same comfort as a bed, it was much closer in proximity.
He opted for the park bench, and not just because of its proximity. He wanted to be present when Constance awakened. He needed to be present. He still had things to tell her. Things he needed to say. Explanations to provide.
He glanced down at her prone body as he made his way with quick, measured steps. She was beautiful, her mouth open just a bit, her lashes dark arcs lining her delicate eyelids. Her cheeks had been rosy while they walked. Now they were pale, as was her forehead. Given the way her head hung beyond the support of his arm, her hat’s brim no longer shielded her face from the morning sun, and her skin appeared almost translucent. He had to bite back a smile when he spotted a series of freckles on her nose.
He imagined her sleeping in his bed, his own body pressed up next to hers so that he could hold one of her breasts while they slept. Perhaps he would tuck her body against the front of his own for shared warmth in the cold winter nights. Or perhaps she would prefer her head be tucked into the small of his shoulder while one of her bent legs lay between his, the top of her thigh cradling his manhood.
Randall had to shake his head. It was hard enough to walk while carrying Constance. An erection would make it nearly impossible.
Upon reaching the park bench, he simply lowered himself until he was safely seated, Constance still held in his arms. He dared a glance around, hoping no one could see them. He listened intently for the sound of voices, but heard only birdsong.
Sure they were alone, he relaxed against the back of the bench, readjusted the arm behind her shoulders to give her neck some support, and waited until her lids fluttered open.
Having experience with women who had fainted, and then being in their presence when they came to, Randall knew exactly what to say.
At least, he thought he did.
“Good afternoon, beautiful,” he whispered.
Her eyes widening in alarm, Constance gave a shriek and kicked her legs, forcing Randall to give up his hold on them. He had to prevent her from falling off of him completely and onto the crushed granite below, though, so he simply moved his now-free hand to secure her other shoulder.
To any passing park patron, the two would have appeared as a randy couple on a bench, perhaps engaged in a bit of kissing. If they had looked a bit closer, however, they would have noticed how the young lady struggled to free herself of the man who held her.
“My lady, be still or you’ll fall on your bum!” Randall said with enough force that Constance suddenly ceased her movements. She glared at him and then dared a glance around where they sat. “Where ..? What happened?” she asked in alarm.
“You fainted. I caught you. I carried you here.”
Constance sighed and dropped her head onto his shoulder. Randall heard as much as felt her sudden sob. Concerned, he shook his head. “Please don’t cry, my lady. I’m quite sure no one has seen us,” he said quietly, wishing her hat had come loose from its pins. Its brim was preventing him from dropping a kiss onto her forehead, which is what he wanted to do at that moment. Anything to console her. Anything to make her want him.
“How many?” she whispered.
Randall was about to ask as to what she was referring when he realized she was wondering about his sons. “I have four sons,” he replied, about to continue by telling her their names when she suddenly removed herself from his hold, and from the bench, and was suddenly standing up, a bit unsteady on her feet. Randall stood up as quickly as he could. “I have seen to it they are with good families. They have my name. They are being educated ...”
But Constance wasn’t listening to a word Randall Roderick spoke, for she had suddenly remembered the tales she had read in The Tattler about the exploits of the Rake of Reading. How could I have been so foolish not to realize who he was? she wondered. Randall Roderick was the Marquess of Reading.
Clarinda had said so. She had even mentioned his nickname.
“The Rake of Reading,” Constance said in a whisper.
Randall frowned, realized she had just then been reminded of who he was. “I am. I ... I was,” he amended with a nod. “But no longer.”
Constance regarded the marquess for a long time before she shook her head. “Thank you for your assistance today. Good day.” With that, she took off on the path that led to the east, her quick steps making her appear as if she were running away from him.
Randall watched her as she took her leave him, half-tempted to go after her. She was alone, after all. Unprotected. But the path she followed was open, surrounded by parkland, and would take her to Park Lane. From there, he knew she could find her way to Curzon Street.
Sighing, he turned in the opposite direction, intent on taking the long way back to his townhouse. Before he had even made it to the pavement, though, he turned around and quickly retraced his steps, heading back on the path that he had used when he came into the park the day before.
He could see Con
stance up ahead. Despite her head start, she now walked slowly, occasionally appearing as if she were having difficulty walking. Perhaps she had turned an ankle. Or her half-boot heel had come loose. Randall quickened his pace until he came abreast of her, a bit out of breath with his exertion. “I will escort you to your home,” he stated firmly, one arm jutting out in her direction.
Her eyes filled with tears, Constance regarded his arm for a moment and finally lifted her own so her gloved hand gripped his sleeve. “I shouldn’t even be seen with you,” she said before sniffling.
Randall was quick with his handkerchief. “Nonsense,” he replied as he handed it to her. “How will anyone know we are courting if we’re not seen together on an innocent walk in the park?”
Wiping her eyes with the handkerchief, Constance inhaled sharply. “But ... we are not courting,” she replied, stunned at hearing him use the term so casually. Despite her earlier wish that he consider her for matrimony—back when she thought of him only as a cit—she now found the idea of being married to him impossible.
He was a marquess.
He was the Rake of Reading!
“I am,” he responded, his attention on the path ahead. He held his head high, determined to keep his second chin from appearing while he rehearsed marriage proposals in his head. “I would like you to be my wife.”
Constance felt as much as saw the gray attempt to cover her vision again, but she fought off the sensation and took a deep breath. “Thank you for the use of your handkerchief,” she murmured as she handed the square of linen to him.
Randall regarded the fabric before taking it from her, stuffing it into this coat pocket. “You’re welcome,” he said with a sigh. “If you’re opposed to the idea of being a mother to my boys, I understand completely. I am not in need of a mother for them. Nor do I expect you to ever make their acquaintance if you don’t wish it. I am, however, in need of a mother for my heir. But more importantly, Miss Fitzwilliam, I seek a wife,” he said as they reached Park Lane.
The Love of a Rake Page 25