by Darcy Burke
Her teeth ground at his poorly-executed attempt to pretend he cared about her feelings. He’d wanted to name their son Jonathan Thomas, after his own father. He hadn’t cared a whit that she’d been calling him Oliver since his birth. Nor had he cared that Oliver was the name of all the firstborn sons in her family, because it had been about his lineage. Now he wanted to act as though he approved of her choice?
“Conceived is a rather large word for a soldier,” she shot back. Not because he deserved it, though he did. She was scared and angry. Would he ever give up?
Would she, if he were the one withholding Oliver from her?
No. Never.
“You weren’t petty when we were together.” His easy lope quickly gained on her until they were walking elbow to elbow, just as she’d known he could do. He leaned in front of her as if to look into her face. “Stop. Seriously, Beth, stop this.”
She did stop. Not because he’d asked. “Never call me that again.”
He appeared confused. Handsomely confounded. But she no longer cared what he looked like, because he had one goal: to separate her from her Oliver.
“Beth was a different girl. A victim of your games,” she said with all the bitter venom still in her.
He looked taken aback. He was tall, though not as tall as Con. His dark hair was shot through with gray and he had the beginnings of a portly belly she’d never noticed before. He seemed tired, more than angry. “You’re a good liar. I think you even believe that. It’s not true, is it, though? I was the one who was played for a fool.” His gaze settled hungrily on Oliver.
Oliver cuddled closer to her shoulder.
A flicker of hurt darkened Nicholas’s eyes. “You knew I was married,” he said to her in a low, steady voice. “You knew my wife is likely barren. And you knew, didn’t you, that I had everything I wanted but a son.” The anger came back for just a moment. “What you didn’t count on is that I never wanted you.”
She reeled. She had no words to throw in the face of such cruel rejection.
“I know Lord Constantine was in Devon at the time you and I were…reuniting,” he said, stepping closer. “At his family seat near Brixcombe. I have proof.”
Her blood ran cold. No.
She curved her lips instead of forming a horrified O. She couldn’t let Nicholas see how scared he’d just made her. “You mean when he was looking in on the progress of the canal?” she bluffed. “I saw him just before he left for Exeter. It was to be a long separation for us, and… Well, you know how that makes me.”
Nicholas’s nostrils flared. “He told you about the Grand Canal?”
Finally, a question she could answer truthfully. “He’s invested quite a bit of time and money into the project. I should think I would know about it.” When it was apparent Nicholas was dismayed by this, she dug the point of her knife a bit deeper. “Lord Constantine and I travel to Devon next week, as it happens. He’s eager to oversee the work restarting. The proper paperwork has been gathered and the project is ready to proceed.” That last part was true, too. She’d had her solicitor look in on it.
Nicholas went white. Then he mottled red. “Liar.”
She paused. She preferred the term “opportunist.” But it was no longer about setting herself up in the best way possible. Now it was about her child. “Why is it so hard to believe he’s confided in me? He appreciates my advice. Some people do.”
Nicholas touched Oliver’s white gown before she could stop him. Then he stepped away. His expression was bleak. “You’ve won this round, Elizabeth. But I’m not giving up.”
He hesitated, then turned on his heel and walked away. But that last look he gave her… He was a man being denied his right to see his son, and it was crushing him.
She banished the thought as soon as she had it.
Chapter Ten
ELIZABETH RUBBED HER PALMS, now damp with perspiration, across the front of her skirts. She’d done naught but pace the nursery since handing Oliver over to Mrs. Dalton. What was she to do now? She and Lord Constantine had rubbed well together the other night, but well enough that he would take her with him to Devon? They weren’t lovers. He’d confided in her, but he wasn’t ready to rely on her. Just remembering his indignant expression when she’d offered to pay his brother’s IOUs made her wince. He might not take kindly to her inserting herself his affairs, even if only for show.
She clasped her hands together. Now that she’d bluffed her way through Nicholas’s attempt to frighten her, she couldn’t risk not making the trip. He’d know. He had eyes and ears all over, or mayhap he was simply good at ferreting out answers.
Either way, if she and Con failed to depart for the country, Nicholas would use it against her.
She could make this happen. It was as simple as planting the idea and letting it grow. But how did she accomplish that, when she anticipated him being resolved against her involvement?
Her mind sifted through ways she might make a quick jaunt with her to Devon sound appealing to him. She could promise him sex, but he wasn’t quite ready to be tempted by it. Besides, they’d yet to consummate their arrangement in London, making her townhouse seem just as illicit as any hideaway in the country.
No, the promise of a tryst wouldn’t be enough. There must be another way. She continued to wear down her carpets, pausing every few minutes to peek into the crib at her sleeping son. She was still shaken by her encounter with Nicholas and her thoughts were a jumble, so much so that she couldn’t even fathom where to begin concocting a story that would end with Con taking her to Devon.
She stopped suddenly in the middle of the carpet. What about honesty? She could try telling him her quandary and trust he’d want to help her.
The idea was so foreign, she almost dismissed it.
Thinking on it more, however, she couldn’t discredit the notion that honesty could very well be the less complicated route in this case. Fatigue was overtaking her. Her creativity was depleted. Why not lay it out for him and see if he rose to this occasion, as he’d risen to the last?
When Oliver went down for his nap, she sent for a pen and a sheet of vellum.
My Lord Constantine,
I have had an unpleasant encounter with our mutual friend whilst on a walk in the park. I regret to inform you that he did not act the gentleman at all, but boorishly attempted to terrify me and asked rude questions about our association. My nerves were set upon and I fear I failed to act the lady. I would appreciate your counsel on this matter.
Your dutiful servant,
Elizabeth Spencer
When the note went off on its way, she went to work on the next step: combing through a stack of old newspapers for relevant information about any of Con’s investments. She’d improve her odds of success if she were informed. That didn’t mean she had to tell him what she knew…especially if he seemed put out by her request.
In the previous Thursday’s edition of The Times, she found what she was looking for.
Exeter’s Grand Canal project, which of late has come to be considered a farce due to the endless series of delays and mishaps associated with it, is to have a bit of success at last. Leaks in the section of canal abutting the small village of Holcombe Rogus will soon be mitigated by the production of puddle clay, which is to be fired in lime kilns set to be constructed within the month.
The perfect excuse for a jaunt to Devon, if she did say so herself.
***
Hours later, despite her best effort to tire Oliver with another walk through the park, it was clear from the toothless grin on his baby face that he was in no danger of falling asleep before Constantine arrived. Elizabeth bounced her son on her hip and sent an exasperated glance toward Mrs. Dalton. “Is there nothing we can do? I’ll be asleep long before he succumbs, if his happy gurgling is anything to go by.”
Mrs. Dalton’s eyes followed Elizabeth’s promenade about the nursery. “Barring a sip of laudanum, I think not.” Her hair, normally coiffed into a respectable bun, wisped around
her face in an unkempt coronet. “At least he’s unlikely to wake up in the middle of the night once he does fall to sleep.”
Oliver’s downy hair brushed Elizabeth’s chin as he swiveled his head from side to side. He took in his surroundings with inquisitive eyes. One chubby fist gripped the bodice of her dress while the other beat in a staccato at her shoulder.
She took him to the window and pulled the curtain back. He was all wide smiles and coos, and even if she dearly wished he would go to sleep, she delighted in watching him study the world around him. “See there, Oliver? The sun set an hour ago. It is time for babies and children to be tucked into their beds, and I see no reason why you should be special tonight.”
He let out an ear-splitting happy squeal in response.
A knock at the door below stairs was followed by the steady thumps of Rand navigating the narrow hallways to reach the foyer. Elizabeth had no clock in the nursery, but guessed the time to be a few minutes after nine. Mrs. Dalton approached to relieve her of the squirming, wide-awake bundle in her arms, but Elizabeth hesitated. It felt wrong to leave Oliver in order to greet a man. Even if that man was not a lover in the strictest sense, she knew better.
Just seeing Mrs. Dalton come closer caused a small whimper from Oliver. Elizabeth knew then that she couldn’t abandon her baby for Lord Constantine, not while he was alert enough to know it.
Mrs. Dalton reached out to take Oliver. He snatched onto a loose lock of Elizabeth’s hair and started crying.
“Not yet,” she told Mrs. Dalton, then yelped as he yanked the curl and drew it toward his mouth, still howling as loudly as his little lungs would let him.
Mrs. Dalton dropped her arms and looked on apologetically. “I don’t think Lord Constantine will treasure Oliver’s dribble like we do.”
Elizabeth was too focused on the hot, red face of her angry son to do anything about her ruined hair. “You’re likely right. But I don’t think we should protect the man too much, either, do you? A bit of spittle won’t cause him to melt.”
Lord Constantine’s fortuitous arrival in the doorway freed Mrs. Dalton from needing to respond. “Am I interrupting?”
“My lord!” Elizabeth jerked to look at the door and yelped as Oliver’s fist yanked on her scalp. Her lips pursed in dismay. She was going to have to warn Rand not to let the man have full run of the house!
She shifted Oliver to her left arm and began the painful process of working the curl loose from his chubby fingers. Lord Constantine watched with open amusement. Heat spread along the back of her neck and flushed across her breasts. She wasn’t embarrassed by her baby. She wasn’t. But never did she feel more like a weary mother than when her hair was coated in dribble and the bundle in her arms smelled suspiciously…ripe.
“May I hold him?”
She looked up from the arduous task that had already cost her a few long strands of hair. Con had entered the room and stood not two feet from her. Close enough that she could detect the heady scent of his shave lotion over the less-subtle smell of Oliver’s wet cloth.
“My lord! Please, come no nearer!” She turned away, as if a few inches could shield Lord Constantine from the ripe stench.
He frowned, clearly puzzled. “I merely wanted to—”
Her cheeks had never been hotter. “He—he isn’t ready.”
Con’s aquiline nose twitched. “I see. Rather, I smell.”
She closed her eyes briefly. Yes, she detected the soggy warmth spreading from her son’s bottom to her arm. No, that was not her imagination. Yes, this too-handsome man was regarding her with twitching lips and glowing mirth. “I think I may have caught you at an awkward time.”
“Here,” Mrs. Dalton said, “I’ll take him and get him freshened up. I’ll ring for Nelly on the way.” She looked at Elizabeth’s sodden arm and her cheeks reddened, too. “I’m afraid these things happen, my lord.”
Con was outright laughing now. He stopped long enough to glance around the room. “Is there a bellpull?”
“It’s broken,” Elizabeth replied. “Mrs. Dalton will need to go ring for her from another room. I’ll be just a minute, my lord. Dalton, have Nelly meet me in my room.”
“Yes, madam.”
Con’s eyes darkened at the mention of her room. His laughter warmed unmistakably to something else.
She was too exhausted to understand it. Why would he still think of her in that way? When she’d just shown him a glimpse of her world when he wasn’t there?
With a last look for Oliver, who had abandoned his tears and now gurgled contentedly at his nurse, she preceded Lord Constantine from the room. She could feel his presence in the hallway behind her. She hadn’t meant for him to follow her to her room, but she didn’t doubt now that it was where he meant to go.
He ambled while she hurried. She forced herself to slow. The pressures of motherhood had clearly affected her tonight. She didn’t feel the least inclined to lure Lord Constantine into her bed—even though he seemed almost intent on following her there.
She stopped abruptly just before the stair and took a quarter-turn step to thrust her back against the wall. Con easily came abreast of her.
His eyes darted at those breasts before he caught himself. “What is it?”
Her heart skipped a beat. He was clearly coming around to the idea of bedding her. But she hadn’t forgotten that her hair was coated in spittle and her sleeve reeked of urine. “It wouldn’t be proper for you to come with me.” She made herself sound teasing, but she had no intention of allowing him into her room.
“Oh?” His gaze made a slow walk down the stairs. “I didn’t realize there was such a thing as propriety, when it comes to one’s mistress.”
Mistress. The appellation warmed her like hot tea. When she looked up at him again, however, he was laughing at her. “It’s about time I’ve bowled you over as hard as you’ve bowled me.”
Another splash of tea turned her insides sweet. She was careful not to let it show on her face, however. He was already reading her so well it left her at a disadvantage. She couldn’t let him see more than what he’d already discerned. “I thought you’d be happier exploring my sideboard than watching my maid do her level best to remove this dreadful stain from my favorite gown.”
He pulled a face. “You do manage to take all the mystery out of it. Very well, I’ll kick up my heels while you see to your toilette. And then I will get to the bottom of your note?” He raised a mischievous brow while still managing to maintain the slight furrow between his eyes.
She nodded sharply once, feeling the strain of the day weigh her down again. She’d almost forgotten the reason for his visit. What was it about him that sent her all aflutter whenever he entered the room? “I will.”
He watched her warily. “Your expression concerns me.”
There was no way to respond to that other than to lift her skirts, bob a curtsey and scamper down the stairs to her dressing room. Distasteful. That was how she felt about her objective tonight. First she must trust him with the truth—but she’d already done that, hadn’t she? And he had come. Her fragile faith hadn’t been misplaced. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind her imposition, either. Wouldn’t it be nice to feel as though he indulged her because he wanted to, rather than because she twisted him to do her bidding?
Nelly poked her mobcapped head into the hallway as Elizabeth approached from the stairs. “Is aught amiss, madam?”
“Oliver has no regard for the dearness of watered silk,” she replied with amused chagrin.
Nelly covered her smile with her hand.
Elizabeth quickly stripped to her chemise. She bathed her arms and neck, then changed into a clean chemise overlaid by a plain silk gown. Once again dressed properly, she turned to leave, but one look at her lady’s maid’s distressed face and she was reminded of her hair, now tumbled down around her shoulders, and the talc powder that had no doubt caked on her cheeks long ago.
She dutifully sat on the stool before her dressing table and let Nelly primp
at her hair. All the while, she simultaneously wondered how in heavens’ name she’d managed to forget her disastrous appearance, and silently urged Nelly to be quick about her tasks.
A hurried knock at the door caused both women to startle. Nelly set down the hot tongs and scurried to open the door. “Sally! What on earth! You know better than to come to my lady’s chambers.”
Elizabeth leaned to see around her maid. It was a girl she barely recognized, up from the kitchens. The fretful maid stood wringing her hands in Elizabeth’s doorway.
Elizabeth immediately anticipated the worst. “What is it?”
The girl bobbed. “I’m so sorry to be a nuisance, ma’am, but Mrs. Dalton begged me to bring you a message. Lord Constantine—I believe that is his name, ma’am—he returned to the nursery a while ago and insisted on her fetching the little master for him.” The girl’s youthful face blushed brightly. “She don’t know what to do and thought you might want to come straightaway. That’s why she sent me, because the rest o’ the staff is sleeping.”
Elizabeth pushed her mass of half-tonged curls over her shoulder and rose. She collected the small reticule containing her face powder and a few cotton cloths—in the event Oliver decided to play the same trick on her again—and slipped past the girls and into the hall. She took the stairs as quickly as her narrow skirt would allow and paused only long enough to catch her breath when she reached the nursery door. Mistake.
Con’s voice drifted through the open entrance. It struck a chord that vibrated straight through her heart.
“Why yes, that is my nose. It’s a nice nose—well, I’ve always thought so, anyway, though I’ve never thought to hold it just like that.”
His friendly, simple chatter affected her with a sudden, sharp poignancy she hadn’t dreamed possible.
“Oh?” he continued. “No, you didn’t have to let it go… Yes, yes, that’s also my nose, but not a place fingers usually go…”
She smiled at the nasal quality to his voice.