by Mary Balogh
If the woman had chosen to be a courtesan instead of Dunbarton’s wife she would be the most celebrated one in England by now. And she would have made a veritable fortune. Of course, she had made a fortune anyway, had she not, by persuading that old fossil to marry for the first and only time in his life. And then by squeezing him dry of everything that was not nailed down by the entail.
She had a suitably respectable-looking companion with her. And she was holding court, favoring a large number of persons gathered about her—almost exclusively male—with her enigmatic half-smile and occasionally one of her white-gloved hands, on the forefinger of which winked a diamond large enough to bash out the brains of any man incautious enough to be impudent.
“Ah,” she said, turning her languid gaze from her court, most of which was forced onward by the crowd, “Lord Merton. Looking as angelically handsome as ever. I do hope Lady Paget appreciates the value of her prize.”
She was soft-spoken. Her voice was light and pleasant. Of course, she must never need to speak loudly. When she opened her mouth to speak, all about her fell silent to listen.
She favored Stephen with her hand, and he carried it to his lips and smiled at her.
“She is Lady Merton now, ma’am,” he said. “And I certainly appreciate the value of my prize.”
“Good man,” she said. “You have made the correct answer. And Lord Montford. Looking really quite … tamed. Lady Montford is to be commended.”
And she offered him her hand.
“Not at all, ma’am,” Monty said, grinning as he kissed the back of it. “I took one look at her and … was instantly tame.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she said, “though that is not quite what a little bird once told me. And Mr. Huxtable. How do you do?”
She looked at him almost with disdain, though she arched the look from beneath her eyelashes and somewhat spoiled the effect—if she had indeed intended disdain, that was. She did not offer him her hand.
“Very well indeed, Duchess, I thank you,” he said. “And all the better for having seen that you are back in town this year.”
“Flatterer,” she said, making a dismissive gesture with her ringed hand. She turned to her silent companion. “Babs, may I have the pleasure of presenting the Earl of Merton, Baron Montford, and Mr. Huxtable? Miss Leavensworth, gentlemen, is my dearest friend in the world. She has been kind enough to come and stay with me for a while before returning home to marry the vicar of the village where we grew up.”
Miss Leavensworth was tall and thin with a long, Nordic face, slightly protruding upper teeth, and fair hair. She was not an unhandsome woman.
She curtsied. They all bowed from the saddle.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Leavensworth,” Stephen said. “Are the nuptials to be soon?”
“In August, my lord,” she said. “But in the meantime I hope to see as many places of interest in London as I can. All the museums and galleries, anyway.”
The duchess was looking his horse over, Constantine could see. And then his top-boots. And then his thighs. And then … his face. She raised her eyebrows when she found him staring directly back at her.
“We must move on, Babs,” she said. “I fear we are blocking the path, and these gentlemen are holding up traffic. They are so very … large.”
And she turned and processed onward toward the next wave of admirers come to greet her and welcome her back to town.
“Goodness me,” Monty murmured. “There goes one very dangerous lady. And she has just been let off the leash.”
“Her friend seems very sensible,” Stephen said.
“It would seem,” Constantine said, “that only titled gentlemen are to be granted the great honor of kissing her hand.”
“I would not lose any sleep over that, if I were you, Con,” Monty said. “Perhaps it is only untitled gentlemen who are favored with a leisurely toe-to-head scrutiny instead of a hand.”
“Or maybe one should make that unmarried gentlemen, Monty,” Stephen said. “Perhaps the lady fancies you, Con.”
“But perhaps I do not fancy the lady,” Constantine said. “It has never been my ambition to share a mistress with half the ton.”
“Hmm,” Monty said. “Do you think that is what Dunbarton did, poor devil? Though, speaking of which, he apparently had one devil of a reputation as a dangerous character when he was a young man. He never looked like a cuckold after his marriage, did he? He always looked more like the cat who had climbed right into the cream bowl to bask and bathe there while he lapped it up.”
“I have just thought of something,” Stephen said. “It was just last year, maybe even on this very date, and in just this place that I first set eyes upon Cassandra. You were with me, Con. And if memory does not deceive me, Monty, you rode up with Kate while we were looking at her and remarking upon how uncomfortably hot she must be beneath her heavy widow’s weeds.”
“And you went on to live happily ever after with her,” Monty said. He grinned again. “Are you predicting a like fate for Con with the gorgeous duchess?”
“The sun is not shining,” Constantine said, “and it certainly is not hot. And the duchess is not in heavy mourning. Or walking alone with her companion while no one takes any notice. And I am not looking for a leg shackle, thank you kindly, Monty.”
“But then, Con,” Stephen said, waggling his eyebrows, “neither was I.”
They all chuckled—and then noticed Timothy Hood driving a spanking-new high-perch phaeton drawn by a pair of perfectly matched grays. Their attention was effectively diverted from the widow in white who had looked at him, Constantine realized now that he had had a minute or two to think about it, not so much disdainfully as provocatively.
He really was not interested. He chose his mistresses—and he took one almost every year when he was in town—with an eye to his maximum comfort for the duration of the Season.
There would be no comfort at all in a woman whose daily pastime seemed to be gathering as many adoring men about her as she could—and her ability in that regard was considerable.
He did not dance to any woman’s tune.
Or at the end of any puppet strings.
Certainly not the notorious Duchess of Dunbarton’s.
Chapter 3
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS Barbara was confirmed in her conviction that Hannah had moved into a puzzlingly and disturbingly different world from the one they had known together in their Lincolnshire village. A less moral world. During those days Hannah told two whoppers of lies, which she would not even admit were lies.
Not real lies.
The first happened when the two of them were stepping out of a milliner’s shop on Bond Street late one morning, a footman behind them more than half hidden beneath four large hatboxes. Their intention was to see the boxes safely deposited in their waiting carriage and then proceed to a bakery a little way along the street for refreshments. But as fate would have it, Mr. Huxtable was approaching alone along the pavement. He was still some distance away and might easily have been avoided, especially as he appeared not to have noticed them among the crowd of shoppers. But Hannah waited for him to draw closer and see them.
He touched the brim of his hat, inclined his head politely, and asked them how they did.
“We have been shopping for hours,” Hannah said with a weary sigh.
That part at least seemed like a mere exaggeration to Barbara rather than an out-and-out lie. An hour and a half was longer than just one hour, after all.
“And we are absolutely parched,” Hannah continued.
Barbara was a little uncomfortable. Hannah was, of course, trying to attract Mr. Huxtable, but did she have to be so blatant about it?
But the big lie was coming up, and Barbara did not see it coming.
Mr. Huxtable responded with the gallantry almost any true gentleman would have shown under the circumstances.
“There is a bakery or a pastry cook not far from here,” he said. “May I hav
e the pleasure of escorting you ladies there and buying you tea?”
And instead of looking grateful or perhaps embarrassed, Hannah looked sorrowful. Barbara observed the expression in surprise.
“That is extraordinarily kind of you, Mr. Huxtable,” she said, “but we are expecting visitors and must hurry home.”
And the coachman had to gather the ribbons in a hurry, and the footman had to scramble to open the carriage door, and Mr. Huxtable bowed and handed them in.
Hannah nodded graciously to him as they drove off.
“Hannah?” Barbara asked.
“One must never appear too eager,” Hannah said.
“But you practically asked him to take us for tea,” Barbara pointed out.
“I remarked on the fact that I was thirsty,” Hannah said. “That was perfectly true.”
“Are we expecting visitors?” Barbara asked.
“Not to my knowledge,” Hannah admitted, “but one never knows.”
She had lied, in other words. Barbara disapproved of lies. But she said nothing. Hannah was playing her game, of which Barbara also disapproved, but Hannah was an adult. She could choose her own course in life.
The second lie was told a few evenings later, when they were at a ball hosted by Lord and Lady Merriwether. Barbara had not wanted to attend it. It was a ton ball, and she had been to nothing grander than a country assembly her whole life.
“Nonsense,” Hannah had said when she voiced her concern. “Show me your feet, Babs.”
Barbara had lifted her skirt to just above her ankles, and Hannah had looked down at her feet, a frown between her brows.
“As I suspected,” she had said. “You have one right foot and one left. Perfect for dancing. I might have allowed you to remain at home if you had had two left feet, as some people do, poor things. Usually men. But you are coming. There is no point in arguing. You are coming. Tell me that you are.”
Barbara was—of course—at the ball, and she was quite sure her eyes might pop right out of her head if she was not careful. She had never even dreamed of such splendor. She was going to be writing very long letters home tomorrow.
They were practically mobbed as soon as they set foot in the ballroom. Or rather, Hannah was mobbed and Barbara was caught in the middle of the crowd with her. It amazed and half amused her to watch the transformation of her friend when she was in public. She hardly even looked like the person Barbara had known all her life. She looked like a … Well, like a duchess.
Mr. Huxtable was in the ballroom. He was with the two gentlemen with whom he had ridden in the park and two ladies. But he did not remain with them for long. He moved about and stopped frequently to converse with different groups.
And Hannah, Barbara observed, was careful to position herself so that she frequently caught his eye. The exchanged glances were usually accompanied by a flutter of Hannah’s white feathered fan and a glance that succeeded once or twice in looking almost forlorn. As though she were unhappy in the crowd and needed rescuing.
There were probably a few dozen ladies in the room, Barbara thought, who would have been delighted to be similarly unhappy and in need of rescuing. The power Hannah had over men was truly astounding, especially as she appeared to make no great effort to wield it. Of course, she had always drawn eyes wherever she went, even as a girl. She was one of the purely beautiful creatures of this world.
Finally Mr. Huxtable answered her silent plea and came striding across the floor.
He bowed first to Barbara and wished her a good evening. Then he bowed to Hannah.
“Duchess,” he said, “would you be good enough to dance the opening set with me?”
She looked sorrowful again.
“I regret that I cannot,” she said. “I have already promised it to someone else.”
What? Barbara blinked. Hannah had explained to her when they were on their way here that she never allowed any man to reserve a set in advance with her—not since the days when the duke still danced, anyway. And Barbara had not heard her friend agreeing to dance with anyone since they arrived. There was more to come.
“Perhaps the second, then?” Mr. Huxtable said. “Or the third?”
Hannah closed her fan and set the tip against her lips.
“I am sorry, Mr. Huxtable,” she said, sounding truly remorseful. “I have promised every dance. Perhaps some other time.”
He bowed and went away.
“Hannah?” Barbara said.
“I will dance every set,” Hannah said. “One must not appear too eager, Babs.”
And her court was back, vying for her attention again.
Such blatant and strange lies, Barbara thought. How could inviting a man’s attention and then spurning it when he gave it actually attract him? How could it convert him from a stranger into a lover?
Barbara hoped it would not. She truly believed that Hannah would be making a grave mistake in taking any man as a lover. And Mr. Huxtable, though he appeared to be a perfect gentleman, also looked very dangerous indeed. The sort of man who would not be content to be toyed with forever.
Barbara could only hope that his final reaction would be to ignore Hannah altogether.
And then Barbara’s thoughts were very effectively distracted when one gentleman asked Hannah to present him, and he bowed over Barbara’s hand and asked if he might lead her into the opening set.
She could barely restrain herself from looking down to make sure that she really did have one right foot and one left. Suddenly her mouth felt dry and her heart felt like a hammer and she very badly wanted Simon.
“Thank you.” She smiled serenely and set her hand on the gentleman’s sleeve. She had already forgotten his name.
Hannah meanwhile was displaying one of the most important attributes she had acquired over the past eleven years—patience. One must never appear too eager—or eager at all, in fact—when one wanted something. And she wanted Constantine Huxtable. He was even more attractive than she remembered from other years, and she had no doubt he would be a satisfactory lover. Probably a great deal more than satisfactory, in fact.
But she knew he did not believe that he wanted her for a lover. That had been obvious during their meeting in Hyde Park. He had stared rather stonily down at her from his vantage point on horseback, and she had concluded that he despised her. Many people did, of course, without ever really knowing her—which, to be fair, was largely her doing. But they flocked about her, nonetheless. They could not keep their eyes off her.
The duke had taught her how to be not only noticed, but irresistible.
No one admires timidity or modesty, my dearest love, he had told her on one occasion early in their marriage, when she had possessed an overabundance of both. My dearest love had been his name for her. He had never called her Hannah. Just as she had never called him anything but Duke.
She had learned never to be timid.
And never ever to be modest.
And to be patient.
***
THREE EVENINGS AFTER THE BALL, Hannah and Barbara were attending a private concert at the home of Lord and Lady Heaton. They were in an oval anteroom with a crowd of other early arrivals, enjoying a glass of wine before taking their places in the music room for the entertainment. As usual they were surrounded by a court of Hannah’s friends and admirers. Two of the admirers were vying with each other for the honor of sitting beside her for the evening. She might have reminded them that she had two sides, but she did not believe that would settle the argument to the satisfaction of either.
She wafted a fan before her face and noted the arrival of the Earl and Countess of Sheringford, a couple whose marriage had begun amid the most shocking scandal several years ago and then settled into what appeared to be a happy union.
The countess saw Hannah and nodded and smiled at her. The earl smiled too and raised a hand in her direction. Mr. Huxtable was with them. He was related to the countess, of course. She was the Earl of Merton’s sister. He inclined his head to Hannah
and Barbara without smiling.
All the other inhabitants of the room paled into insignificance beside him. And he was going to be her lover.
It was going to happen. She refused to doubt it.
If you want something, my dearest love, the duke had once told her, you will never get it. Want is a timid, abject word. It implies that you know you will be left wanting, that you know you do not deserve the object of your desire but can only hope for a miracle. You must expect that object instead, and it will be yours. There is no such thing as a miracle.
“I cannot sit with you, I am afraid, Lord Netherby,” Hannah said now to settle the argument between her two contending admirers, “though I do thank you for your kindness.” She did not need to raise her voice. All around her hushed to listen to what she said. “Nor will I be able to sit with you, Sir Bertrand. I am sorry. I am going to sit with Mr. Huxtable. I had no time, alas, a week ago to accept his very kind invitation to treat Babs and me to tea and cakes when we met him on Bond Street. And I had no free sets remaining when he asked to dance with me at the Merriwether ball a few evenings ago. I will sit with him tonight instead.”
She closed her fan and rested the tip of it against her pursed lips as she gazed at Mr. Huxtable. He showed no reaction—not surprise or disdain or gratification. He certainly did not fawn, as so many men always did, the foolish creatures. Neither did he turn and walk away.
That was a relief.
“Good evening, Duchess,” he said, strolling closer to her as her court opened up a path for him. “It is rather crowded in here, is it not? I see it is less so in the music room. Shall we stroll in there for a while?”
“That sounds pleasant,” she said, handing her empty glass to a gentleman on her right and slipping her hand through Mr. Huxtable’s arm.
Mr. and Mrs. Park, she could see, were talking with Barbara, to whom they had just been introduced. Their second son, Hannah recalled, was a clergyman.