Sins of a Duke

by Stacy Reid

  The walk through the hall past the library to the parlor was nerve-racking. She opened the door and entered with a serene calm she did not feel. He was standing by the window, his back to her. Charlotte entered, Constance gently closed the door, and he turned around. She heard Charlotte’s soft gasp beside her and Constance fully understood. Mondvale was very handsome, in a dark and exotic manner. His raven hair was held in a queue at his nape, and his spectacles did not detract at all from the piercing quality of his silver eyes. He seemed so tall, lean and hard. Dressed in dark brown trousers, a matching morning coat, and a white shirt, he looked supremely confident and at ease. Not as if he was confronting someone he felt deceived him.

  His mouth curved into a faint smile. “Lady Constance.”

  “Your Grace, how good of you to call.” She was pleased with the steadiness of her voice. “May I introduce you to Lady Ralston, my friend and companion?”

  He strolled over with easy grace, and executed a small bow over Charlotte’s hand.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Ralston,” he murmured.

  Charlotte responded in kind, her voice a little shakier than she probably intended.

  “Please, let us sit,” Constance said, apprehension and a good deal of excitement clamoring inside her.

  Charlotte sat in the sofa nearest to the window away from them. Constance sank into the seat opposite from him, wondering how to breach the topic of her obvious lie and apologize for it. The rattle of the china alerted her before the door opened, and Mrs. Pritchard wheeled in a trolley with teas and cakes, and with efficient movements, laid them out on the center table.

  Constance dismissed her and then poured two cups of boiling water onto the Earl Grey leaves. She carefully prepared the tea, feeling his eyes watching in speculative silence the entire time.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, when she handed him his cup.

  She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Your Grace, your presence indicates that you are aware of my ruse at Lady Lawrence’s ball. Please forgive my prevarication.”

  He relaxed into the sofa. “Prevarication is forgiven, Lady Constance. I learned your identity later that night.”

  She was sure he had heard the rumors as well, but he was still here. Hope surged inside her, hot and sweet. “Why are you here, Your Grace?”

  One of his brows lifted in an arch. “I am inviting you to take a carriage ride with me in the park, Lady Constance, if you are available. Possibly a picnic by the lake? It is a beautiful day out.”

  Her pulse jumped in her throat. No man had invited her to ride with him since she had been back in London. What was going on? Constance thought it fair to warn him, even though she loathed doing so. She placed her tea on the walnut table with a soft clink. “Are you not familiar with the scandal swirling around my name, Your Grace?”

  “I am,” he intoned smoothly, taking another sip of his tea. “Are the rumors true?”

  She held her breath, confounded he would be so brash. “If they are, would you retract your invitation and depart from me?”

  His eyes roamed over her, and she wondered if she imagined the possessive way he did it. It was evident what he noted—the hues of her blond hair, the vivid coloring of her green eyes, the trademarks of Viscount Radcliffe’s line.

  “Depart from you?”

  “Many friends turned cold when they saw the truth of my shame.” That was the most she would admit.

  “It is not your sin,” he said gently.

  She smiled in spite of her nervousness. “Are you saying you are not repulsed?”

  “I do not subscribe to such notions, Lady Constance. The circumstances of your birth are not a reflection of your character, but a reflection of those of Lord and Lady Radcliffe’s.”

  Relief soared through her, but she could not allow him to be ignorant. “Everyone looks at me with morbid curiosity, and everyone speaks ill of me. If you are seen riding with me it will excite the most malicious speculation.”

  He smiled, barely. Then it was gone, but she had noticed.

  “I thank you, Lady Constance, for being concerned with my reputation. Hardly necessary, I assure you. Tongues will already be wagging, as my carriage is parked outside.”

  She took a delicate sip of her tea, unable to credit that he was so calm about her illegitimacy. It absolutely made no sense to her. “And you do not care if society gossips about your visit to the Beautiful Bastard?”

  “You are aware of your moniker.”

  She swallowed. “I would be a fool not to be.”

  He watched her with something akin to admiration, and a response thrilled inside of her. Memory of their dance and how he had touched her filtered through her.

  “I do not care.”

  Joy suffused her. “Then I would gladly take a carriage ride with you, Your Grace.”

  “Lucan.”

  Constance hesitated, then glanced at Charlotte, who was studiously looking toward the garden, her hands flying as they clenched her knitting needles. But Constance knew her friend had heard every word spoken. She cleared her throat delicately and Charlotte looked up. Her friend saw her unspoken request and rose to her feet.

  “I will have Anne prepare your carriage dress and have the cook prepare luncheon for the picnic. If you will excuse me, Your Grace,” Charlotte murmured, then gave a small curtsy and departed. She left the parlor door open, and Constance suppressed her smile at the stern glance Charlotte had given her before disappearing.

  Constance steeled herself, then met his eyes. “Now we can converse more freely. I am truly regretful I lied to you. I feared you would have turned away if I had revealed my name.”

  He waved his hands and relaxed deeper into the sofa, assuming a very casual pose. “It is forgotten, Lady Constance. Gossip is not something that would prevent me from inviting a young lady such as yourself to drive on such a day.”

  Her hands trembled, and she placed her tea cup on the walnut center table in fear she might spill it on herself. Did he want to court her? She wanted to blurt the question to him so badly her jaw ached from keeping quiet. “Then I thank you for your kind consideration, you will not regret my company.”

  His lips curved into a charming smile, and the need to feel his lips on hers again welled inside of her. She gritted her teeth and pushed the images away.

  “It is I who should thank you for your willingness to drive and picnic with the Lord of Sin, the debaucher of all things innocent, and with such enthusiasm, too.”

  Constance laughed lightly, a giddy sense of happiness unfurling within her. He wanted to court her. It was the only explanation. She searched his face for any sign of tender regard or interest, but the cool manner in which he observed her had insidious doubt creeping in. If he wanted to court her, he would have been clearer. Was it possible he saw her as an exotic forbidden fruit one must indulge in, as Lord Nelson had said to her at last week’s picnic? Her stomach hollowed at the thought. It would not do at all for her to get her hopes up. She needed to proceed with caution, no matter how tempting it was to throw her fears into the wind.

  But if other gentlemen were to see them together, more offers for genuine outings might come her way. A lady is always seen to be more suitable and appealing when other gentlemen pay her attention. “I see I am not the only one aware of their moniker, Your Grace,” she offered with a small smile.

  “Lucan, please. I do not like to stand on formality.”

  “Then please refer to me as Constance, when we are alone of course,” she invited.

  She fancied it was pleasure that lit up his eyes at her request. She felt warmed, and a little bit flushed. She tried not to stare overly long at his lips. “I will prepare myself for our outing, Your—Lucan. I think cold chicken and sandwiches with wine will be appropriate for our picnic.”

  He nodded his agreement. “I will be back around noon if that is acceptable.”

  “It is very much acceptable, Your Grace”—she smiled—“Lucan. If you will exc
use me?”

  Constance exited the parlor and lightly ran up the stairs. Life had never seemed so promising, not since the scandal of her birth. A shimmer of excitement pulsed through her and she sent a swift prayer to the heavens that her doubts would be all for naught, that the Duke of Mondvale could possibly be her prince charming.

  Her chest squeezed, and she tried to quell the flare of need for normalcy, for what good could come from a liaison between the Beautiful Bastard and the Lord of Sin?

  Chapter Five

  Constance sat in front of a small walnut table by the window in the drawing room responding to some correspondence that had been ignored for too long. The one she dashed off now was to Jocelyn, assuring her she did not need to travel from the country in her delicate state.

  Constance’s mother, Margaret Abigail Jackson, Viscountess of Radcliffe, swept into the room, dressed casually in a bright yellow tea gown with her dark hair piled high on her head. She looked invigorated as she usually did after her morning ride.

  “Lord Litchfield and his mother will be joining us for luncheon. I have told Mrs. Pritchard to prepare pigeon soup, salmon mousse, lamb chops with leeks, and a pudding,” she imparted casually as she sat on the chaise lounge near the window.

  Constance stiffened. She was glad she would not be present for lunch and would not see Lord Litchfield. Before she could speak, the housekeeper came in and laid out a few trays with cakes, a pot of tea, and a jar of lemon juice on the center table. She waited until Mrs. Pritchard left before she broached the topic of remaining in town for a few more weeks. “I have accepted a few invitations for the rest of the season.”

  Her mother paused in the act of pouring tea, her piercing blue eyes observing Constance. “I do not understand, Connie. Are you now saying you intend to stay in town?”

  Constance nodded firmly. “Yes, mother. I would like to stay in London for the rest of the season.”

  A pleased smiled curved her mother’s lips. “I am relieved to hear that, my dear. I had spoken with your father about retiring to Hertfordshire, and we had agreed if that was what you wanted, we would travel down with you.”

  Constance restrained herself from flinching as her mother referred to Lord Radcliffe as her father. She wondered when she would ever get used to the notion. Her mother had been married to him since Constance was eight years old, and she had happily called him Uncle Edward. To now re-adjust the relationship and refer to him as her father was exceedingly difficult. It was still painful to accept that the old duke was not her real father. In truth, it confounded her as to why it was so hard. Lord Radcliffe was a wonderful man, thoroughly kind and gentle. But she felt as if it had been easier when she had only thought of him as her mother’s second husband, instead of as her father.

  “I am happy you are considering Lord Litchfield’s offer. His mother will be pleased to hear.”

  Constance stiffened and pushed aside the papers and quills. “I am not considering his offer, Mother.”

  “I do not understand, Connie. I thought—”

  “It is not because of Lord Litchfield I wish to remain in London. I only thought to give the remainder of the season a try.” She had hoped to avoid this line of conversation.

  Her mother sighed. “I know you have some affection for Lord Litchfield, Connie. You said yes to his proposal last year. It is unlikely you will receive another offer, sweetheart. And I believe your father is very serious about accepting Lord Litchfield’s offer if he makes it a third time.”

  Constance tried to picture life with Lord Litchfield and could not. He sparked nothing inside of her. “I hardly think I will end up a spinster, Mother. I am eighteen, and I am sure to eventually find a beau who will make me happy. And I may have another suitor,” she offered tentatively.

  Surprise and hope flashed across her mother’s face. “Another suitor? Who are you referring to, my dear?”

  Her mind jerked to the kiss and dance in the conservatory. She imagined she could still feel the warmth of Lucan’s mouth on her lips. “The Duke of Mondvale called this morning.”

  Shock chased her mother’s expression. “He called? Why was I not informed of this?”

  Constance blushed and her mother’s gaze sharpened. “You were not here.”

  “Was Charlotte with you?”

  Constance fought not to blush harder. “Yes.”

  Her mother was not reacting with the excitement she had hoped. Maybe her caution was for naught.

  “But why would he call on you? You have not been introduced.” Her mother could not disguise the shock in her tone.

  Constance swallowed in discomfort, not wanting to lie to her. “I met him last night at Lady Lawrence’s ball. We spoke. He invited me to the Hyde for a picnic and a walk and I said yes. So I will not be here for luncheon with the Viscount and his mother. I believe His Grace may be interested in courting me.”

  Lady Radcliffe’s head shook with vigor. “Connie, please do not tell me it is because of Mondvale that you wish to remain in town?”

  Constance flushed. “Mother, I…”

  Her spine stiffened and her lips went flat in disapproval. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.” Lady Radcliffe’s eyes flashed with anger and determination. “He is not interested in you, Constance. I do not know what he was doing here or how you met him, as your father and I have not made any introductions. Lady Lawrence certainly would not have introduced you! His reputation cannot be taken lightly and I fear his attentions are not honorable.”

  An awful sensation sank into the pit of Constance’s stomach. She had not expected her mother to have such a reaction. She could only imagine her brothers would be the same. Everyone thought Lucan scandalous and wicked. But she had seen the gentleman, the man who had danced with her and had not behaved in a disrespectful manner after his first faux pas. She supposed she was like her mother, just as everyone whispered—a wanton—to be interested in a man with such a reputation.

  She pushed away the shameful thoughts. They had made her miserable these past months, as though she had not lived at all. In fact, if the duke had tried to call on her last year, he would have been met with staunch resistance. She had always had an innate urge to be wicked and free, to do something as daring as riding without a side saddle, like Phillipa and Jocelyn. But the fear of being seen as wanton, and the possible fall to destruction like the one her mother had experienced, stifled any such inclination. It was only recently those thoughts had been stripped away under loneliness, and Constance refused to permit the viciousness of society’s whispers to further dictate her life. “I felt alive for the first time in weeks when we conversed, Mother. Though His Grace has not declared any intentions toward me, I am open—”

  “This conversation is over, young lady. I will not entertain any thoughts of a courtship between you and that…that…” Her mother visibly composed herself. “Lord Litchfield is honorable. He has a cheerful disposition and is kind. Not to mention he very much wants to marry you. Our families have been acquainted for years, and they have informed Sebastian and your father that my past indiscretion does not matter. You must do the smart thing, Connie, and accept Lord Litchfield’s suit.”

  Heat flared through Constance. “You married Lord Radcliffe only three months after Papa’s passing. Why? Was it not because you loved him and did not care about the opinion of society? Why must I be concerned now?”

  “You speak foolishly, Constance. I forbid you from walking with Mondvale. He is not a gentleman. He is a common gambler with a shocking reputation.”

  “You hypocrite,” Constance breathed, truly shocked at her mother’s stance. “You did not even mourn for Papa! And you lecture me on propriety? I am your lover’s daughter.” Her voice cracked. “A lover you had while married. Papa is not my father and I found out through rumors.”

  Her mother paled. Constance had never spoken to her in this way. She herself felt appalled, but the unfairness stung. It was by her mother’s actions that Constance’s world had been shattered, and now
her mother sat before her spouting of propriety with no care for her daughter’s happiness? “Why did you do it?”

  The silence became profound. She saw her Mother’s deep discomfort and did not care. Her actions had affected Constance’s life in the most horrible manner. She should feel some discomfort.

  “Do what?” her mother’s hand trembled as she placed her cup of tea on the table. She had always shied away whenever Constance had probed. And she had always relented, fearful of upsetting her mother.

  “I thought Papa was my father.” Constance’s throat closed. “You had a lover when you were married, and I am one of his children.” It was hard for her to understand her mother, who forever touted propriety, had been so scandalous.

  “This is not a conversation we should be having here, Connie.”

  Constance did not relent, despite the frantic beating of her heart. “I am not a child, Mother. You have never said anything to me except that you are sorry and you beg my forgiveness. I deserve to know more.”

  Tears slipped down her mother’s face. “I loved him. I was in love with Lord Radcliffe before I even met Clement, but my father forbade our courtship. Your father’s coffers were empty, and my family needed money. I ended up marrying Clement even though I did not love him. He became cold when he realized my heart belonged to another. I tried to love him, Constance…I tried so hard, but I could not. Then Lord Radcliffe was there when I had been so lonely, hurting, when I needed someone, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to consummate our love, even though I was already married.”

  The way her mother’s expression and voice softened when she said her lover’s name caused a deep ache to pierce through Constance’s heart. “You did not mourn the old duke.”

  Her mother wilted in the chaise, all sense of ladylike decorum vanishing from her posture. “I love Edward so much, and he had waited for me so long. After I married Clement, Edward never married. I refused to wait another year or two to wed him. That is why I became Lady Radcliffe only three months after Clement died. Every time I thought to confess to you and Anthony that Lord Radcliffe is your father…I couldn’t. Edward and I thought we would have had more time. But in truth I was afraid of my children’s condemnation. Never did I dream Clement would leave letters renouncing Anthony and you as his children if Sebastian named Anthony as his heir, or that the knowledge would be made known to society. It is no excuse, for I should have made you both aware of the truth.”