Читать книгу Deception in Regency Society - Christine Merrill - Страница 13

At the door of the ballroom in Barton’s home, Constance greeted her guests with a frozen smile. If she could manage to control nothing else around her, she could at least control her temper for the few hours necessary to earn back her necklace.

She had pleaded with Freddy to see reason, and he had all but thrown her from his house. He would not even tell her who held the deed to her own home, and she was left to wait for a knock at the door, politely explaining that she must pay rent or vacate the premises.

And tonight she must dance to Barton’s tune, if only to retrieve the necklace and sell the stones again. The rubies would mean another month’s income, perhaps two. Or even more if she was forced to reduce her staff and move to a smaller place.

But it did no good to think about what might come, if there was a more immediate problem to deal with. Until she had the rubies in hand, she must keep a tight rein on her emotions, and give Barton what he wanted. To that end, she made sure that she looked her best, and was ready when the carriage he’d sent for her arrived. Her gown was not new, but she had not worn it in over a year. Susan had retrimmed the deep blue satin with silver lace, and dressed her dark hair with silver ribbons.

Constance was afraid to wear the necklace that best suited the gown lest someone recognise the sapphires as paste, and settled for the pearls. And she made sure that there was enough empty space in her reticule to carry away the rubies, should Barton be true to his word and return them to her.

Of course, if he did not, she would feel most foolish for being rooked into attending the evening’s affair. But it would be a small loss, and the trick would not work twice. If she did not have the rubies at the end of the evening, she would reconcile herself to whatever might result from Barton’s revelation.

But at the moment she was trapped in the receiving line next to a man she detested, and forced to entertain his guests as if they were her own. She smiled politely at the man bent over her hand, smiled at his wife as well, and responded to their greetings by rote, as she had to hundreds of guests at parties she had thrown for Robert. Her smile brightened as she noticed them to be strangers. Barton was not privy to the first circle of the ton. Many of her closest friends recognised the man for what he was and declined the invitation, or cut him outright. Constance wholeheartedly regretted that she had been slow to see his true character, but she was not alone, for the ballroom was full of people willing to befriend him.

She looked past the next man in line, barely hearing Barton’s introduction of him, and scanned the crowd. Of course, a fair portion of the guests were social climbers, cits and hangers-on. But after this evening, she need never see them again, and they certainly would not be in a position to go gossiping to her friends about seeing her here.

‘Mr Smythe, the Dowager Duchess of Wellford.’ She winced. Barton insisted on using her title to his friends, as though he wished to make sure that everyone knew the value of his new possession.

The man before her bowed low over her hand. ‘Your Grace.’

Although his face was unfamiliar, his voice struck a chord of memory. There was laughter in it. And the touch of his hand on hers was at the same time, ordinary and intimately familiar.

It was the thief from her bedroom.

He rose from his bow and looked into her eyes for a fraction of a second too long, as though daring her to speak and knowing she could not. His eyes were hazel and sparkling from the shared conspiracy, his smile was broad and a trifle too intense for a common introduction. If it were another man, she might think he had arrived half-foxed and up to mischief. But this man had already proven to be more than he appeared. If he meant to cause trouble, she doubted he would blame an excess of wine.

‘Mr Smythe?’ That was what Barton had said, had he not? She could not very well ask him to repeat himself, or demand to know how he knew Smythe. To express too much interest in a male guest was not the quickest way back to her necklace.

Of course, she could wipe the familiar grin from Smythe’s face, and prove to him that she recognised him. A casual word could ruin him just as quickly as it could her. She opened her mouth.

And perhaps he would ask about the money she’d stolen from him or the kiss he’d stolen in her bedroom.

She closed her mouth again, and pasted on a delighted smile. ‘How do you do, Mr Smythe.’

‘Quite well, thank you.’ She could swear he winked at her.

And then, he was gone.

If Barton had noticed anything pass between them, he said nothing. And soon the guests were through the line and Barton led her out in the first dance of the evening.

She moved through the patterns as if sleepwalking, speaking to her partner only when she could not avoid it. He danced with her several more times, when she could not manage to dodge his attention, and she maintained the same demeanour: polite, cordial and distant. Nothing that might make the guests assume there was anything of a more intimate nature likely to happen between them in the future.

And while she held Barton at a distance, she also managed to avoid contact with the curious Mr Smythe. It was possible that she had imagined recognising him. Perhaps she had been wrong. She could not very well ask him about it in a crowded ballroom.

But she was sure she was not mistaken. He was the thief. She had seen the recognition in his eyes. And she was somewhat frustrated to realise that it was not to be the least like she had fantasised, with him carrying some burning desire to see her again. She thought she could feel him, observing her from across the room, but this might be her imagination as well. He made no attempt to contact her; when she looked in his direction, he was always looking elsewhere. He seemed to care very little that she was in the room at all.

She was relieved when it finally came time for supper. Barton led her into the dining room, and her position as hostess meant that she was seated at the far end of the table from him. But nowhere near Smythe, either. The people around her were unexceptional, and she relaxed for a time, chatting amiably with them before the meal ended and she had to gather her wits and return to the dance floor.

When she reached the ballroom, she took care to get lost in the crowd and separated from her host. The next dance was a waltz, far more intimate than she liked, if she should have to dance with Barton. If she could find another partner quickly, it would be several minutes before she need speak with him again. She searched the room. Quickly, someone. Anyone.

‘Your Grace, may I have this dance?’

She’d said yes to the man before even turning to face him. And when she looked up, it was into the smiling eyes of Mr Smythe.

He saw her discomposure and said nothing, taking her hand and leading her out on to the floor.

As the music began, any doubt that he was the man from her bedroom disappeared. He held her as he had held her that night, in a grasp that managed to be both relaxed and intimate. It felt good to be in his arms again, and to be able to admire him in the candlelight.

And there was much about him that was admirable. His hair was brown, and had an appealing softness to it. She remembered how it had felt when she’d touched it, and wanted to touch it again. He had pleasant, even features, and the smile on his lips gave every indication of breaking into a grin, given the slightest provocation. His eyes were bright with suppressed mirth. If his profession left him racked with guilt, there was no indication of it, for he seemed a most happy fellow.

They danced in silence, until at last he leaned a trifle closer and whispered, ‘How long do you suppose we can pretend a lack of recognition to each other? We have managed quite well so far, I think. Longer than I expected. But one of us has to break eventually. I surrender. You have won.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘And now you are taking the game to extra innings. Not necessary. I am conquered. Vanquished. You nearly had me in the receiving line, you know. Finding you there, next to Barton, was a nasty surprise.’

‘You will survive it,’ she responded tartly. ‘Seeing an acquaintance unexpectedly in a public place is not nearly so shocking as finding a total stranger in one’s private rooms.’

‘Touché. But I had hoped you had forgiven me for that. Why so cold to me now?’

‘Perhaps I don’t approve of people who take things that don’t belong to them.’

‘Oh, really? But I notice, when you were in need, that you had no problem keeping the money I left for you.’

So he had left it for her. But did he expect thanks for involving her in a theft? ‘That was different. What else was I to do with it? I had no idea—’

‘Where to find me and who the money belonged to. And you were in desperate need, so you took it. Believe me, I understand completely.’

‘I will pay you back when I am able,’ she said.

‘You will pay me back tonight,’ he replied.

Her heart sank. He had seemed so nice. And he had promised not to compromise her. Now he would become just another man with a hold over her, and he would use it to his advantage like all the rest. She stumbled as they turned.

He caught her, incorporating the misstep gracefully into the movement of the dance. ‘Oh, do not give me that melodramatic look. We are in a ballroom, not Drury Lane. I have no intention of asking you to whore yourself to me. I merely need you to keep your lover, Barton, occupied while I go to search his study.’

‘He is not my lover,’ she retorted.

‘Really? But you stand as hostess, at his side.’

‘It was not my desire to do so.’

‘And you have been seen often in his company.’

‘For a time,’ she corrected, ‘but no more after tonight. He is nothing singular. I have been seen in the company of many men.’

His eyebrow arched suggestively.

‘I am in your company now. But that does not mean I would invite you to my bed.’

Of course, if he wished to be there, he would hardly require an invitation. She would be quite helpless to stop him, and perhaps next time he would wish to steal more than a kiss. Once the thought was formed, it showed no intention of fading.

He was staring at her again, noticing the gap in the conversation. And his smile was definitely a grin. She wished she had not mentioned the bed at all, for if he did not have the idea before, he must surely be thinking of it now.

She cleared her throat. ‘What I meant to say was, I hope to marry again, and that means I am likely to be seen in the company of gentleman who I think might be of a mind to take a wife.’

‘And you chose Barton as a possible husband?’ Smythe’s tone was incredulous and the smile disappeared from his face.

‘I sometimes find that the interests of gentlemen are less than worthy. It is a tribute to my naïveté and not my lowered standards.’

‘So you and Barton are not…?’ He spoke a trifle too hastily and his hand tightened on her waist.

‘He made an offer that had nothing to do with matrimony, and I gave him a set-down. More than once.’ She frowned. ‘At the end of the evening I will probably have to give him another, since he ignored the others. And he tricked me into coming here, for reasons I’d rather not discuss.’

He blinked down at her and his hand relaxed. He was holding her in the same loose grip as before, as though he was confident that she would stay with him, even if he had no hold on her. ‘Well, then. Perhaps I was misinformed.’

‘Most definitely you were.’

He looked bemused. ‘Then I hope you will not think it too rude when I will ask you to keep the man who is not your lover, though he seems to think he will be, occupied while I pay an unaccompanied visit to his study.’

‘And how do you expect me to do that?’

‘Use your imagination. A quarter of an hour is all I need and easily worth the hundred guineas I left in your room.’

The dance came to an end and he led her from the floor. ‘Your Grace, it was an unexpected pleasure. Now, if you will excuse me?’ There was the slightest inclination of his head, which seemed to hint that he had business to attend to, and that the clock was ticking.

She glanced across the room, and somewhere in the distance a clock chimed the three-quarter hour. Very well, then. She would give him fifteen minutes. It was a small price for the money he had given her. She glanced around the room, searching for Barton, and saw him too close to the stairs that must lead to the study. ‘My lord?’ She had hoped to ask him to dance, and out of the corner of her eye, noticed that the orchestra had chosen that inopportune moment to take refreshment. Very well, then. It was near enough the end of the evening. Now was as good a time as any to retrieve the necklace. ‘If I might speak to you?’

‘Certainly, my dear.’ He bowed low over her hand. ‘What is it?’

She resisted the urge to inform him that she was not now, nor ever wished to be, his dear. ‘In private.’

‘My study, then.’ He turned to lead her to the exact place that she did not wish to be.

‘Not so private as all that, I think. The garden, perhaps? It is quiet enough there.’

‘And most romantic in the moonlight.’

She bit back another retort. There would be time enough in fifteen minutes to set him straight.

He took her hand and led her to the balcony doors, and, at the back of her mind, she felt a minute pass. And another, as he led her outside, and down the stone steps to the garden. When they were in the darkness and a distance from the house, he turned to her and smiled. ‘To what do I owe this sudden desire to be alone with me? Have you reconsidered my offer?’

‘You know very well the reason. Have I performed to your satisfaction in this little farce?’

‘Most admirably. We can make it a regular occurrence, if you wish.’

‘But I do not wish,’ she said firmly. ‘I have told you over and over again.’

‘And yet, you agreed to do it tonight. And it was a delightful evening. Not so terrible as you made it out to be, I’m sure.’

‘There was only one reason I agreed to come, and you know it full well.’

‘Ah, the necklace.’ He reached into his pocket, and produced the rubies, holding them in front of her.

She snatched the thing from his hand and secreted it in her reticule, turning to go back to the house, no longer caring about Smythe and his fifteen minutes.

Barton’s fingers closed on her upper arm, holding her in place. She attempted to pull away, and he tightened his grip, ever so slightly. To struggle further might leave bruises on her skin. She imagined the shame of going back into the ballroom, the red marks of a man’s fingers already blossoming on her arm.

She stayed still.

‘Willing to stay with me, after all?’

‘I do not wish my behaviour to create gossip.’

He smiled, realising that he’d won again. ‘And why would a rumour frighten you? If I am in the wrong, and you do not wish to be with me, then surely you could appeal to one of the many gentlemen of your acquaintance for assistance?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘But that is right. Many of the gentlemen here have received set-downs from you, have they not? They are likely to be more sympathetic to my plight. Over and over again, you allow men to lead you to the fence, and then you do not jump.’

‘That is not the way it has been at all,’ she argued. ‘I had no idea that the gentlemen in question did not intend marriage. Or you, for that matter. I never sought anything less.’

Barton smiled. ‘How refreshingly naïve you are. I think it is the combination of experience and naïveté that attracts me to you. You believe it is possible to go back to the way things were, before you married, and to have a second chance at a husband and a family. But you will never again be that young and innocent. When men look at you, they know that you are too old to guarantee a first child, but fully ripe for all the pleasures that a man might wish to experience with a woman. When we look at you, my dear, we know that you know precisely what will happen when you are alone with us.’

He smiled and drew closer. ‘I can see it, even now. The lust sizzles in your eyes. You fear scandal, more than you fear my touch. I can steal a kiss, perhaps a caress in the darkness. These things do not alarm you so much as the thought that someone might catch us at it. I suspect that you would have no problem giving yourself freely, if you could be assured of the discretion of your partner. Take this instance. If you do not submit, you must walk away from me, and I have but to call out and draw attention to the fact that you are with me, or squeeze your arm, ever so slightly.’ He tightened his grip, and then relaxed it again, as he felt her submit. ‘Then people will notice that we were alone together, and there will be even more talk than there already is.’

‘People will think you a brute for forcing yourself on a woman.’

‘Since the woman is yourself, and you just spent the evening at my side as hostess, I doubt that anyone will assume force. It is far more likely that they will assume you were a willing participant in anything that might have occurred. The assumptions of a curious society will be confirmed, the minute you complain. Or you can allow me to kiss you, here in the dark, and we can return to the ballroom separately. No one will be the wiser.’

Damn her for her foolishness in thinking she could win against Barton in his own house. She had gained the necklace, only to lose more ground. And damn Mr Smythe for using her as well. He had been gone more than fifteen minutes, she was sure of it. And he thought nothing of leaving her in the clutches of Barton. Now that Smythe had what he wanted, he had forgotten her.

It would do no good to fight Barton now. If she gave in, perhaps the incident would pass quickly, and she might escape. She closed her eyes and tipped her head up to meet him as he leaned in and kissed her.

And she did nothing to stop him, because he was right. The last thing she needed was more gossip. When he wished for her to open her mouth, she did that as well. She could but hope that he would not take things too far in so public a place. And after tonight, scandal or no, she would not be alone with him again.

He was doing his best to arouse feelings in her, and she took great pleasure in ignoring the attempt. If he wished to make love to her, then let him. But eventually, when she did not respond, he would lose interest and let her go. In the meantime, she would see to it that the experience was not so pleasurable as he imagined.

He was working industriously on her mouth, and his hands were on her shoulders. It was only a matter of time before they strayed lower.

She was disappointed to find that she felt neither desire nor outrage at the fact. Her mind felt strangely detached from her body, uninterested in the proceedings and wishing only to go home and put the experience behind her. Let him do what he wished and be done with it. It had been so long since she’d felt anything at all, she doubted that Barton could move her with his fumblings.

As though he’d heard her thoughts, Barton’s hand began a slow descent towards the swell of her breast.

And then he pulled away from her with an oath. There was the sound of someone crashing clumsily through the ornamental shrubbery, soft, tuneless whistling growing louder as the intruder approached.

Barton took off in the direction of the sound. ‘Here, you. What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Trying to find my way out of this damn briar patch.’

Constance strangled a laugh. It was Mr Smythe, making it clear to all within earshot that he was done with whatever business he’d been up to.

‘I only wanted a breath of air. Two steps from the house and I was lost in the wilderness. I’ve a good mind to complain to the host.’

‘I am the host, you drunken idiot. And you’re stepping on my rose-bushes.’ Jack was furious.

Constance stepped off the path and disappeared into the darkness, leaning against a tree and giving way to silent giggles.

There was a pause as an apparently drunken Smythe took stock of the situation. ‘Roses? So I am. Oh, well. No harm done. The spindly little things were half-dead, anyway. Could have used more water.’

‘They are in perfect health. And they are imported from France.’

‘Well, that’s your problem. Get yourself some proper English flowers. Just as pretty and not so delicate.’

‘Get off of my yard, you drunken buffoon! I invited you here, Smythe, on the recommendation of a friend. I can see I was mistaken in the courtesy and it will not be repeated. Kindly take yourself from the premises, before I have you forcibly removed.’

‘I was going. Going. Know where I’m not wanted.’ She could hear more crashing, as Smythe wandered noisily away in the direction of the street, trampling more expensive landscaping as he went.

There was more swearing from Barton as he came back in her direction, and softly called her name.

She stepped behind a tree, scarcely daring to breathe.

He walked within an arm’s length of her, but she stayed still in the shadows and let him pass.

Barton released another quiet oath, and turned in the direction of the house, probably hoping to find her there.

She smiled in satisfaction. Let him look. She had the necklace again. There was no reason to stay a moment longer. It was not a chill night, she had no wrap. She could find her own way to the street through the garden, without taking leave of the host.

She turned into the darkness. At least she thought she could find her way to the street. If the house was behind her, then surely…

‘Allow me.’ A hand reached out of the darkness, and caught her arm.

She gasped. ‘Smythe.’

‘The same.’

‘I thought you had gone.’

‘And leave you alone in the dark? I think not. Do you have a carriage back at the house?’

‘Barton sent a coach for me. I assumed that I would find a friend to escort me home.’

‘And so you have. I will see you home, if you can leave immediately. I suspect I am no longer welcome in Barton’s home.’ She could see his grin in the darkness.

She smiled in return. ‘And I have no wish to return. It suits me well.’

‘Excellent.’ It was impossible to tell, but he sounded sincerely pleased to have her company. He slipped his arm through hers and lead her in the direction of the street.

A thrill shot through her at the idea of being alone in the dark with him again, far from the safety of the house. Anything could happen and no one would be the wiser.

‘You should not be so careless with your reputation, your Grace.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

His voice was gentle, but held a hint of disapproval. ‘You were alone in the garden. With Barton, I mean.’

‘Only because you wished me to distract him,’ she said acerbically. ‘You left the method to me.’

‘And I did not expect you to choose that one, after what you said to me as we danced. Did you wish for him to kiss you?’

‘Not particularly.’

There was a hesitation. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘That is a very impertinent question.’

‘And that is a very evasive answer.’

‘But it is all you will get from me,’ she said. ‘Did you at least get what you were searching for?’

‘No, I did not. And what makes you think I was searching for anything?’

She tipped her head to the side, considering. ‘I am not sure. But I hope, if you merely intended burglary, you would not want or need to involve me in it.’

He nodded. ‘That is true. And do not worry. It will not happen again. I have involved you too much already.’

‘That is all right,’ she said hurriedly. ‘It was not too great a burden.’

‘Allowing Barton to kiss you in the moonlight.’ There was a cynical bite to his words that did not escape her.

‘It was only a kiss,’ she responded.

‘Oh, really? But a kiss can be a dangerous thing, if done correctly.’ He swung her body into his and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Allow me to demonstrate.’ And then he brought his mouth down upon hers.

It was as it had been on the night in her room. His kiss was as heady and romantic as the smell of the roses in the garden, and she relaxed into it, letting it awaken her senses.

She slipped her arms inside his coat, and felt the muscles of his back and shoulders tense as her fingers touched him. His arms strained to pull her closer to him, and he stroked her tongue with his, varying the pressure of his lips against hers from punishing firmness to a featherlight touch. When he released her mouth, she caught him about the waist and arched her body away from him, baring her throat and willing him to kiss her there, and lower.

He accepted the invitation and his lips trailed fire down her neck to rest on her shoulder. ‘Do you enjoy it when I kiss you?’ he murmured into her skin.

‘Yes.’ She shuddered against him.

He ran a finger inside the neckline of her gown and pulled the dress away from her body, pushing to slide it down her arm. He planted a kiss just under the place where her dress should end, and she gasped.

He laughed and his finger traced her collarbone. ‘I am going to kiss you there again. Hard enough to mark you. No one will know it but we two, because your gown will hide all. Would you like that?’

‘Yes.’ She shocked herself by saying it, knowing that it was true. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘I thought you might.’ And he lowered his head again, and she felt him suck on the flesh, felt the feeling run through her all the way to her toes.

It was the work of a moment. And then it was over. He leaned his head against her ear and whispered, ‘If you would kiss, then do not give them cheaply to one such as Barton. Choose someone worthy of your affection.’ He walked her the last few steps through the trees and they came out at the bend of the drive. He whistled once and a carriage appeared from out of the darkness. Black and unmarked, with black horses and a driver muffled beyond recognition.

Smythe gave instructions to the driver and then he handed her up into the carriage, shutting the door behind her.

She leaned out of the window to where he stood in the road. ‘Are you not coming as well?’

‘My man will see you home.’ There was hunger in his eyes as he stared up into her face. ‘You are safer with him tonight than alone in a carriage with me.’

‘But how will you get home?’ And where is home? And are you alone there? She was bursting with unasked questions.

He smiled at her, his face dim in the light from the carriage lamps. ‘Never worry about me, your Grace. I have ways. Until we meet again.’ He bowed to her as the carriage pulled away and he disappeared into the darkness behind her.

She leaned back into the squabs, her heart hammering in her chest. He had been right about the danger in a kiss. His were as intoxicating as anything served at the party, and as compelling as Barton’s were not.

Perhaps what Barton accused her of was true. She was more than willing to bend the rules if she felt she would not be caught. And Mr Smythe would see to it that what they did was safe and in secret.

Perhaps it was no more than that. He was passionate, but solicitous of her reputation. Where other men wished to parade her fallen virtue as a trophy to their skills at seduction, with Smythe no one would know that they had been together. When he was done with her he would leave as quietly as he had come, moving through her life like a fish through water.

And when they parted tonight, he had not said goodbye. She could scarce control herself at the thought of seeing him again. She could still feel the kiss, hot and sinful, a brand on her shoulder to remind her of all the ways and places he might kiss her, should she allow it.

And why had she been so quick to agree? Was it because he had not asked at all?

Not at first, perhaps. But once he had started, he had asked her what would make her happy. He had not tried to negotiate her out of her honour, or worried that he was being outbid by some other man. He had not given her an ultimatum, or threatened her with shame or discovery.

He’d given her the first kiss as a sample of what was to come, and pointed out that he could give her even more pleasure, this instant, if she would allow him to. There had been no talk of bracelets or houses, or paying off her grocer and cutting back her staff. Or even what he wanted from her. He had kissed her again because he had wanted to, and because he had known she would like it more than she had when kissing Barton. Just a moment of shared bliss, and then he was gone.

She slipped her own fingers under the shoulder of her dress, imagining that his lips were still on her. He had said that she wouldn’t be safe with him, and she imagined him climbing in beside her and pulling her close in the darkness of the cab. She would be alone and completely at his mercy. And his hands would roam freely over her body, taking everything he wanted from her.

As though it mattered. She never wanted to be safe again.

She shook her head to clear the fantasy and leaned her face to the open window, feeling the breeze in her hair. She glanced at the passing streets. The direction seemed right, but how would the driver be able to find her house? She had not heard Smythe tell him the address.

She turned and knelt on the seat, opening the connecting window between the carriage and the driver. ‘I live on Grosvenor Square, just past—’

‘I know the way, your Grace. Do not concern yourself.’

He had used her title. And over the sound of the horses, she thought she heard a trace of amusement in his voice. He knew of her. And he knew other things as well.

‘Your master, Mr Smythe—have you known him long?’

There was no answer. And the driver tickled the horses with the tassel of his whip so that their speed increased.

He was loyal. Enough so as not to speak. And Smythe trusted him more than he did himself.

Then that answered the question. The man was no casual hire, but a trusted associate. A partner in crime, perhaps?

They were nearing her house, and she bit her lip in frustration. She knew nothing about Mr Smythe. He was not one of Barton’s familiars. And she had been too careless when he had been introduced to her and had not paid attention. She had not even heard his Christian name.

The carriage pulled smoothly to a stop in front of her home. The driver hopped down from the seat and opened the door for her, taking her hand and guiding her to the ground.

She looked at him, not sure what to expect. His face was no longer shielded from her, and she found it plain and honest. Surprisingly friendly. He was gazing back at her with a frank curiosity that she should have found inappropriate in a servant, had she not wanted words with him.

She tried again. ‘Please. About Mr Smythe. I know very little. Not his address. Or even his first name. If I should need to contact him…’ It was all horribly bold of her. The words died away in her throat.

The driver stared at her for a long moment, in a way that was totally devoid of subservience. And then his shoulders rose and fell once in a way that was part shrug and part silent laugh. He rummaged in his pocket, and came out with a white pasteboard, glancing at it before handing it to her. ‘His card, your Grace.’

She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’ She tried not to appear too eager, but snatched the card from his hand, and turned from him, concealing it in the bodice of her dress. And then she ran up the walk and into her house.

Once inside, she fled up the steps and into her room, shutting the door and reaching down the front of her dress to find the card, nestled close between her breasts.

‘Anthony de Portnay Smythe. Anthony Smythe. Tony. Anthony.’ She tried various versions of the name, tasting them, and enjoying the way they felt on her tongue.

Before Susan came to help her undress for bed, she looked for a place to secrete the card, finally slipping it under her pillow. She could not help smiling at the foolishness of it, as her maid undid the hooks of her gown. As a token of affection, a calling card was not much to speak of. And the man had not given it to her, after all. Perhaps he did not mean for her to know more of him.

Susan was undoing her stays and as she turned the maid gave the slightest gasp. The mark was there on her shoulder. ‘Did you have a pleasant evening, your Grace? At Lord Barton’s party?’ The remark was offhand, as though nothing unusual had sparked it.

‘Most pleasant,’ Constance answered, unable to resist a small sigh of pleasure.

‘So I suspected.’ Susan was faintly disapproving.

‘Despite the presence of Lord Barton,’ Constance corrected. ‘The man continues to be quite odious. I do not plan to see him again.’

‘I should hope not, your Grace.’ This seemed to put the maid’s fears to rest.

‘Although there is another gentleman…’ She hid her smile behind her hand.

Susan grinned back at her. ‘If he puts such a sparkle in your eye, then he must be a most singular person.’

‘But how is one to know, Susan,’ she asked impulsively, ‘what the intentions of a gentleman are? I have been wrong so many times in the past.’

‘If he makes you happy, your Grace, perhaps it is time to think with your heart and not your head.’

The thrill of it ran through her. If she were to think with her heart, the choice would be easy. She wanted Anthony Smythe, and she could have him.

For now. Her mind brought it all crashing back down to earth. It was seductively pleasurable to think of Mr Smythe. And surely there was no harm in dreaming. But it would be a temporary solution at best. If she accepted any more purses from him, while allowing him to toy with her affections and use her body for his own pleasure, then she was little better than what she feared she would become.

But suppose he offered marriage?

The thought was as fascinating as it was horrifying. And not something that needed reckoning with. She would be a fool to trust him, or read too much into a few kisses. The first night, he had sworn that he loved another. He might be faithless to the other woman, and willing to dally with Constance for a while, if she encouraged him to. But in the end, his intentions to her would prove the same as all the others.

Although it might be more pleasurable with him, than with others, for he was as passionate as he was considerate.

But he was a thief, she reminded herself. Even should she wish for an honourable union, there would be no way to overlook her lover’s chosen occupation. A breath of the truth would destroy her reputation along with his. Eventually, he would be caught, and hanged, and she would be ruined in the bargain. Worse than she was now, alone, unloved and disgraced as well.

She shook her head sadly at Susan. ‘Alas, I think I cannot afford to allow my heart to lead in this. The answer is not Barton, certainly. But it cannot be the other, no matter how much I might wish it so.’ She allowed Susan to help her into bed and to blow out the candle, leaving her in the dim light of the fire, alone between the cold sheets.

And almost without thinking, her hand stole beneath the pillows and sought the calling card, running her fingers along the edge, feeling the smoothness of the pasteboard, and stroking the engraving as sleep took her.