Romancing the Rogue (60 page)

Burton shoved his way through the crowd until he stood a few feet away. Constance’s stomach coiled. But no matter how much Burton scared her, she finally felt as though she had a say as to which direction her river forked. Closing her eyes, she said a silent prayer that the dreadful man wouldn’t make a scene.

Her father continued. “Tonight, I would like to announce the engagement of my daughter, Lady Constance Danbury, to
—
”

Burton stepped forward, a look of satisfaction illuminating his face. Unperturbed, Stanton cocked out one hip, took out his snuff box, dabbed his nose, and inhaled. Raising his quizzing glass toward the offensive man, he winked as Throckmorton finished.

“Percival Avery, the Marquess of Stanton, heir to the duchy of Blendingham.”

Applause erupted.

Burton’s eyes blazed with unbridled fury, conveyed in the contemptuous set of his mouth, hardened features, and the chill that hung on the edge of his words. “Mark my words, my lady. You will be mine,” Burton professed as he stepped back into the crowd, his eyes measuring the two of them as they were surrounded by well-wishers.

Visibly shaken, Constance stripped her attention from Burton to her guests as one by one they congratulated her and Lord Stanton. Even as Burton’s threat echoed in her mind, she couldn’t stop the bubbling excitement racing through her limbs whenever Stanton gazed down at her, capturing her gaze with an affectionate glint in his eyes. An unrelenting promise, a maddening hint of arrogance swirled about him, compounded by the dizzying currents that flickered through her whenever he smiled. She felt oddly plain next to him and yet, he made her feel cherished, desired, and entirely feminine.

“Thank you,” she whispered, once the crowd thinned and the orchestra resumed the next dance.

He bowed. “I daresay I should be thanking you, Lady Constance.”

Like her own personal knight, the Marquess of Stanton had entered her life and turned her world right side up. She was betrothed to the next duke of Blendingham. Once they were married, she would be a marchioness. Her father would be safe from his creditors. Even now, it appeared that the fractured relationship he’d tendered with Uncle Simon was on the road to recovery as the brothers slapped each other on the shoulders, congratulating each other on a job well done.

By obtaining an advantageous marriage, she’d been spared humiliation, had a home for her unborn child and an honorable name to give him or her throughout his or her life. Though Stanton’s merciful deliverance had diminished her mortification, Constance worried that she’d woven a more intricate and deadlier web than Burton could have spun. She had given herself to a pirate, was pregnant with said pirate’s child, and was now in jeopardy of losing Stanton’s trust and compassion should that truth become known.

Burton wanted her. Denied his chief desire, he’d attempt to ruin any happiness she might find. Would he retaliate against her father? Seek to demean her in front of her betrothed?

If Lord Stanton discovered she and her father hid the fact that she was carrying another man’s child, how long before he sought to do the same?

Good God! Time alone would reveal the product of her days and nights in a pirate’s cabin — a swollen belly. Soon everyone, including her betrothed, would know. Was she a fool to believe, even for a moment, that she could find happiness?

Within in a
week, a special marriage license was obtained from the Bishop of Canterbury. In that time, fittings and meetings allowed them little time to learn each other’s likes and dislikes. A local clergyman, Reverend Hastings officiated at the ceremony, with her father, uncle, and Mrs. Mortimer in attendance. Shortly after reciting their vows, a breakfast feast of various sweet breads, toast, tongue, stewed oysters, eggs, fruit, tea, and chocolate had been prepared. At Constance’s request, a beautiful fruity cake, sat on a side-table in the parlor.

Bound in matrimony, Constance and Stanton ate in silence while newly bonded brothers, her father and Uncle Simon, caught up on various financial prospects. Mrs. Mortimer’s astonished gaze centered on Percy, as if she was unwilling to let Constance out of her sight.

“I do not like it, Constance. He’s a strange man with unruly desires!”

Constance had little to reassure Mrs. Mortimer. Though Stanton had been quite amiable, sending flowers, edible sweets, and notes promising undying devotion, his visits had been infrequent since the ball. Meanwhile, she had been preoccupied with locating her most precious possession — her mother’s necklace. The house had been scoured three times, servants interviewed, but no clues as to its whereabouts had been found. Devastated, Constance ached with an inner pain she couldn’t shake.

Inconsolable, her nightmares had returned, making her long to be comforted by Stanton. In the face of his indifference, the necklace’s disappearance only magnified the pain of her new husband’s inattention. As a result she’d suffered cruelly, worried herself to exhaustion, and gazed at everyone around her with suspicion. No matter Stanton’s apologies to the contrary, an unwelcome chasm had grown between them, isolating her even more. Now they were practically strangers.

Gazing quizzically across the table at her new husband, Constance wondered if he’d even noticed the extra care she’d taken with her toilette. A man of distinct tastes, dressed immaculately from top to bottom, he wore a black double-breasted coat, silver waistcoat, and gray breeches that reached to his almond stockings and shiny black pumps. His stiff collar flattered a flawlessly tied cravat, in keeping with Percy’s dramatic élan, and he’d added a sapphire and pearl cravat pin. Lace peaked out from beneath his linen sleeves, caressing the tips of his long, lean fingers and bold family ring. His powdered hair, pulled tightly away from his face, accentuated his features, making his powdered skin appear remote, classic, almost dashing. Perhaps it was wishful thinking on her part, but if it weren’t for the immaculately tied cravat at his neck, which gave his lips a sensuous fullness, he somehow reminded her of Thomas.

Constance shook off the preposterous thought. Humiliated that she thought of the despicable rogue while a good man had come to her rescue, she dabbed a napkin to her mouth, and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, summoning her courage, burying thoughts of Thomas’ kiss, the babe growing in her womb, all that reminded her that her marriage was built on deceit. Lowering her gaze, she cringed at the thought of losing Stanton’s affections, which she reasoned would be an inevitable event. A man was a man, after all. Her new husband wouldn’t find pleasure in a broken bride or another man’s bastard.

As if sensing he was under inspection, Stanton reached across the table and tilted her chin toward him. “What thoughts disturb the lines of your beautiful face, my gel? You look as though you are about to melt into tears.”

His infectious smile couldn’t banish the moisture threatening to spill down her cheeks. He deserved so much better.

“Tears of joy, no doubt,” she lied.

“You have nothing to fear. Ours will be a perfect union,” he insisted, grabbing her trembling hand in his and brazenly placing a kiss on her fingers. The heat of his breath sent a maddening spark through her, a startling sensation. He peered over her hand with eyes promising a lifetime’s devotion.

“No one is perfect, my lord,” she said, the weight of her secret like an anchor tethered around her heart. “Do not place me on a pedestal.”

Squeezing her hand affectionately, he said, “Enjoy the heights. I predict you shall reign over my heart forever.” His brow lifted slightly and he added, “Don’t you think it is high time we dispense with formalities, Constance? You are my wife, after all. Percy, will do quite nicely, henceforth.”

She opened her lips to comply, but then hesitated. More than anything, she desperately wanted to mouth the one name she could never utter before him — Thomas. His attempt at intimacy was bittersweet.

“Come now, I promise it will not hurt,” he jested.

“Very well... Percy.”

His name rolled effortlessly off her lips. Percy, of course, sounded much better than Lord Burton, for she was sure that man would never have allowed her use of his given name. An overpowering chill crept up her spine. Though destiny had steered her away from Thomas, she thankfully had not been forced to promise her undying devotion to such a one as Burton.

“You have nothing to fear, Constance,” Percy said with an uncanny way of reading her thoughts. “Life in Sumpton Hall will bring you the peace and solitude you seek.”

Solitude and peace? What she wanted didn’t matter — her child’s father. But desires of the heart were impossible dreams, sparks of hope extinguishing before they could ever be lit. Her one and only solace was in knowing her babe would have a decent upbringing. With a binding marriage contract, her next feat would be to ensure Percy believed the child was his.

Her feelings had nothing to do with eagerness but resolve. She leaned toward him and smiled what she hoped was her most becoming smile. “With you at my side, Percy, what more could I want?”

~~~~

“What more, indeed?”
Percy parried.

Constance, dressed in a white muslin gown with scrolling leaf motifs winding across her breast, looked good enough to eat. She wore a pale green ribbon around her high-waist and her hair, swept back with a matching green ribbon, and the curling tendrils about her face, gave her a chaste but tantalizing appearance. The touch of green accentuated her emerald eyes and their half-lidded, downcast turn proved her a brilliant actress. Percy had to suppress his laughter. Chaste, indeed! A sultry vixen hid beneath her prim and proper façade. Her efforts to fool him were unnecessary. He was not a fool. And Constance was not that good of an actress.

The only thing keeping him from loosening her hair and letting it stream about her shoulders like the sun caressing a calm sea was the fact that her family was in attendance. Damn them! He drank in her nearness. He wanted
—
no, needed to get Constance alone and fast, before he let his guard down and sent both of them spiraling down a path of mortification. Pasting a smile on his face, he inhaled a stabilizing breath. She was his and
his
alone. That was enough — for now.

“You seem quite pleased with yourself, Percy,” Throckmorton suggested, closing in to pat him on the back.

“True.” Percy sighed. “I am the wealthiest man in Town.”

“Your answer pleases me.”

“It is genuinely heartfelt,” he offered.

“I daresay things have worked out better than I could have ever imagined.”

“Papa!” Constance glared.

Percy and Throckmorton exchanged knowing smiles.

“You see,” Throckmorton offered, “Constance’s mother was very dear to me. I can only hope you will show my daughter as much, if not more,
love
than I ever showed my beloved Olivia. If that were the case, my good man, Constance would never be without your earnest affections.”

“You have my word as a gentleman, Your Grace,” he said, knowing full well the gentleman was warning him what would happen
if
he didn’t comply. “I will do everything in my power to prove myself worthy of such a prize.”

The duke’s eyes took on a bittersweet haze, forcing Percy to wonder what kind of woman Olivia Danbury had been. A replica of her hung in the Danbury library. He’d seen it the night of his proposal, the night he’d revealed himself as the father of Constance’s child. Her likeness also hung around Constance’s neck, carefully sealed in the silver locket she had fought so vehemently to retain aboard the Octavia. Memories of his bride’s barely clad form took him by surprise. He longed to explore her curves again, to feel her pliant body beneath him, hear her moan
his
name. Steeling himself, he gazed at her bosom. But when he did, the locket was conspicuously absent. Why? He found it extremely odd that his new wife had not worn it on her wedding day.

Throckmorton harrumphed. “It is a pity you couldn’t wear your mother’s locket on this day of days, Constance.”

Constance reflexively grasped her bare neck. “During the excitement, I forgot.” Percy saw a flicker of despair in her eyes that chilled him.

“Forgot what?” He studied her profile.

“I fear it is hopelessly lost,” she told him.

The duke nodded.

Percy stiffened. In the short time he’d known Constance, she’d never misplaced the locket. In fact, it had never left her person even when she slept. It was unreasonable to believe she’d lost it. An icy silence surrounded them.

She turned in obvious distress. “I should go search for it again.”

“No. No,” her father lamented. “We’ve already torn this house apart. This is your celebration. Enjoy your new husband — your
new
life.”

Constance’s lower lip trembled as she embraced her father. “She is with us, Father. I feel her presence.”

Throckmorton’s face turned grim. He set her at arm’s length. Adoration flickered in his eyes. “She would be proud of you. From the moment you were born, she spoke of this day with great hopes for your happiness.”

“Oh, Papa.” She choked back a sob. “I am happy.”

Was she? Percy had his doubts. “You are welcome at Sumpton Hall any time, Your Grace,” he added, eager to keep the moment from dissolving into melancholy as he realized Celeste would never meet his bride.

“Thank you, Stanton. Olivia’s loss has been devilishly hard. I should very much like to visit my daughter… when the occasion warrants.” Saying goodbye to his only child seemed to drain the man’s stamina. “Simon,” Throckmorton motioned abruptly. “Say your goodbyes. My daughter and her husband have a new life to start.”

Simon sauntered closer, a look of concern rife on his face. Percy exchanged glances with his commander, now uncle-in-law, who stretched out his arms to embrace Constance. What needed to be spoken had already been said between them. Percy had been forewarned to take good care of his wife — or else.

Simon said none too quietly, “Believe in your new husband, Constance. He will answer your prayers and do us justice. I urge you
—
be patient. Stanton has been alone a long time, and a man cannot readily give up his roguish habits overnight.”

“I do not understand,” she admitted, a smile trembling over her lips.

“You will, my dear. Someday, you will.” Simon turned abruptly, grabbing Percy’s upper arm. “This has been an extraordinary day, Stanton. Enjoy your journey home.”

“Will you visit as well?” Percy queried, recalling the last two times Simon had arrived unannounced.

“No. I’m afraid that will be impossible for a time. You see, I’ve just learned of a hunt I must partake in. This particular fox has given many a good rider and his dogs the slip once too often. ‘Tis a challenge I welcome, and rightly so.”

Constance slipped her arm through Percy’s, suddenly eager to distract him.

“Dearest Uncle, surely you do not intend to waste time on such sport. The fox hunt is ghastly. I cannot bear you hunting grouse, let alone a beautiful fox.”

“Ah, but what seems perfectly ghastly, my gel,” Percy confided, “oftentimes satisfies the hungry. Truth be told, a fox can be quite deadly. Yet, I suppose the chase is the most invigorating part of the hunt and what draws a good man hither and yon. Were I of the hunting persuasion, I’d abhor adorning that ridiculous hunting attire. It’s, well—” He dabbed his nose. “—for a better word, sporty.”

“Quite so,” Simon agreed.

“I don’t understand either of you. One wants to kill a harmless animal and the other ponders how he looks while doing so. What kind of men are you?”

Percy and Simon locked gazes. If she knew, she would gouge his eyes out.

“Men, Constance! What more could we be?”

“Were I the wiser, I’d say you enjoyed the senseless pastime,” she responded, forcing a prudish smile. “I hear hunting dogs are treated unfairly.”

Percy tapped her arm with his hand. “
Au contraire
! Hunting dogs are well-trained and kept isolated for the opportune moment to strike, my gel. There is pleasure to be found in the care and feeding of dogs.”

Simon coughed uncontrollably.

Constance’s mouth hung agape. “What manner of man are you, husband?”

“A man preoccupied with the appearance of a certain damsel on his arm. And should she be adorned with the latest silks and frills — what better way to show her off to all who survey?”

Percy’s full-hearted laughter put the conversation to rest, but the war of emotions in Simon’s eyes made the situation all too clear. Nelson’s Tea had acquired new information and to entrap a killer, a rendezvous had been set for tonight. Tonight of all nights, damn it to hell!

Staring down at Constance, who tried to relax as she locked her gaze with his, Percy wondered if vengeance would be enough to tempt him to leave a young, willing bride alone in the marriage bed.