Romancing the Rogue (63 page)

Muffled voices permeated the air in the atrium as she stared at the fire in the hearth. Placing her hand over her heart, feeling its beating rhythm finally steady, she inhaled a deep breath. She’d never felt so alone.

She’d been forced to watch her mother die. Thomas had never given her any promises, and he’d exiled her from his life. Her husband had left her on their wedding night to tend to his sick father, and instead of being supportive, she’d selfishly encouraged him to take her to his bed to cover up her sickening secret. How much longer could she hold on? What was she to do now that Burton had threatened her if she didn’t lobby for him? Not only would Percy find that odd, but it would be one more lie between them. But if she didn’t become Burton’s pawn, her father would be charged with piracy and locked away. And if Burton ever found out she was with child, everything she’d sacrificed for her child’s security would be for naught.

A comforting hand settled on her shoulder. Startled, she jumped to see Lieutenant Guffald standing in the half light.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I should have announced myself, but you were so engaged by the fire and so enchanting to watch, that I hated to disturb you.”

Constance peered up into the lieutenant’s face, uncomfortable with his presence. She didn’t understand why. He’d kept his promise to rescue her on the Octavia.

She smiled cordially and, with a gesture of her hand, indicated for him to sit near her by the fire. “Lieutenant.” She sighed. “It is good to see you again. And so soon.”

“You appear slightly disheveled, Lady Stanton. Is something wrong?”

She muttered hastily, “Lord Burton was just here.”

“I know. He let me in the house,” he said. “I found that quite odd. He gave no reason, only that he was in a hurry to leave. Did he do anything untoward?”

“No,” she lied. “He had some news to relate about my father.”

Alarm flickered in Guffald’s blue eyes. “Forgive me. Is your father unwell?”

Her head was in a tumult. “Oh, he’s quite well, thank you.” For now.

“You seem, well… agitated. Did he harm you, threaten you in any way? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“No,” she replied hastily. “Indeed, no,” she reassured. She smiled at Guffald, hoping to ease his concern. “The man simply will not let his grievance against my family go, however.”

“Your marriage to Percy, for instance?”

Her head snapped up and she studied Guffald. His use of her husband’s proper name alerted her defenses. But then she remembered. The two were famous friends. She had no need to worry about the familiarity between them.

“I’m afraid so,” she admitted.

Guffald leaned closer. “If I may — why did you receive him? Certainly that wasn’t a good idea, given Burton’s outburst. I’m sure Percy will be most unhappy. You should not be so eager for honey when the bee’s sting might be fatal.”

“Burton’s behavior is none of your concern, Lieutenant,” she objected, angered that he thought her silly. His use of the strange metaphor didn’t help matters. “My husband, should he choose to, will deal with Lord Burton.”

If only he were here
. She sighed. She gazed down at the gloved hand of the gallant lieutenant who’d fought pirates in order to save her life and narrowly escaped. The man who’d almost single-handedly succeeded in getting them off the Striker before the storm had prevented them from launching the gig. She peered up into Guffald’s crystalline blue eyes and noticed a hint of a boyishly affectionate smile playing on his lips. What did he find so amusing? The idea didn’t sit well with her. She sprung out of her chair and put distance between them.

“I fear the day has grown old and I’m rather tired. Thank you for coming to call, Lieutenant. I’ll be sure to relay your good tidings to my husband when he arrives.”
Damnation!
She hadn’t meant to let that slip.

“So he has deserted you,” he exclaimed. “And so soon? I cannot fathom the man’s stupidity. Were our situations reversed, I assure you, no one would see my face for at least a fortnight.”

“Lieutenant.”

“What could have possibly pulled Percy away from your arms?”

She quickly rose to her husband’s defense. “Lord Stanton,” she said, trying to bring formality back into the conversation, “has gone on an errand. For me, in fact. You see, he recently discovered I have a passion for sweets. He insisted on seeing that we were fully stocked. Surely you would not begrudge him this kindness.”

Would Guffald believe her lie? Why she chose not to reveal the truth, that Percy had rushed to his ailing father’s bedside, she couldn’t fathom. Her relationship with her husband, mysterious, precarious even, made her feel as though she stood on uneven ground. ’Twas best not to sharpen the dagger too soon. Without a consummated union, she could find herself facing a cuckolded husband. And if her reputation suffered another blemish, she could find herself out on the street, the laughing stock of the
ton
.

Constance moved to the open door and spied Jeffers in the hall, holding a tea service.

“My lady,” he said, tilting his nose haughtily when the lieutenant sauntered out of the room. “I have brought tea.”

Guffald exclaimed, “What a delightful idea. That is just what Lady Stanton needs to refresh her spirits.” Turning back to her, he offered, “Pardon me if I take my leave. I fear I have overstayed my welcome.” With a dutiful nod, Guffald bowed stiffly and made a hasty exit out the front door.

“Will you be taking your tea in the parlor, my lady?”

Her mind picked apart the lieutenant’s conversation. Try as she might, however, she didn’t know what to make of the man, nor could she understand what he and Percy had in common.

Jeffers cleared his throat. “My lady?”

“Are you familiar with Lord Stanton’s estate Sumpton Hall?”

Jeffers’ pale eyes were like bits of stone. “I do not speak of his lordship’s affairs.”

“Yes, that is commendable. But what I desire to know is if I can travel to his estate in a day’s time. A man should not be solely responsible for his father’s care, especially at a time like this. I should like to help. In fact, I want to surprise my husband.”

“As it so happens, my lady, his lordship will be returning soon. I’m sure he will be quite pleased to learn of your willingness to come to his father’s aid, but I fear there will not be a need for you to do so.”

Jeffers’ eyes creased at the corners, confusing her as to what emotion he held in check. Was he laughing at her or did he want to throttle her? With Jeffers, one never knew. The man obviously lived and breathed to serve one master and one master only. She held back her excitement and dread, slightly annoyed that he’d left her to speak to Burton alone.

“Percy returns soon?”

“Indeed, your ladyship.”

“When did this news arrive?”

“I just received a missive. I’m hesitant to admit that is what delayed your refreshments, an act in itself which calls for no excuse and my dismissal.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she said, giving him a tight smile.

She walked to the front door and stared out at the bustling street. It was noonday, yet the city pulsed with fervor — each soul that passed, whether concealed in conveyances or strolling about, was eager to arrive at his destination. Alone, save for a few servants and Mrs. Mortimer, Constance took a deep breath and welcomed a triumphant peace. Her husband meant to return, and soon. Time offered her another chance to shape the destiny of her child.

“I’m afraid the news isn’t good, my lady.”

Color drained from her face. Good God! Had Burton already done something to her father? To Percy?

“Pardon me?” She pulled away from the window, her heart thudding noisily inside her. “What did you say?”

“The dreadful news has hit us all very hard.”

Constance grew more frightened by the minute. What news? “You must tell me. What has happened?”

“His Grace, the Duke of Blendingham, is dead.”

~~~~

The pieces fit
nicely. Percy had deserted his beautiful bride on their wedding night. Guffald clapped his hands together in glee. She could still be his — his! Though she wore the marquess’ ring, she wasn’t truly married.

He held his elation in check. He had not gone to great lengths to win Throckmorton’s approval, suffered privation and humiliation at the hands of the enemy, or Burton’s irrational demands for nothing.

Bounding up the street, a sense of duty to give Constance what no one else could — love — he allowed the powerful force of that knowledge to fuel him. Liberating in its magnitude, his love pushed him beyond his limitations. For Constance, he’d sworn to uphold only one law, a law as old as time — to each his own. Years of his life had been sacrificed for this — for her. Like a ship drawn to a port light, his life, his morals were forever coupled to a road that would surely lead him out of obscurity into the dream he envisioned for the two of them.

Devil take Percy, Burton, and Frink! His love would prevail.

Wood cracked and
moaned all around her. Her gown snagged a piece of wood. Water rose up to her hips. She couldn’t escape. A ghastly hand reached out, not for her, but for a basket she held in her arms. Try as she might, she couldn’t break away. Lord Burton’s laughter enveloped her. She screamed.

“Percy!”

Constance scrambled to brush the counterpane off her legs as if by doing so she could push back the water threatening to engulf her. Her frantic gaze took in the bed, the room, before she realized that she’d been dreaming again. What did she have to fear? She wasn’t on a ship. She was in Number Seven, Hereford Street. She was Marchioness Stanton.

Exhausted by the ghastly images of Burton and remembrance of his threats she buried her head in the pillow, already moist with her tears. She’d spent hours crying for the future of her child. She’d never been more afraid than she was now. The undeniable and dreadful fact was that Burton would do what he could to ruin her father. But what would she be forced to do to betray her husband’s confidence? Guilt-ridden, she was also mourning the loss of Percy’s father. She couldn’t imagine life without her father and had no idea how she would console Percy when he returned. She’d been selfish to think only of herself and her child when her husband’s father lay dying, selfish to think consummating her marriage was more important.

“Tears do not become you.” A masculine voice penetrated the night making her heart resume its previous erratic rhythm.

She bolted upright. “Who’s there?”

Her flesh tingled with needle pricks as her eyes searched the darkness, noting a slight movement near the window. The gold curtains danced nervously in the breeze. She distinctly remembered latching the window. Why was it open? She had never slept well with the window open, and therefore made sure it was closed before she went to bed every night.

“Who—” she squeaked, unable to control her fright. “Who’s in my room?”

“Are you always this demanding in bed?”

She sank back into the sheets. “Percy?” When had he returned? “Am I dreaming?”

“No.” His voice grew louder, infinitely more comforting in the darkness, easing the chaotic beating of her heart.

“I don’t want to be dreaming,” she whispered. “I need you to be real.”

“I assure you, I am real, my gel.”

He was close enough now that a familiar shiver of awareness overwhelmed her, and she longed for his protective embrace. She wanted him to make her forget about her dream, Burton’s ultimatum, and her ever-present weaknesses. She was to be rewarded as a delicious shudder swept over her when Percy stretched out beside her, slipping his hot hands under her bed clothes to remove her shift, inch by tantalizing inch, awakening her as only Thomas had ever been able to do.

“Why do you taunt me? I’m so very sorry—”

His finger put a stop to her voicing her concerns. “Don’t speak. It is done and I am here. You are in my blood,” he insisted huskily, his voice touching her where his hands couldn’t reach. “I should never have left you.”

She sighed, rolling her head back on the pillow, allowing him access to the hollow of her neck. “Now I know this is a dream.”

“I assure you I am here — with you — in this bed. Quite a fine bed it is, too — with you in it.” His lips brushed her forehead. He smoothed hair away from her face. Tingling sensations awakened her nerve endings everywhere his hands crept across her body. He swept her weightlessly toward him and she arched, molding herself to him, wrapping her leg around his waist, aching for him to make her his, to erase the worry that someone might come between them and ruin their union before it had even started.

Was she wrong to think that way? Was she beyond wanton to desire the divine ecstasy he offered? His fingers curled in her hair as his mouth masterfully took hers and he kissed her with a hungry passion she was more than willing to match. His full, smooth, persistent lips urged her to part her teeth, and she did, mating her tongue with his, the dueling clash turning her insides to honey. She squirmed beneath him as his hands traced a path over her skin, exploring her waist, hips, before sliding upward to her breasts and her hardened, expectant nipples. Her tormented groan emboldened him. His lips left hers to trail a path to first one breast, then another, making her drown in the feel of him.

She panted for breath as his touch freed her with a rousing, melting sweetness she couldn’t deny. He was as solid as he was real.

“I prayed you would come,” she whispered on a careening breath. “You don’t know how much I have prayed for it.”

“Perhaps not,” he said, moving up to kiss her lips. “But you could spend a lifetime showing me.”

Oh God,
she thought, breathing in soul-stirring drafts of air. Desire threatened to swallow her whole, and she was at a loss as to understand why. Because of it, a burst of decency flooded over her. What she was doing went against everything she believed in. She hated lies as much as she hated being lied to. Though she desperately needed, wanted to make sure Percy consummated their marriage, she couldn’t dupe this wonderful man who’d given her more than she’d ever dared to hope possible by giving her child a name.

“Stop,” she said, wrenching her lips free from his. “There are so many things you don’t know, so many things I must tell you.”

He moaned against her ear, burrowing his head against her neck like a rooting child. “I know all I need to know.”

“Stop,” she pleaded. “You must listen. We cannot do this. I must tell you—”

“Tell me that you enjoy my kisses.”

“
I’m not who you think I am,” she said.

She tried to focus on her words, but his persuasive touch, kisses, made her forget everything but him as he pressed his arousal against her, teasing, sliding his silken hot shaft closer to the juncture between her legs. She nearly cried out with anticipation.

“You’re my wife,” he whispered huskily. “That’s enough.”

“Yes. Yes, but…”

She couldn’t think of the words to finish her sentence. He’d entered her, slipping inside her with silky smooth grace, making her arch her hips to meet him. Fire engulfed her, and with each thrust, she moved with him.

“I must tell you…” She moaned again as he rocked slowly, in and out, ratcheting up her need, forcing her to relinquish her body, her will, her spirit, giving everything to Percy; her heart, her soul. Nothing existed but his touch, his voice, his body molding, grinding, satisfying. She thought it odd that he still wore a shirt, but she was out of control as she grabbed him with eager hands and moaned again, aching more than ever for the flood tide of ecstasy he brought her. Together, they were bound by primal elements, man, woman. With each stroke and rhythmic drive of Percy’s hips, Constance shot to the stars, higher than she’d ever dreamed possible.

Yes,
she thought.
This
is
a dream.
It had to be. Only a duke wasn’t normally part of her dreams, but a rogue who’d taken her heart and soul by night.

~~~~

Dull clanking and
scraping interrupted her sleep. Morning light flickered through the drawn curtains, forcing Constance to open her eyes, however much it pained her. A movement caught her attention. Seeing she’d finally awakened, Mrs. Mortimer stood over her, arms crossed, brows arching quizzically.

“You’re a lazy one this fine morning. I thought I’d never get you up in time to break fast with your husband.”

Constance bolted upward. “My husband?”

“Lord Stanton, of course. I mean, His Grace.”

“His Grace?”

Morty covered her mouth. “Oh, dear! Your head is muddled this morning. You don’t remember, do you?”

Eyes blurry, her head throbbed as she remembered vaguely the dream that wasn’t a dream and the reasons Percy would have risen to his current status. Constance’s attention riveted to Mrs. Mortimer. “Percy’s father
is
dead.” It was a statement, not a question.

Fluffing up the pillows behind her, Morty answered, “‘Tis a sad state of affairs, Constance. Jeffers informed me about His Grace’s passing. He also told me the duke returned during the night and wishes for you to join him posthaste.”

“He wishes to see me?” she exclaimed, laughing at the absurdity. He’d done more than see her. He’d spent the entire night exploring her body and soul.

“You are the parrot today, my dear. I would think a smile might suggest in some small way you’re excited to see the man you married. After all, he’s going to be the father of your children,” she emphasized, a smile tugging the corner of her lips.

“Children?” Lord, she was going to be sick. Her morning sickness had subsided somewhat, but guilt, or was it exhaustion, seemed to bring everything up. She rushed to the sideboard and splashed cold water over her face. She toweled her face and then looked in the mirror, noting the rings framing her eyes. Dissatisfied, she frowned, appalled with her image. She wanted to look as beautiful as possible for her husband today. Perhaps then, when she told him about the baby, he would find a way to forgive her.

“You look a fright, Constance. Didn’t you get any sleep?”

She prayed Mrs. Mortimer couldn’t read her thoughts but that was always a vain hope. “Why do you ask?”

Morty laid her hands on Constance’s shoulders, and Constance turned to face her dearest confidant. “The truth is under your eyes, my pet.”

“I must admit, I didn’t sleep much at all.”

“At least we agree on something this morning.”

Would it hurt to tell Morty the truth? She would be overjoyed to know that their futures were secure. Wouldn’t she?

“Well,” she clucked, “let’s put a cool compress over your eyes.” Morty guided her toward the bed. “Lie back and lay still. I’ll see you to rights soon enough. You’ll want to impress your husband, not depress him after all he’s been through.” She chortled and hummed as she moved about the room.

No. It was better not to burden Morty with the truth. Percy had suffered enough. The death of his father, and his new duties as the seventh Duke of Blendingham, were burdensome in and of themselves. Not to mention strapping himself to a wife on the cusp of scandal.

Constance placed a trembling hand over her heart. Once, she had led an irreproachable life, sheltered by a man afraid to let her out of his sight. No more. In just a few weeks, she’d become unrecognizable.

Mrs. Mortimer sat down beside her and placed a cool compress over her eyes. “Darling, what has happened?”

Constance removed the cloth and stared into the woman’s middle-aged eyes, noting a mixture of genuine love, admiration, and curiosity reflected there. “How many years have we known each other, Morty?”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather not count. But every one of them has been the best years of my life.”

“I think of our first meeting often. You were wearing a gray gown, which completely hardened your eyes and soured your skin.” She couldn’t help but giggle.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “The styles I was forced to wear while in mourning.” With a wink, she added, “They were not fashionable or flattering, to say the least.”

Constance giggled. “But they enabled me to see you for who you were.”

“A bothersome nosey body?” she asked, slinging Constance’s words back at her.

“No.” She sighed. “Never that.”

Silence drifted between them. Mrs. Mortimer had never really spoken of her husband openly, unless it was to discuss the merits of marriage. She’d never had any children, which had made her a perfect candidate to raise Constance after her mother’s death. But Mrs. Mortimer had dealt her a firm hand, sparing the rod, lavishing her with love and reassurance when her father had recoiled from life. Throughout every nuance of her upbringing, Morty had been by her side. Morty had been there when nightmares had awakened her during the night. The woman had been a Godsend, and Constance had been humbled beyond measure when Morty had agreed to accompany her to Spain.

Constance hesitated to speak into the great pause that seized the space between them. “The day I met you was a momentous day, Morty. You taught me that no matter what fate places in your path, life goes on. While you mourned your husband, you found the courage to live. You helped me accept the pain of my mother’s death and my father’s estrangement. You passed onto me a strength that will guide me as I mother my own children.”

Mrs. Mortimer stroked her hair, her eyes brimming with tears. “You were as skittish as a mouse, all ears, unkempt hair, quick to take flight at the slightest provocation. I thought I’d never make a lady out of you.” Her laughter made Constance giggle. “Of course, I never expected to be with you this long, either. Now look at the two of us. You’re married and expecting your first child.” She sniffled. “I couldn’t be prouder than if I was your real mother.”

“You are my mother,” she admitted, closing her hand over Mrs. Mortimer’s. “I wouldn’t be who I am today without you.”

A tear slipped down Morty’s cheek and her lip quivered slightly. She rose from the bed. “It’s been ages since you’ve been this insufferable, Constance. What are you trying to do? Distract me?”

Good God! Was she that transparent? Constance sat up and rose from the bed, suddenly bearing the weight of every woman ever born. She dragged her finger along the tightly woven yellow muslin dress Morty selected and worried her lower lip before disappearing behind a screen to change.

She’d made a horrible mess of her life; deserting her father and running away to Spain only to be captured by cutthroats. Falling in love with her captor and then marrying a wealthy gentleman —one who offered nothing but fealty, trust, and protection — to cover up her pregnancy.

“Dearest,” Mrs. Mortimer cooed. “Do wear the yellow ribbons that match your dress when you break your fast. The color will lighten up your face and buoy your spirits. To be sure, His Grace will be your slave ‘ere long.”

“My slave? I cannot imagine Percy being anyone’s slave.”
Nor can I imagine he will believe my sudden support of Burton, should I do as the bastard commands.

“Well, slave or free man, he will take one look at you and fall to his knees. Yes,” she said, pleased with her choice of words. “It’s a grand day, a day to make a new start. And no finer time to begin winning your husband’s heart than the present.”

Constance’s spirits soared. “Indeed. I have but one goal in mind,” she said honestly. “The happiness of my child.”