Five Days With a Duke, page 12
Connell stepped before the fireplace mantel.
It was the chill. An absolute chill permeated the room, a product of a stone-cold hearth.
Reflexively, he rubbed his gloved palms together in a bid to bring warmth to them.
And now, it all made sense. Constance seeking him out. Her advice column. Her out-of-mode garments.
You speak from a life of privilege, Connell. Sometimes, you don’t appreciate what you have… until you lose it.
And he, who’d jilted one woman and given nothing but silence to his ward and her charge for carrying on with their lives, had believed himself incapable of stooping any lower and being any more shamed than he’d been in his thirty-five years… only to find, waiting for Constance, how very wrong he’d been.
Chapter 11
“His Grace, the Duke of Renaud, has arrived and requested a meeting with Lady Constance.”
It was hard to imagine that a sentence could usher in a greater screeching silence.
Curled up on a sofa, with her knees drawn close and a blanket tossed about her shoulders in a search for warmth, Constance sat, absolutely frozen.
Certain she’d misheard the butler in the doorway.
After all, it was altogether possible he was mistaken. It wouldn’t be the first time Scott had shown senility.
Bypassing his employer snoring away in the corner, the old servant looked between Constance and her mother.
“Who?” the countess yelped, her voice creeping up a decibel.
Constance’s father snorted himself awake. “Wha—who—?”
She sighed. Alas, if Constance had misheard, that could only mean that her mother had misheard, as well.
Scott swallowed loudly. “His Grace, the Duke of Renaud,” he whispered in his ancient, drawn-out tones as the earl had fallen asleep once more.
The countess sailed to her feet. “Whhhhhhaaaaaatever is he doing here?”
Constance’s father jolted awake again. “What is—?”
“Shh.” It was a sign of the desperation of the moment that both Constance and her maid, Dorinda, both attempted to silence the countess.
When her mother again spoke, she had the wherewithal to speak in a quiet, but still outrage-laden whisper. “Whatever is he doing here?”
“Whatever is who doing here?” the earl asked, with as much interest as he showed his wife when she spoke of her needlepoint projects.
“That bounder,” her mother exclaimed. “That libertine. That… rake.” Suddenly, her eyes lit, and a slow-dawning horror took root in Constance. She was already shaking her head. “That… duke!”
In but two words, hope was born in the countess’ tones.
Constance closed her eyes. “Mother,” she said warningly.
There’d been a time not very long ago when the countess’ status would have trumped all, including a visit from a disgraced duke.
“Desperate times and all that,” her mother said. Rushing over, she took Constance by the shoulders and gave her a light shake. “The Duke of Renaud is here to see you.”
Her father’s heavy brow wrinkled with confusion. “To see who?”
The countess slashed a hand in Constance’s direction. “To see your daughter.”
“I cannot imagine why,” Constance said softly. That much was true. After their volatile parting, she’d never dared to expect to see him again. And she’d been bereft at the idea of it. Just as she was unable to quell the light giddiness in her chest at knowing he was here.
Scott coughed into a fist. “Should I say Lady Constance is not receiving—?”
“No!”
Like denials exploded from both mother and daughter.
A guilty flush heated Constance’s cheeks as her mother chose that miserable moment to turn a sharp gaze on her. “Oh?”
Father scratched at his slightly balding pate. “But… I thought you thought we should turn the bounder out.”
“He’s not a bounder.” The defense slipped out before she could call it back. Constance bit the inside of her cheek, hard.
Her mother gave her an even longer look, and Constance fought the need to shift.
“That is…” Constance couldn’t come up with a single, justifiable explanation of her defense without revealing the fact that her new opinion of Connell came from having spent intimate moments with the gentleman, alone. “I expect I should see what has brought His Grace to call.”
Of course, there would be questions after. But for now, there was a reprieve.
Her mother beamed, and Constance could all but count the guinea signs as they flashed in her eyes.
Once, she would have seen that response only as ruthless and unforgivably disloyal. As a woman whose brother had gone missing and as a woman who’d gone without fire in the winters and had had scarce meals, she’d come to appreciate that, in terms of humbleness and humility, desperation changed a person.
Her mother patted at her coiffure, and her features were immediately smoothed into a mask more reminiscent of the one she’d donned years earlier, when Constance had been a girl and had believed her mother couldn’t be anything but unflappable. “I think that is a wise idea,” the countess said in perfectly even tones. “Don’t you, dear heart?” she asked her husband.
A snore met her query.
That crafted façade was immediately shattered when Constance made for the door, and her maid started on her heels.
“Halt there!” the countess squeaked, bringing both women’s gazes over. “That is, perhaps you should rush along, Constance, and Dorinda might… see to refreshments.”
“There aren’t refreshments,” Constance said, exasperated.
Her mother strangled on a fit. “Shh!” she chastised, gripping her throat. Through water-filled eyes, she glared at Constance. “Have a care,” she mouthed.
Constance began the trek to the lone furnished parlor in their residence.
She gave her head a shake. Yes, because Constance stating the truth of their family’s financial circumstances was vastly more egregious than her mother sending her only daughter on to entertain a gentleman. Alone. A gentleman whom the Countess of Tipden had disparaged for years after Emilia’s shattered betrothal.
Though, in fairness, you were also in possession of a like ill opinion. And had it not been for a little girl’s letter and Constance’s visits with the gentleman, she still would have had the same unfavorable thoughts.
But he was nothing like she’d believed him to be.
In any way.
She’d never have gathered he was one who didn’t expect a woman should be any one way.
Or that he, one of Society’s most notorious scoundrels, should long not for wicked pursuits, but a family.
And she’d never have known he was vulnerable, a man who was hurting.
Because of his charge and her daughter…
And Emilia, that voice jibed, reminding Constance that, ultimately, Connell would always be a man longing for the woman who was Constance’s best friend.
She stopped on the edge of the parlor and took a moment to smooth her hands along the front of her hooped skirts. And then stepped inside.
Connell stood at the empty hearth with his hands clasped behind him.
Constance’s heart did a funny little leap.
She’d missed him.
Of course, these past days without his teasing company, she’d known she had. She’d missed their repartee and those discussions about her brother, ones she’d never had with anyone. Not even the women she’d called friends since she was a small girl.
But until this instant, seeing him here, she’d not realized just how much.
His tall frame went still, and she knew the moment he registered her standing there.
Just as she registered him at the cold hearth and the implications of his being here and the state of her family’s circumstances. Constance and her family had been clever enough to keep that secret from the world, but Connell was clever enough to note details others had otherwise missed.
She balled her hands tight at her sides. “Hullo, Your Grace,” she said quietly as he turned to face her.
His features were smooth and even as he passed that impenetrable gaze over her. “Constance,” he murmured, not bothering with the pretense of formality that she’d put up between them.
It was a thin barrier.
And he’d kicked it thoroughly down with that piercing stare.
She ventured deeper into the room, taking up a place alongside the ivory upholstered sofa. “Would you care for refreshments?” she offered and promptly held her breath until he shook his head.
“No,” he added, and then with those sleek, panther’s steps, Connell joined her.
She waited until he’d seated himself before claiming her seat.
Connell drummed his fingertips along the arms of his chair. “How very formal you are, Constance.”
Constance leaned close. “What did you expect given our last exchange, Your Grace?” she said in hushed tones. “Did you expect I should assume we would be teasing and light and—”
“I’m sorry.” His quiet apology brought her words and thoughts to a screeching halt.
The experiences she’d had with, well, anyone, really, had revealed that most people were too proud to apologize. “What?” she blurted.
A small smile ghosted his lips, and drat her heart for dancing to the beat strummed by this man’s charm. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, and then his grin faded. “When we last met, I was atrocious, and you were undeserving of my displeasure. There is no explaining it, nor would I be so bold as to ask you to pardon such behavior, either.”
“I…” It was the most beautiful, most eloquent apology anyone had ever given her. And him, a duke, a step from royalty, should have made it. But then, he wasn’t at all the aloof, self-important peer she would have taken one of his rank to be. “You were hurting,” she finally said.
He made a sound of protest and waved a hand. “That doesn’t give me or anyone reason to behave as I did.”
“Is that why you’ve come?”
“It was.”
Was? Her heart sped up. For that slight distinction in tense suggested something had changed, and perhaps she wasn’t the only one in her madness who wanted the company of one she had no business wanting.
“I found myself wanting to take part in your column.”
Of anything he might have said, of anything she would have expected, that admission had certainly not been it.
Then…
Connell’s eyes slid to the empty hearth. It was the barest, ever so slight fraction of a shifting of those thick golden lashes.
Had she blinked, she would have missed that telltale gesture. And yet, since the moment she’d entered the room and found him here, she’d been riveted by him in all his golden glory.
Constance stiffened.
For she knew.
She knew that his offering didn’t come because he truly wished to help her, or even because he missed her.
Missed her as she’d missed him.
Nay, that offer had come because he knew.
And despite everything Emilia or Society or even she had believed of him as a dishonorable scoundrel, Constance well knew now how wrong she’d been. Yes, he’d made mistakes in how he’d ended his betrothal and not sharing his reasons for doing so, but those mistakes didn’t make him dishonorable.
A different fluttering hit her belly. Shame. A sizable pit.
His expression dipped. “You are… speechless, I take it.”
Constance plastered a smile on her lips. “No.” She clipped that single syllable out between her teeth.
His eyebrows went shooting up. Apparently, that had not been the response he’d anticipated. A frown tugged those magnificent lips down at the corners. “I… No?”
“I thank you for that offer, but I believe I’ve sufficient… material.” Moments she’d written in a notebook, taken from their all-too-brief time together. “As such, I must politely decline.” Constance jumped to her feet. How was it possible to both want a person instantly gone and also be riddled with sorrow over the thought of their leaving? “I thank you for coming, and I appreciate your apology.”
He scowled, and with a languidness, Connell stood and began a slow walk toward her. “You’re upset.”
“N-no.” The stammer made her a liar. His ability to gather, after knowing her just a short while, precisely what she was feeling made her unsteady.
He stopped when all that was between them was the ancient King Louis XIV chair. “Here.” He dusted the tip of a finger between her eyes. “The inner corners here draw in and then up when you’re upset.”
Oh, God. He knew that. How did he know that? She didn’t even know those nuances of her facial reactions, and yet, Connell, the Duke of Renaud, should?
“And here, your lips come down.” Her pulse hammered erratically as he stroked a bold finger along the corner of her mouth. “And your jaw goes up.”
If he could read those minutest of responses and gathered those sentiments, then everything in Constance told her this man, this wicked scoundrel, with his rogue’s charm and his eyes that saw too much, need only just glance at her to know the effect his presence had on her. That he knew that, she hungered for him, against all better judgment and reason.
Dampening her lips, she took a hasty step away from him. “I know what you’re doing.” At the dangerous half grin that curved his lips, heat slapped at her cheeks. “That is, with regards to your offer.”
His brows dipped. “I don’t…”
“I know that you know, Connell,” she said on a frantic whisper and immediately stole a glance to the doorway, because surely it was only a matter of time before her mother took up a place at that doorway to get to the bottom of whatever took place in this room.
He followed her stare, and when he again spoke, Connell matched her hushed tones. “That is absolutely untrue.”
“Is it?” She crossed her arms. “Is it?” she repeated for good measure.
The hard slash of his lips flattened into an even harder line.
Constance said it anyway. “You’ve deduced that my family is in dun territory.”
When she uttered those words and the door didn’t come bursting open was when Constance had all the confirmation she needed that her mother wasn’t listening at the panel. Because horror would have sent her flying in here. And yes, Constance likely, too, should have been besieged by that same sentiment—she’d admitted to being impoverished.
Only, somehow, she’d shared more and was more comfortable with this man than she’d ever been… with anyone.
*
That was why she’d come to him. That was why she was Mrs. Matcher… and why she’d sought him out.
Shame sat like a stone in his belly.
“It is why you write the column,” he murmured.
He proved to be very much the bastard the world knew him to be, for he found a gratefulness that she’d come into his life. Had she a fortune and never taken on Mrs. Matcher’s column, he’d never have known her. He’d never have known a woman named Constance Brandley, who bowed a cello to rival the angels in the Lord’s celestial symphony.
She hesitated and then slowly shook her head. “That is why I’ve taken on the column. At first, it merely represented an opportunity to earn some coin.” His insides hurt, thinking of her struggling in any way. “A chance to purchase back my cello.”
He’d believed his heart completely broken two times before this time, only to have it ground into pieces beneath that unwavering, matter-of-fact admission.
“Your family sold your cello,” he repeated, his voice graveled and rough. Even he heard the sharp edge there.
Constance heard it, too, for she frowned. “It was one of the last items they were forced to trade to creditors.” They were undeserving of the defense. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t.”
“You blame my parents.”
“And you don’t?”
“They aren’t wastrels, Connell. My father isn’t one of those dissolute lords who squanders coin at the gaming tables. My mother never insisted we hold on to useless baubles and pretty trinkets.”
He thought of the bare halls and empty rooms he’d passed. This sparse parlor.
No, the lady was correct on that score. Her family wasn’t living beyond their means, as so many lords and ladies in debt were wont to do. The pieces of the puzzle slid into place. “Your brother,” he said quietly.
“My parents… we have been desperate for any word of my brother. They’ve chased any hint or story of him.” Constance hugged her arms about her middle. “Sometimes, I think the not knowing, this lifetime of wondering, might, in fact, be harder than…” She shook her head. Those words went unfinished, but their meaning was clear. Sadness darkened her eyes, and the need to draw her into his arms and hold her close was a physical hunger. To offer the embrace that she now offered herself. She suddenly let her long limbs fall to her sides. “I enjoy it,” she said, bringing them back to the matter of their debate. “Writing the Mrs. Matcher’s column,” she added for clarity. “It is something I’m not necessarily the best at, but I find pleasure in it.”
Had she been anyone else, he’d have believed she searched out compliments. “You still have no idea how vastly preferable your direct manner of writing is.” Vastly superior to the supercilious, flowery prose of her predecessor.
A pretty blush filled her cheeks.
Connell caught her hand and brought her knuckles to his mouth. “Continue to meet with me,” he urged and then touched his lips to her gloveless fingers.
“I said I don’t want your—”
“This isn’t about pity.” How could she believe he felt anything other than respect and admiration for her? How many men and women of the peerage would have sooner cut a limb off to save a fortune than take on work?
“Did you ever truly wish to help me with my column?” she shot back on a whisper. She didn’t allow him a chance to answer. “Or was it really about making light over it and having fun with it?”
