Constance slipped her hands up his chest and scraped her nails lightly over his skin. “Don’t you dare stop,” she ordered, and it was a command of the gods.

  He thrust home in a smooth, fluid stroke.

  She briefly stiffened, but then she lifted her hips again in that desperate up-and-down rhythm. Inviting him to move.

  And he moved. Slow, teasing strokes designed to torture her. To drag every vestige of agonizing pleasure from her. “Please,” she begged.

  “How does it feel?”

  She bit her lower lip. “S-so good. So very. Verrry… ahh…” she cried out as he thrust deeper. “Good.”

  Connell quickened his thrusts, pushing her higher and further. Closer.

  Outside, the wind howled and battered at the windows, lending a frenzy to the moment.

  He felt the walls of her closing about him and knew before her lips even parted on the scream that rent the room.

  “Connelllllll.” Constance came undone in his arms, and he continued to plunge himself deep inside her.

  When she’d gone limp under him, he pulled out and spilled himself along the inside of her thigh. Gasping for breath, Connell collapsed, catching himself at his elbows to keep from crushing her.

  He rolled onto his side, and with his chest heaving, he stared at the crystal chandelier affixed directly overhead. And as Connell’s heart resumed a normal rhythm, he registered one detail:

  He’d made love to Constance Brandley upon a billiards table.

  When she’d deserved a bed and far more than… a scoundrel such as him.

  Scoundrel that he was, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the act. Oh, he wished there’d been more than this for her first time, but he’d not change this moment. Not for…

  Constance’s body tensed, shattering those musings.

  His stomach fell.

  By the white of her face, she was, however, of an altogether different mind frame. “Constance—”

  “This shouldn’t have happened,” she whispered, and she might as well have thrust a spear into his chest. She sat abruptly up.

  “I’m sor—”

  She frantically shook her head. “No, it’s my fault. I wanted this. I wanted you.”

  He preened inside. Lightness suffused his chest.

  Except… there was no joy in her tone. Only regret.

  How was it possible for I wanted you to have been uttered like it was a sin and a shame? Unable to look at her, he edged over on the table and reached for his shirt below. His fingers brushed—and he leaned… too far.

  Connell tumbled onto the floor, falling… as hard as he had for the woman who now peered down at him.

  “Connell? Are you—?”

  “Fine,” he lied. He wasn’t fine in this moment, and he was never going to be fine again. For he, who’d vowed to never let anyone in, had gone and tumbled hopelessly and helplessly head over heels for this woman. Gathering up his shirt, he stood and gently cleaned the remnants of his seed from her body.

  All the while, he felt her gaze on him.

  When he’d finished, he helped right her garments… and her hair.

  They were acts he’d performed so many times before with too many different women. But never once had what preceded it been about anything more than a physical act. A momentary gratification, and hearts had certainly never been engaged.

  Not as his was in this instant, with Constance Brandley.

  “Marry me?” he blurted.

  It was harder to say who was more startled by that question.

  Her or him.

  What was worse, was the horror that filled her expressive eyes, those crystalline windows into her soul. “Is that an offer or a question?”

  His heart thumped. What was he thinking? Marriage? He didn’t want anyone in his life. Not like this. Did he? Either way, having made love to her, a respectable lady, it was only the right decision. “Both?”

  A panicky little laugh escaped her. “Oh, Connell…”

  Oh, Connell. They were surely the two words and tone that had begun every last rejection any lady had ever given any man.

  “You don’t even want anyone in your life. And me?” Constance waved her hands down her person. “I’m the last person…”

  Because of Emilia…

  Emilia, the woman he’d been betrothed to and cared for, but whom he’d never truly known… or loved. Not like this. He’d been a boy with a fanciful idea of what love was. But there’d been no shared connection. Because he’d been too much a boy to even know what that was.

  He watched blankly as Constance rushed to gather up her things. So that she could leave… and he’d never again see her.

  He’d done his gentlemanly duty. He’d asked, she’d all but declined, and as such, he should be relieved for it. So why wasn’t he? Why, instead, was there this boulderlike weight crushing his chest and making it hard to get air into his lungs?

  He tried once more. “You were a virgin.”

  Constance donned her cloak and drew her satchel over her arm. “I’m a thirty-year-old woman. Not a debutante and not a young marriage-minded miss. I’m capable of my own decisions.”

  This was it, then. The end of their time together.

  Constance stopped before him.

  Say something, he silently urged himself.

  She wet her lips. “Thank you… for everything. I shall miss our meetings.”

  He’d miss her and their meetings.

  He caught her fingers in his, and she stared at their linked digits. “Goodbye, Constance,” he said quietly.

  She made for the door and then stopped at that panel, looking as though she wished to say something more.

  But she didn’t.

  An instant later, she was gone.

  And at last, Connell had that which he’d believed he wanted—to be alone.

  Only to discover, with Constance gone and out of his life, how very wrong he’d been.

  Chapter 15

  One week later

  He had no right to be here.

  Though, in fairness, there wasn’t really a place Connell belonged.

  He was a man, lost.

  Mayhap he’d always been.

  Only, a short while ago, he’d let his misery consume him. He’d been content to wallow in his own anger and frustration and bitterness. He wasn’t that man any longer.

  Oh, he’d always be lonely and wish there was more, the life he’d imagined for himself, with a family. But he had joyous memories to keep with him. Moments filled with such happiness and laughter, gifts to be cherished and not spat upon with resentment for a selfish hungering for more.

  Constance had shown him that.

  She’d made him stop and think about just how very fortunate he’d been and how wrong it was to not look joyfully back at those times he had been given. With Iris. With Hazel.

  Even if those moments had been shorter than he’d anticipated or yearned for, it was still a time that had been.

  And Constance.

  For, if he was being truthful with himself, which he’d become abundantly so since she’d entered his life and challenged him to it, he missed her. And this great, gaping hole that had taken root in the place where his heart should be had been there since her parting.

  It didn’t matter that it had been only a short while since she’d first stepped through his townhouse doors. She’d reminded him of what it was to laugh again and smile and think… and want to live again.

  You don’t even want anyone in your life. And me?

  “How wrong I was,” he finally answered her, only now, into the quiet of the Leeds nighttime sky. The response had come too late, because he’d not known until she’d walked away just how wrong he’d been.

  Wind howled and whipped his cloak about his legs as he stared down the narrow drive to the modest cottage. The room, awash with light from a fire’s glow, illuminated the cheerful tableau playing out behind the lead windowpanes: a mother, a father, and a daughter, all sitting about while the father read and the pair with him looked adoringly up.

  I should leave.

  I should never have come.

  Connell glanced briefly at his mount tied to a riding block at the end of the short drive, reconsidering the decision to come here. When he looked back, it was to find a face pressed against the lightly frosted windowpane.

  Iris’ breath had warmed the glass, and she rubbed a circle in it until her line of vision to Connell was unimpeded.

  The moon’s glow bore down, illuminating the joy in the little girl’s expression. She waved frantically.

  How he’d missed her. Emotion stuck in his throat, and he lifted his hand, returning her greeting.

  But she’d already looked behind her. Her excited shouts came muffled, but still vivid.

  As Hazel and her new husband opened the door, Iris went flying past them. Her little boots kicked up gravel and rocks as she went. Lengthening his strides, Connell hurried to meet the little girl who’d been like a daughter to him.

  “Hullo, pop—oomph.” His greeting ended on a grunt as she launched herself at him.

  “Uncle Connellll,” she cried happily, wrapping her arms about his waist.

  He hefted her into his arms and cradled her close. “Poppet,” he whispered against her ear.

  “You came!” she piped in, edging back so she might see his face. “I’m so glad you did. I have so much to tell you. It snowed, Uncle Connell. Snowwwwed.” Her little nose wrinkled. “There’s none anymore, but there was, and my papa took me out, and we played snowballs and ice skated and…” She chattered on, as she’d always done, and there was such a familiarity to it. As though they’d never been apart. As though he’d bothered to send a note or respond to her letters.

  What a bastard he’d been. He was undeserving of her devotion.

  When there was a break in discourse, he set her down. “Come along. You’re going to catch a chill.” She slid her hand into one of his and tugged him the remaining length of the walk.

  Hazel greeted him with a wide smile. A late cousin’s daughter, she’d been a girl of just seventeen when he’d first met her. Now, she was a more mature version of the broken-hearted ward he’d taken in. “Connell.” Stepping aside so that he might enter, Hazel stretched her palms out. “How very lovely it is to see you.”

  It didn’t escape his notice that her husband, Mr. Landry, hovered close at her shoulder, lingering there as if he feared Connell had come to take those he loved. And once, Connell would have wanted to do just that. The trio, though? They were happy, and he appreciated that the love and joy they knew together was more than the selfish desire he’d had to keep them in his life.

  “Would you care for a coffee or tea?” she asked as Connell shrugged out of his cloak, and her husband shut the door behind them.

  Small but cozy and toasty and warm, there was nothing more any family could possibly need or want. “No. No refreshments are necessary.”

  He hovered.

  Except, now that he’d come and intruded, he didn’t know what to say.

  A look passed between husband and wife. Some unspoken communication and language that Connell had no understanding of… but had briefly known with another.

  Constance.

  “Coffee for His Grace,” Hazel directed her husband as she retrieved the cloak draped over Connell’s arm and hung it on a hook behind the door.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Connell called after the younger man.

  “Hush,” she chided and motioned to her husband, and the other man rushed off.

  Connell stared on wistfully. In command and decisive, Hazel bore little resemblance to the young girl he’d at first resented.

  “Sit.”

  “You are happy, I trust?” he asked after he’d settled onto the old upholstered sofa, and Hazel scrambled onto the seat beside him. Because if she or her daughter were anything other than overjoyed, he’d see Landry destroyed. Except, mother’s and daughter’s easy smiles and soft features were all the confirmation Connell needed.

  “We are well.”

  They proceeded to regale Connell with all they’d been up to since they’d last seen one another. When they finished, there was a brief moment of awkwardness.

  “I came to apologize,” he said gruffly. He tugged his gloves off and slapped the leather articles together distractedly. “I’ve… shut you both out, and it was petty and wrong, and… I’d ask that you please allow me another chance to be part of your lives.”

  Giggling, Iris pinched him. “That is silly, Uncle Connell. Of course we want you in our lives. Isn’t that right, Mama?”

  His ward held a hand out toward her daughter, and Iris joined her, sliding her fingers into hers. “Of course we do. You have done nothing but give where Iris and I are concerned. You opened your home and your heart to us, and you will always be our family. There is nothing to forgive,” she said simply, and another wave of emotion assaulted him.

  He briefly closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “What has accounted for the change?” Hazel asked curiously.

  There was only one person responsible for any good he’d found—Constance. “I may have met someone who helped me to see that I’ve been a miserable bas… uh…” He clawed at his collar.

  Iris giggled. “You were going to say bastard, weren’t you?”

  Her mother gave her a sharp look.

  “I may have been,” Connell allowed with a wink. He cleared his throat. “Either way, I’ve realized I’ve been incredibly selfish, thinking first of my own hurts, when what has mattered most is that you both are happy.”

  Tears lit Hazel’s eyes. “We are. I never wanted to see you hurt.” Pulling a kerchief from her apron, she dabbed at her eyes. “Who is she?”

  Who is she?

  Was.

  Constance existed in the past; the near one, but the memory of her was still as fresh as if they’d had one of their lessons yesterday morn. “Just… someone I know.”

  A little twinkle glimmered in Iris’ gaze. “It is Mrs. Matcher, isn’t it?” she asked eagerly.

  “Clever girl,” he muttered, rubbing the top of her head.

  “What…?” His former ward glanced perplexedly between Connell and her daughter. “Who?”

  “I wrote a letter to Mrs. Matcher and asked her to help Uncle Connell be happy again. And she did. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” She hopped up and down. “Have you met her? I love her column so very much.”

  “I have,” he said hoarsely. “And I… like her very much.”

  Nay, he didn’t just like Constance Brandley… he loved her. He loved her so very much.

  Where there would have been horror and fear at that realization, there was now only a wistful sadness.

  Mother and daughter peered at him with gazes entirely too wise and mature for their years. “You care for her, don’t you?” Hazel murmured.

  He started.

  His former ward pointed her eyes at the ceiling. “Of course I can see that. You needn’t just say it for us to know how you are feeling.”

  Connell chuckled, the sound rusty to his own ears. “She invaded my household… at Iris’ urging, and she changed my life.”

  Iris jumped up. “You’re in love! You’re in lovvvve,” she cried happily, spinning herself in a little circle. She abruptly stopped, and her lips tilted down. “Why aren’t you smiling if you’re in love with Mrs. Matcher?”

  “Because… it’s complicated.” There was the matter of her loyalty to Emilia and…

  Iris tugged at his hand. “Have you told her how you feel?”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it. His brow furrowed. He hadn’t. Not that it would necessarily alter her feelings either way, nor change anything. And yet…

  His heart hammered. “I didn’t.”

  Iris rolled her eyes. “Uncle Connnnelll, a woman won’t be with a man who doesn’t have the courage to tell her he loves her.”

  She was right. Perhaps there’d be no future between him and Constance, and all he’d have left were the all-too-brief memories they’d shared. But neither had he made her a real offer of marriage. She’d believed his question had been motivated by honor, which it had been. Or at least as he’d presented it.

  Catching Iris, he drew her close for a hug, ringing a little laugh from her. “You’re right,” he whispered.

  She winked. “Of course I am.”

  He jumped up. “I have to go to her.”

  “Yes, you do,” Hazel agreed. Coming to her feet, she took his hand. “However, you’ll need to warm up, have a meal, and exchange your mount before you go.”

  A short while later, with his ward and her husband and little Iris waving after him, Connell went galloping back to London.

  Chapter 16

  Her column was complete.

  It was time to relinquish control of Mrs. Matcher’s back to Emilia.

  She’d written column after column of mostly mediocre advice and had earned herself coin. Not enough to see her cello returned, but enough to find pride in even those small earnings.

  She should be besieged only by joy.

  And she wanted to cry.

  Only, hers were not tears of happiness.

  She wanted to weep for so many reasons: because she’d enjoyed Mrs. Matcher’s. Because she’d enjoyed working on it with Connell. Because today was the day she’d return those responsibilities to her friend, the friend she’d betrayed in every way.

  Constance wanted to cry all the harder for that betrayal. For, what was worse, she couldn’t bring herself to feel the proper guilt she should. Because, selfishly, she loved Connell more.

  When he’d offered her marriage, that false, empty offer born of a gentleman’s honor, all she’d wanted was to give him a yes and live out a life of performing the mazurka and ice skating and playing life pool…

  Tears threatened, those drops filling her eyes and blurring the words of the recently completely pages. She blinked them back.

 

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