Five Days With a Duke, page 9
She enjoyed being here.
And that was going to be what would leave her burned… if she let it.
Stop it. You’re a thirty-year-old woman. Certainly past the point of worrying about scoundrels and rogues and rakes.
Constance eyed him for a long moment. That devilish half grin grazed the corners of his lips as if he refused to relinquish the whole of his smile. Cautiously, she set down her glass in favor of her notebook and pencil. “Very well, then. You’re suggesting a lady who might earn your affections by partaking in spirits.”
“Hardly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I quite despise them.”
She lowered her notes to her lap. “You aren’t making sense, Connell.” And he was no doubt being deliberately obtuse.
“Of course I am. Complete sense.” He leaned forward. “It’s not necessarily that I appreciate a lady who consumes spirits, but rather, what her doing so represents.”
It was the first indication that he might, in fact, be serious and not just making light of her work for Mrs. Matcher. “What does that represent, other than scandal and wickedness?”
“Why is it scandalous and wicked?” he rebutted. “Because Polite Society has decided just how a woman should conduct herself. The ton would have ladies avoid spirits and wagers and hunting, and yet, they allow men those same pleasures.”
That was an argument she herself had long posed to her parents, who’d lamented having a daughter who didn’t conduct herself as a flawless debutante. From girlhood on to womanhood, she’d felt only resentment at the different and double standards to which the world held men and women. And now, here was a gentleman who felt the exact same way.
She searched for some hint that he jested… almost wishing it. Preferring that, because that version of Connell Wordsworth would be easier to face daily than the one who expected societal norms to be the same for men and women. “I cannot tell if you’re being serious with me,” she quietly confessed.
He shrugged. “Because you find it so hard to believe that a man might prefer a lady who thumbs her nose at societal conventions?”
“Because everything I’ve ever been told or learned speaks to the opposite of what you’re saying.”
“Trust me, love, gentlemen far prefer a lady with her own mind.” Connell grabbed the pipe and a narrow tubing from his desk and proceeded to clean out remnants of ash and tobacco.
It was her turn to snort.
“You think I’m wrong?” he asked, filling the pipe and meticulously packing it.
Constance sat forward. “I know you’re wrong.” And yet, Constance had never been conventional by Society’s standards, and that had not gathered her a single suitor.
His eyes sharpened on her face, and she instantly stilled. He wouldn’t say anything. Yes, he’d a scoundrel’s reputation, but he’d be too much of a gentleman to say—
Connell abandoned his pipe. “You’re speaking of your own experience,” he said softly. This time, his words were absent of his customary levity.
That somehow made her humiliation all the worse. Her cheeks went hot, and she damned her pale white cheeks, that curse of the English. Still, she sat up straighter. “I’ve raced and outridden gentlemen my family has had for guests through the years. I’ve sat at card tables and suggested we play hazard in lieu of the more respectable games. Invariably, those unconventionalities are met with horror.” And she found herself unmarried and unloved by any gentleman.
“I never claimed I would provide guidance that was intended to trap some poor lady with a miserable, hopeless boor, Constance,” he said. “What service would you be providing if you were doing that?”
Constance went stock-still, and her gaze slid past Connell’s broad right shoulder. From the moment Emilia had offered Constance the opportunity to pen advice as Mrs. Matcher, Constance had thought about the funds she might earn. She’d focused on her ability—or rather, her inability—to appeal to the ladies writing to her in search of advice. But she’d not thought about the ladies so desperate as to put out a request for help.
Oh, she’d come to Connell’s at a little girl’s behest, but Constance hadn’t considered changing the advice she was imparting to young women. Not truly. “You’ve a point there,” she allowed in solemn tones.
The leather groaned, bringing her attention to Connell as he leaned closer. “As for you, Constance? If the only men with whom you’ve kept company can’t appreciate a lady not cut from the same dull cloth as every other, then all that means is you’ve never met a gentleman worthy of you.”
Just like that, a corner of her heart succumbed to Connell Wordsworth in all his charm.
The pencil slipped from her fingers and pinged upon the hardwood floor as Constance caught the inside of her lip between her teeth, holding on to her sigh.
The air came alive, as it always did between them. Around them. More terrifying now than it had been the day she’d first entered his household, because of the deepening intimacy between them.
Hurrying to retrieve her pencil, she fumbled about and put several sentences on her page. “I… I believe I’ve everything I require for the day,” she said, finishing off her notes.
When she looked back over to him, she didn’t know what she’d expected. That he’d urge her to stay? And how, as she packed up, did she account for this disappointment that he didn’t? That he instead returned to the casual act of filling his pipe.
After she’d tucked her things inside her bag, she made to rise.
“I was, you know, Constance.”
She eyed him quizzically.
He nodded at the half-empty glass of whiskey. “Surprised at your spirit consumption.”
Constance found herself smiling. “I used to sample my father and brother’s stash of spirits before…” Her happiness faded.
“Before…?” he prodded.
She fiddled with the long straps of her bag.
This was new territory with him. Yes, she and Connell spoke of intimate topics. His interests, the ways to win a duke’s affections. And yet, they’d not spoken much about themselves, their pasts, their families.
Their heartbreaks.
“My brother’s long been a traveler. My mother always said he had wanderlust.” For so long, she’d fought all memories, all thoughts of her brother. For now, she let them in. With this man. “In the summer, as a boy, Hadden would pack up his things and, before the sun was up, would set out, pretending he was exploring. And then he grew up.” Sadness settled around her heart. “Protective as she’d always been, Mother insisted that he not travel. An heir’s responsibilities and all,” she said in a perfect mimicry of the countess.” Constance gripped her bag so hard, her knuckles ached. “And I envied him. I envied him for being able to say, ‘To hell with Mother and Father’s requests,’ and setting out anyway.” Her throat clenched. “For going places he wanted, without a care for what Society would say.” It was a heartbreak she’d not even really spoken to her friends about. Oh, they knew about his absence. But they didn’t speak of Constance’s worries. She looked up.
At some point, Connell had quit his seat and settled into the one near her, and for the agony cleaving at her chest, there was… a comfort from his being here.
“He’s… been missing for nearly two years now,” she said in a low voice. “My family had been searching since the last word from him came ’round.” Spending funds they’d not had for information they couldn’t find. That last part, she withheld. Some things even she was too proud to share.
Connell covered her hand, such warmth and assurance in that heavy grip. Slowly, almost of its own volition, her palm tipped up so their fingers were connected. And there was an absolute rightness in that joining. One that she could worry on after. Not now. Not in this moment. “I don’t know where your brother is. I cannot tell you if he’s safe or well, but what I can say? From just the small piece you’ve shared here, your brother loved to travel, and if something did happen to him, he spent the time he did doing something he loved.”
Her throat clenched. “I am a selfish creature. His happiness doesn’t matter more than me wanting him home,” she whispered.
“No,” he murmured, stroking the pad of his thumb over her palm. “It’s the smallest of consolations, and yet, I’ve learned… after loss, it is important you take them where you can.”
He spoke as one who’d also loved and lost. Did he speak of Emilia? Or his ward and her young daughter? Desperately, Constance wished for it to be the latter. Either way, they shared a bond that coalesced over loss.
Connell withdrew his hand, and she secretly mourned that latest of losses. Absently, he picked up her partially drunk whiskey and studied the yellowish contents. “I quite despise all spirits, you know.”
He managed to surprise the sadness from her. “I…” She found her footing. “I didn’t know. For you drink them so frequently.”
“I’ve not been to any events in more than ten years.” Then his eyes widened with a false surprise. “Never tell me you were paying attention to my drinking habits, love?”
Her mouth worked, but she couldn’t utter a word, and then they all came at once. “No. That is, not in the sense you’re suggesting.” Years ago, she’d been wary about the rogue who’d captured Emilia’s heart, watching him closely, though for different reasons than she did now.
“This time, I was teasing.” Connell lifted a finger. “To your question, I had overindulged. My days of excess ended long ago.”
“Because of Emilia?” This time, she couldn’t stymie that question.
The air hissed and snapped for altogether different reasons.
“I’m sorry, Connell. I shouldn’t—”
He waved off her apology. “It’s a fair question. That should have been the case,” he murmured, more to himself. “The moment I met Lady Emilia, I stopped—” He cut himself short, and an adorable blush spilled onto his cheeks.
“Your dalliances?” she prodded when he still didn’t finish his thought.
He gave his head a bemused shake. “Constance Brandley, you would have this discussion boldly and directly.” And blast if another corner of her heart melted under those words she’d only ever take as complimentary. It was as though her frankness freed him. “But yes, to your point, I ceased my dalliances when I first approached her.”
Her. Her stomach muscles tightened. Was he unable to bring himself to say the name of his past love? Was she even a past love? Yes, Emilia was happily married now, but that didn’t mean Connell couldn’t… and didn’t still carry feelings for her. And why did that rapid spiraling of questions all bring her near to tears?
He swirled the contents of her glass in a smooth, slow circle. “I was loyal to her and remained so, but I still drank and wagered more than I ought. I didn’t become a better man because of her, as I should have.” He tossed back a sip and then grimaced.
Understanding dawned. “It was because of your ward.”
He pointed a spare finger at her. “Yes, she was not my child, but having a babe about manages to change a person. Iris and her mother, Hazel, did that for me.”
She waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, Constance found herself left with new regrets: this hungering to know about the secrets Connell Wordsworth carried and to find out what these past years had been that had made him into this alternately sarcastic and somber gentleman.
This time when she made to leave, he didn’t stop her.
Chapter 9
As a young man, Connell had loved horses.
The same way he’d abhorred spirits, he’d thrilled at riding his mount, particularly through the parks of London.
And yet, for the love he’d known for riding in Hyde Park, more than ten years had passed since he’d ridden there. At first, it was because Connell hadn’t wished to. He’d neither a wish nor a need to return to London. There’d been nothing here but painful memories of a life that might have been. Eventually, that hurt had lessened, replaced instead with an absolute joy. His days had become centered on the happiness of the two placed in his care. From then on, there’d been even less of an interest in leaving the country for the bustling noise of London.
Now, he guided his horse through the entrance of Hyde Park in the heart of winter, at a time when he’d rarely—if ever—been here. Long ago, when he’d lived in London, he’d failed to find joy in anything beyond the heady pleasures. Of course, in his youth, he’d been no different than any other lord or lady of the ton. The moment the Season had ended and the cold crept in, he’d adjourned to his country estate, returning only when the revelries commenced.
As such, he’d never known it could be quiet in this end of England.
And the solitary person, more comfortable with his own company than any company, found himself welcoming the tranquility to be found here, after all.
How much he’d missed.
How much he’d lost.
The same familiar resentment swirled.
His breath stirred a little cloud of white, and only the rustle of an errant winter wind filled the grounds.
Connell guided his horse down a graveled path and didn’t stop until he’d reached the shore of the Serpentine.
This was the spot.
The place where he’d come to the decision to offer for Lady Emilia Aberdeen.
If he’d wed her, they’d no doubt have been happy. Only, he’d thought to never again feel anything for any woman after her. The only emotion he’d thought he was capable of feeling for anyone had been reserved for the two who’d been placed in his care.
Only to find… he’d been wrong.
He was capable of feeling something for another.
And he didn’t want to.
Restless, Connell returned his hat atop his head and dismounted. He looped his reins around a nearby oak and stared out at the thin coating of ice on the river.
Connell didn’t want to take on another person’s pain or worries. He was content living as a damned Elba unto himself. Because when you let someone in, they invariably destroyed you.
There was no other end result. Not for him. And, he believed, for anyone.
Knowing that as he did, Connell had formed a kindred connection with the unlikeliest of people—Lady Constance Brandley. For, at every turn, his life had taken him down a thousand different paths than he’d ever anticipated. From the moment he’d found himself saddled with a flighty ward and her child, to the speed with which he’d come to love that pair like they were his own daughters. But there wouldn’t be daughters. Or a wife. Or any manner of family. Not anymore.
What accounted for that sadness? And why did it matter so very much?
As if to mock him in his melancholy, the far echo of laughter carried on a breeze, one voice deep and booming, the other light and airy. And also… distantly familiar.
Except, who did he know that would be here in London—?
The thought went unfinished.
Bloody hell.
Connell started quickly back over to his reins—too late.
The couple crested the slight incline at the very moment that he reached Cherish’s side. Still afforded the coverage of the sizable tree trunk, Connell remained obscured.
Not that he need worry. The blissfully-in-love pair were wholly engrossed in each other. Their gazes locked, their smiles matching, they were joy personified.
Lady Emilia and Lord Heath.
His best friend and his former betrothed.
The discovery of their union had been a shocking one. She’d been vibrant, and Heath… well, he’d always been the more serious among his and Connell’s set. They’d not seemed a match, in any way.
And yet, to an outside observer staring on, there could be no doubting the depth of their love and happiness.
And why shouldn’t they be…?
As if following Connell’s musings, Heath pressed a hand to the enormous swell of Lady Emilia’s belly. Husband and wife looked down as one, moving in harmony as Connell never had with the lady… not truly. Together, the couple touched that spot where the babe rested.
And there was an unexpected rush… of red-hot envy.
Only, not for the woman before him, a woman he’d long, long ago given up on the dream of. But rather, for what she and Heath had, together.
It was the life he’d wanted: a blissful marriage. Babes. And now what was there?
His mount, the traitorous mare, tapped her hoof as if calling out a greeting to that jubilant pair.
Connell’s former betrothed and his best friend looked up.
Bloody hell.
“Renaud?” Lord Mulgrave asked in disbelief.
Connell glanced about, more than half hoping the miserable father who’d not had time for a son about had returned and was, in fact, the duke now being called after.
Alas…
He stepped out from behind his cover. “Hello,” he greeted, striding forward. He paused a yard away and, removing his hat, made a bow.
“Connell,” his former betrothed said softly.
The last they’d seen each other, Connell had been attempting to renew their relationship, and she’d been pledging herself to his best friend. As such, there was certainly not a more awkward meeting than this one. “I… see congratulations are in order.”
A blush pinkened Lady Emilia’s cheeks.
“Thank you,” Heath murmured for them.
Yes, of course, because commenting on a lady’s indelicate state hardly fit with proper discourse. Particularly between ex-betrotheds and… whatever he and Mulgrave were.
“I hadn’t realized you’d come to London,” Mulgrave remarked.
“I’m… here,” he said lamely. He’d quit the country for London, escaping the memories there. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Unwittingly this morn, he’d rushed headfirst into the oldest parts of his past.
“And you’ve been well?” the other man went on, content to fill in the gaps in their friendship. But then, Mulgrave had always been the bigger man.
“I… have,” he spoke with a hesitancy. Except, there was also a surprising degree of truth there. This had been the best he’d been in a long, long time.
