A Secret Affair

apparently had one devil of a reputation as a dangerous character when he was a young man. He never looked like a cuckold after his marriage, did he? He always looked more like the cat who had climbed right into the cream bowl to bask and bathe there while he lapped it up.”

“I have just thought of something,” Stephen said. “It was just last year, maybe even on this very date, and in just this place that I first set eyes upon Cassandra. You were with me, Con. And if memory does not deceive me, Monty, you rode up with Kate while we were looking at her and remarking upon how uncomfortably hot she must be beneath her heavy widow’s weeds.”

“And you went on to live happily ever after with her,” Monty said. He grinned again. “Are you predicting a like fate for Con with the gorgeous duchess?”

“The sun is not shining,” Constantine said, “and it certainly is not hot. And the duchess is not in heavy mourning. Or walking alone with her companion while no one takes any notice. And I am not looking for a leg shackle, thank you kindly, Monty.”

“But then, Con,” Stephen said, waggling his eyebrows, “neither was I.”

They all chuckled—and then noticed Timothy Hood driving a spanking-new high-perch phaeton drawn by a pair of perfectly matched grays. Their attention was effectively diverted from the widow in white who had looked at him, Constantine realized now that he had had a minute or two to think about it, not so much disdainfully as provocatively.

He really was not interested. He chose his mistresses—and he took one almost every year when he was in town—with an eye to his maximum comfort for the duration of the Season.

There would be no comfort at all in a woman whose daily pastime seemed to be gathering as many adoring men about her as she could—and her ability in that regard was considerable.

He did not dance to any woman’s tune.

Or at the end of any puppet strings.

Certainly not the notorious Duchess of Dunbarton’s.

Chapter 3

OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS Barbara was confirmed in her conviction that Hannah had moved into a puzzlingly and disturbingly different world from the one they had known together in their Lincolnshire village. A less moral world. During those days Hannah told two whoppers of lies, which she would not even admit were lies.

Not real lies.

The first happened when the two of them were stepping out of a milliner’s shop on Bond Street late one morning, a footman behind them more than half hidden beneath four large hatboxes. Their intention was to see the boxes safely deposited in their waiting carriage and then proceed to a bakery a little way along the street for refreshments. But as fate would have it, Mr. Huxtable was approaching alone along the pavement. He was still some distance away and might easily have been avoided, especially as he appeared not to have noticed them among the crowd of shoppers. But Hannah waited for him to draw closer and see them.

He touched the brim of his hat, inclined his head politely, and asked them how they did.

“We have been shopping for hours,” Hannah said with a weary sigh.

That part at least seemed like a mere exaggeration to Barbara rather than an out-and-out lie. An hour and a half was longer than just one hour, after all.

“And we are absolutely parched,” Hannah continued.

Barbara was a little uncomfortable. Hannah was, of course, trying to attract Mr. Huxtable, but did she have to be so blatant about it?

But the big lie was coming up, and Barbara did not see it coming.

Mr. Huxtable responded with the gallantry almost any true gentleman would have shown under the circumstances.

“There is a bakery or a pastry cook not far from here,” he said. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you ladies there and buying you tea?”

And instead of looking grateful or perhaps embarrassed, Hannah looked sorrowful. Barbara observed the expression in surprise.

“That is extraordinarily kind of you, Mr. Huxtable,” she said, “but we are expecting visitors and must hurry home.”

And the coachman had to gather the ribbons in a hurry, and the footman had to scramble to open the carriage door, and Mr. Huxtable bowed and handed them in.

Hannah nodded graciously to him as they drove off.

“Hannah?” Barbara asked.

“One must never appear too eager,” Hannah said.

“But you practically asked him to take us for tea,” Barbara pointed out.

“I remarked on the fact that I was thirsty,” Hannah said. “That was perfectly true.”

“Are we expecting visitors?” Barbara asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” Hannah admitted, “but one never knows.”

She had lied, in other words. Barbara disapproved of lies. But she said nothing. Hannah was playing her game, of which Barbara also disapproved, but Hannah was an adult. She could choose her own course in life.

The second lie was told a few evenings later, when they were at a ball hosted by Lord and Lady Merriwether. Barbara had not wanted to attend it. It was a ton ball, and she had been to nothing grander than a country assembly her whole life.

“Nonsense,” Hannah had said when she voiced her concern. “Show me your feet, Babs.”

Barbara had lifted her skirt to just above her ankles, and Hannah had looked down at her feet, a frown between her brows.

“As I suspected,” she had said. “You have one right foot and one left. Perfect for dancing. I might have allowed you to remain at home if you had had two left feet, as some people do, poor things. Usually men. But you are coming. There is no point in arguing. You are coming. Tell me that you are.”

Barbara was—of course—at the ball, and she was quite sure her eyes might pop right out of her head if she was not careful. She had never even dreamed of such splendor. She was going to be writing very long letters home tomorrow.

They were practically mobbed as soon as they set foot in the ballroom. Or rather, Hannah was mobbed and Barbara was caught in the middle of the crowd with her. It amazed and half amused her to watch the transformation of her friend when she was in public. She hardly even looked like the person Barbara had known all her life. She looked like a … Well, like a duchess.

Mr. Huxtable was in the ballroom. He was with the two gentlemen with whom he had ridden in the park and two ladies. But he did not remain with them for long. He moved about and stopped frequently to converse with different groups.

And Hannah, Barbara observed, was careful to position herself so that she frequently caught his eye. The exchanged glances were usually accompanied by a flutter of Hannah’s white feathered fan and a glance that succeeded once or twice in looking almost forlorn. As though she were unhappy in the crowd and needed rescuing.

There were probably a few dozen ladies in the room, Barbara thought, who would have been delighted to be similarly unhappy and in need of rescuing. The power Hannah had over men was truly astounding, especially as she appeared to make no great effort to wield it. Of course, she had always drawn eyes wherever she went, even as a girl. She was one of the purely beautiful creatures of this world.

Finally Mr. Huxtable answered her silent plea and came striding across the floor.

He bowed first to Barbara and wished her a good evening. Then he bowed to Hannah.

“Duchess,” he said, “would you be good enough to dance the opening set with me?”

She looked sorrowful again.

“I regret that I cannot,” she said. “I have already promised it to someone else.”