A Secret Affair

It did not matter. He had always known that he would not. He did not really care.

They stopped to exchange pleasantries with a couple of male acquaintances. The park was full of familiar faces, Constantine saw as he looked idly around. There were almost no new ones at all, and those few there were belonged mostly to very young ladies—the new crop of marriageable hopefuls come to the great marriage mart.

There were a few beauties among them too, by Jove. But Constantine was surprised and not a little alarmed to discover how clinical the inward analysis was. He felt no stirring of real interest in any of them. He might have done so without any fear of seeming presumptuous. His illegitimacy was a mere legal trifle. It prohibited him from inheriting his father’s title and entailed property, it was true, but it had no bearing on his status in the ton as the son of an earl. He had been brought up at Warren Hall. He had been left comfortably well off on his father’s death.

He might shop at the marriage mart if he chose and expect considerable success. But he was thirty-five years old. These new beauties looked uncomfortably like children to him. Most of them would be seventeen or eighteen.

It really was a little alarming. He was never going to get any younger, was he? And he had never intended to go through life as a single man. When, then, was he going to marry? And, more to the point, whom would he marry?

He had made his prospects somewhat dimmer, of course, when he acquired Ainsley Park a number of years ago and proceeded to populate it with society’s undesirables—vagabonds, thieves, ex-soldiers, the mentally handicapped, prostitutes, unwed mothers and their offspring, and assorted others. Ainsley was a hive of industry and was gratifyingly prosperous after a few years of nothing but expenses—and hard work.

A young wife, however, particularly one of gentle birth, would certainly not appreciate being taken to live among such company and in such a place—and in the dower house to boot. A month or so ago his living room had been commandeered as a nursery for the dolls too tired to keep their eyes open after their tea in the conservatory.

“Let me guess,” Monty said, leaning closer to Constantine. “The one in green?”

He had been staring quite fixedly, Constantine realized, at two young ladies with two stern-looking maids a couple of paces behind them—and all four had noticed. The girls were giggling and preening themselves while the maids were closing the gap to one and a half paces.

“She is the prettier of the two,” Constantine conceded, looking away. “The one in pink has the better figure, though.”

“I wonder which one,” Monty said, “has the richer papa.”

“The Duchess of Dunbarton is back in town,” Stephen said as the three of them moved on. “Looking as lovely as ever. She must be just out of mourning. Shall we go and pay our respects?”

“By all means,” Monty said, “provided we can get from here to there without being mowed down by the next six carriages in line and without mowing down the next six pedestrians in line. They always will stray from the footpath, to their imminent peril.”

He proceeded to lead the way, weaving a skillful path among carriages and horsemen until they reached the pedestrians, most of whom were strolling safely on the path designed for them.

Constantine saw her at last. But how could anyone not once he paid the proper attention to his surroundings? She was all willowy, delicate whiteness and pink-tinged complexion and lips and blue, fathomless bedroom eyes.

If the woman had chosen to be a courtesan instead of Dunbarton’s wife she would be the most celebrated one in England by now. And she would have made a veritable fortune. Of course, she had made a fortune anyway, had she not, by persuading that old fossil to marry for the first and only time in his life. And then by squeezing him dry of everything that was not nailed down by the entail.

She had a suitably respectable-looking companion with her. And she was holding court, favoring a large number of persons gathered about her—almost exclusively male—with her enigmatic half-smile and occasionally one of her white-gloved hands, on the forefinger of which winked a diamond large enough to bash out the brains of any man incautious enough to be impudent.

“Ah,” she said, turning her languid gaze from her court, most of which was forced onward by the crowd, “Lord Merton. Looking as angelically handsome as ever. I do hope Lady Paget appreciates the value of her prize.”

She was soft-spoken. Her voice was light and pleasant. Of course, she must never need to speak loudly. When she opened her mouth to speak, all about her fell silent to listen.

She favored Stephen with her hand, and he carried it to his lips and smiled at her.

“She is Lady Merton now, ma’am,” he said. “And I certainly appreciate the value of my prize.”

“Good man,” she said. “You have made the correct answer. And Lord Montford. Looking really quite … tamed. Lady Montford is to be commended.”

And she offered him her hand.

“Not at all, ma’am,” Monty said, grinning as he kissed the back of it. “I took one look at her and … was instantly tame.”

“I am glad to hear it,” she said, “though that is not quite what a little bird once told me. And Mr. Huxtable. How do you do?”

She looked at him almost with disdain, though she arched the look from beneath her eyelashes and somewhat spoiled the effect—if she had indeed intended disdain, that was. She did not offer him her hand.

“Very well indeed, Duchess, I thank you,” he said. “And all the better for having seen that you are back in town this year.”

“Flatterer,” she said, making a dismissive gesture with her ringed hand. She turned to her silent companion. “Babs, may I have the pleasure of presenting the Earl of Merton, Baron Montford, and Mr. Huxtable? Miss Leavensworth, gentlemen, is my dearest friend in the world. She has been kind enough to come and stay with me for a while before returning home to marry the vicar of the village where we grew up.”

Miss Leavensworth was tall and thin with a long, Nordic face, slightly protruding upper teeth, and fair hair. She was not an unhandsome woman.

She curtsied. They all bowed from the saddle.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Leavensworth,” Stephen said. “Are the nuptials to be soon?”

“In August, my lord,” she said. “But in the meantime I hope to see as many places of interest in London as I can. All the museums and galleries, anyway.”

The duchess was looking his horse over, Constantine could see. And then his top-boots. And then his thighs. And then … his face. She raised her eyebrows when she found him staring directly back at her.

“We must move on, Babs,” she said. “I fear we are blocking the path, and these gentlemen are holding up traffic. They are so very … large.”

And she turned and processed onward toward the next wave of admirers come to greet her and welcome her back to town.

“Goodness me,” Monty murmured. “There goes one very dangerous lady. And she has just been let off the leash.”

“Her friend seems very sensible,” Stephen said.

“It would seem,” Constantine said, “that only titled gentlemen are to be granted the great honor of kissing her hand.”

“I would not lose any sleep over that, if I were you, Con,” Monty said. “Perhaps it is only untitled gentlemen who are favored with a leisurely toe-to-head scrutiny instead of a hand.”

“Or maybe one should make that unmarried gentlemen, Monty,” Stephen said. “Perhaps the lady fancies you, Con.”

“But perhaps I do not fancy the lady,” Constantine said. “It has never been my ambition to share a mistress with half the ton.”

“Hmm,” Monty said. “Do you think that is what Dunbarton did, poor devil? Though, speaking of which, he