A Secret Affair

and let Vanessa know what had happened and how soon she could expect the duke’s return home.

Would she continue living here by day, going to Constantine’s house by night so that they could make love?

She ached to make love. To be made love to.

She was his mistress.

He was her lover.

Was it enough?

It was what they had agreed upon. It was what she had wanted for this, her first year of freedom. Indeed, she was the one who had initiated the whole thing.

Had she changed her mind so soon?

She could not bear for them not to be lovers any longer.

She could not bear for them to be lovers either.

She really did love him. She had told him the truth about that—which may, of course, not have been a wise thing to do.

Why did loving him and being his lover seem like two mutually exclusive things?

Ah, she thought as she bade the earl and Cassandra a good day and thanked them for coming, she was no more calm and in control of her emotions now than she had been at the age of nineteen. The eleven intervening years might never have been.

Except that now she could see that she had a clear choice before her and that it was she alone who must make it. Calmly and rationally. Provided Constantine himself did not make it for her, that was, by staying at Ainsley.

Would they remain lovers for the rest of the Season?

Or would they not?

The choice could not be simpler.

Making it was another matter, of course.

“Will you come with us, Hannah?” Barbara asked when the three of them were alone with one another in the drawing room once more. “You no longer have to wait at home for news, do you? It has come, and it is the very best news possible.”

“Why not?” Hannah said, looking from one to the other of them. “Let us celebrate by going to look at some old books.”

The Reverend Newcombe beamed.

***

CONSTANTINE REMAINED at Ainsley Park for four days after Jess had been freed and Stephen had taken the duchess’s carriage and returned to London.

He felt the need to be with his people for a while as they all recovered from their terrible anxiety and settled back to their normal everyday life. He felt the need to call upon all his neighbors and talk openly with them about the situation at Ainsley. He could not promise them that awkward situations like this one would never arise again, but he could and did remind them that the incident with Jess was the first of its kind in all the years he had been here. And he explained that all his people appreciated the new chance in life they were being given here and were doing all in their power to become respectable and productive individuals again. He was not running a thieves’ den—or a brothel. Even Jess was not a thief by nature, but a man who had tried to put right a wrong without thinking through what he was doing. And Jess was leaving. He would not be at Ainsley ever again.

Most of his neighbors received him with courtesy. A few received him with warm kindness. A few others reserved their judgment. Kincaid was openly skeptical though not unduly hostile. Time would bring him around, Constantine believed and hoped.

He stayed at Ainsley for four days so that Jess could recover somewhat from his ordeal and accustom himself to the idea that his training at Ainsley Park was over and that he was to be promoted to a position he had always dreamed of, that of stable hand. The Duke of Moreland was offering him such a position at Rigby Abbey, his own country estate. It was going to be hard on them all to see him go, Constantine explained, but the duke was his cousin, and if he must let Jess move on to a better position, then he would rather it be with a relative than with a stranger. And he would be able to see Jess from time to time when he visited the duke. He would be able to bring him news of all his friends at Ainsley.

He had never been to Rigby Abbey himself.

One thing that surprised him was that Elliott chose to remain at Ainsley too, though it was obvious he hated being away from his wife and children. He stayed to renew their friendship. There could be no other reason. And renew it they did, tentatively at first, with growing ease as the days passed.

It felt like a gift, a balm to the soul, to have Elliott back. Constantine had not realized just how much he had missed him. Losing him and then losing Jon had all been mixed up together in one massively lonely emptiness.

Now he had Elliott back. And they talked about Jon. They shared memories of him—not the painful last ones, but those encompassing the previous fifteen years or so.

Constantine found those four days healing and relaxing, though a part of him fretted to be back in London. Even so, he tried to keep his mind off Hannah as much as he could. He was not ready yet to think.

She had told him she loved him.

By the time he returned to London in Elliott’s luxurious carriage, Jess up on the box with the coachman while the footman rode behind, Constantine had been gone from London for almost two weeks.

He had to go and call upon the duchess to thank her for her intervention on behalf of Jess—he could hardly call it interference, could he?—and for the use of her carriage.

He found himself strangely reluctant to go, though. What would happen now? A return to the status quo? She would be his mistress again? He would be her lover again?

He longed for her. It was almost three weeks since he had last had her.

They were having an affair. A sexual fling. A temporary one, until the Season’s end, for their mutual pleasure.

Good God, was that what they were having?

It sounded damnably … what was the word his mind sought? Cheap? Sordid? Unsatisfactory? Definitely that last. Probably those first two as well. But that was strange. His previous affairs had never seemed any of the three. He had enjoyed them for what they were worth, ended them when the time came, and put them behind him.

An affair with Hannah, of course, was not enough.

He loved her.

He had scarcely thought of her in the past week and a half. Not consciously anyway. And yet she had been there at every moment of every day. A part of him.

It was dashed alarming.

Or was it?

She had told him she loved him before he left Copeland. Did she mean it? In that way? Devil take it, but he had so little experience with love. With that kind of love anyway. But perhaps everyone did until love came and punched them between the eyes. What did her actions say? Did they bear out her words?

What had she done after he had left—in her carriage?

She had dragged Stephen back to London with her, bearded Elliott in his den, packed the two of them off to Gloucestershire, and then dashed off to rouse the king.

All for a mentally handicapped stranger?

Hardly, compassionate as she undoubtedly was.

Elliott, on the seat opposite him in the carriage, yawned.

“You were staring fixedly into space when I dozed off, Con,” he said, “and you are still doing it when I wake up again. Worried about Jess, are you? You did a fine job of convincing him he has graduated with honors from Ainsley and has been promoted to Rigby. And I can be kind enough to my employees when I forget to be the autocratic duke.”