A Secret Affair

hand to a stable hand. He is the happiest and proudest man in England.”

“Elliott,” she said. “The duke. You are reconciled with him, then?”

“I think we have mutually agreed that we behaved like prize asses,” he said. “And we have both admitted that perhaps it had to be that way so that Jon’s dream could come true. Our friendship had to be sacrificed for a while for that end—and I would do it all again if I had to. So would Elliott—try to protect Jon from himself, that is, and Stephen’s inheritance from his rashness. But we are friends again. Cousins again.”

“And almost brothers?” she said.

“And that too,” he said. “Yes. And that too.”

She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Her heart melted.

He opened his mouth to speak again.

And a trio of young horsemen who were riding toward them whistled as they came and called out to them with good-natured ribaldry as they passed. Hannah lifted her chin and wished she had her parasol to twirl.

Constantine grinned back at the young men, all of whom Hannah recognized.

“I had better take you home, Duchess,” he said. “I need to call upon Vanessa and see if she is willing to make peace with me. Elliott wanted me to go there first, but I happened to hear the popular interpretation of my quitting London in the middle of the Season and felt compelled to set the record straight, especially when I discovered from your butler that you were walking in the park.”

“You must not keep her waiting any longer, then,” she said. “She has become my friend during the past two weeks.”

And they rode back to Dunbarton House to the astonishment and delight of everyone they passed in the streets—and to not a few pointed comments. Constantine lifted her down outside her door, waited while she ascended the steps, watched her disappear inside, and rode off.

Without another word.

If she had still had her parasol with her, Hannah thought as she climbed the stairs to her room, she would have bashed him over the head with it before leaving him.

One did not tell a woman that one was going to marry her and then fail to ask.

Not, presumably, unless one was Constantine Huxtable.

I suppose every man dreads the actual proposal scene of his own love story.

She heard the echo of those words of his and ran up the last few stairs.

His own love story.

And then she stopped abruptly. That scene he had enacted in the park was surely the most shockingly romantic thing that had ever happened to her. He could not possibly have done it simply to assert his masterdom over her.

He loved her.

She laughed aloud.

***

THE ROMANTIC GESTURES had not ended. The following morning, less than an hour after Barbara’s departure, when Hannah was feeling somewhat down in spirits, a single white rose was delivered to Dunbarton House. There was no card with it. At the same time a gigantic bouquet of multicolored flowers of all kinds arrived, done up with glossy yellow ribbons, complete with Hannah’s parasol and a flowery, amusing note from Lord Hardingraye, who could be as outrageously flirtatious as he wished without danger of being taken seriously because she knew—and he knew she knew—that in one essential respect he was of the same persuasion as her duke had been.

The bouquet was set on a table in the middle of the drawing room, to be enjoyed by all comers for days to come. The rose found its way to her bedchamber, where she alone would enjoy it.

An hour later the butler brought her a note on his silver salver. It had a brief message and no signature.

I lust after you.

Not so very romantic, perhaps, but Hannah smiled as she read it for perhaps the dozenth time—after ascertaining that its author had not delivered it in person and was not waiting in the hall below.

She recognized the beginning of a game.

She dined during the evening with the Montfords and enjoyed their company and conversation along with that of Mr. and Mrs. Gooding and the Earl and Countess of Lanting—the ladies were Lord Montford’s sisters.

The next morning a dozen white roses were delivered to Dunbarton House, again with no accompanying card. They were taken up to Hannah’s sitting room.

An hour later the butler came with a note atop his salver.

Again it was unsigned.

I am in love with you, it read.

Hannah held it to her lips, closed her eyes, and smiled.

The wretch. The absolute wretch. Did he have no respect for her nerves? Why did he not simply come?

But she knew the answer. He had been speaking the truth in Hyde Park—if you knew me better, you would understand that I am babbling, Duchess, and that my heart is thumping quite erratically.

The foolish man was nervous.

And long may it last even though the wait seemed interminable. Nervousness was making him quite the romantic.

She went to the opera during the evening with the Sheringfords and the Marquess of Claverbrook and sat with her hand on the sleeve of the latter for most of the evening while they exchanged remarks. The tenor brought tears to her eyes just with the beauty of his voice. The soprano brought tears to the marquess’s eyes just with her beauty. He chuckled low as Hannah laughed.

“But not with her voice?” she asked.

“That,” he said, “just gives me the headache, Hannah.”

Much of the attention of the audience was focused upon their box, and Hannah wondered idly if tomorrow’s gossip would be that she was digging her claws into yet another elderly, wealthy aristocrat. The thought amused her.

The following morning it was two dozen roses that arrived—blood-red roses. No note, of course. That came an hour later.

I LOVE YOU, it read, my multipetaled rose.

No signature.

Hannah wept and thoroughly enjoyed every tear.

She was supposed to go to Lord and Lady Carpenter’s Venetian breakfast during the afternoon. Contrary to the name of such entertainments, they were not morning affairs. It did not matter either way. She did not go.

She donned a dress she had worn only once about three years ago. She had not worn it again because it made her feel like a scarlet woman inside as well as out, and that was too blatant a disguise even for her. She loved it nevertheless, and today it matched her roses. She wore a single diamond on a silver chain about her neck—a teardrop that would not dry or lose its luster—and no other jewelry.

She waited.

There was no improving upon two dozen red roses.

There was no more to be said on paper either. He had even written the first three words of the last note in capital letters. The rest had to be spoken aloud, face-to-face.

If he could muster the courage.

Ah, her poor, dear devil. Tamed by love.

He would, of course, find the courage. And he would be quite splendid—when he came.

She waited.