Chapter 10
10
Constantine stared at his wife across the hall of the almshouse. Their words about Egypt and escape had reached him clearly given the building’s excellent acoustics. His jaw tightened as he watched Mr. Lockhart shift closer to Modesty and he directed a deep glare at him. Mr. Lockhart had offered her a way out—everything Constantine had denied her.
Oh, he recognized a rival when he saw one. Whatever Modesty thought of the man, he wanted to be more than just her friend.
“Duke…” she murmured, jumping to her feet.
He saw the calculation in her eyes—she was attempting to gauge how much he had heard, and what he was going to do.
Slowly, he strode closer to her.
“Duchess,” he returned. “I must say, I was surprised when Simons informed me you wished for a carriage to bring you to Whitechapel. I specifically forbade you to come here.”
“With all respect, Pryde,” said Mr. Lockhart, who rose from the sofa and stepped between him and Modesty. “The duchess is a grown woman and should not require your permission to move about town.”
Constantine stared down the fool. “With all respect, Mr. Lockhart, my marriage is none of your business. Stand aside, sir.”
George glared at him with a helpless rage, not moving, and Constantine clenched his fist in his glove.
Another moment and he’d need to move the man himself, and then—God help him—he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d be challenged to a duel for disrespecting a gentleman.
He supposed, he thought coldly, dying might not be the worst outcome of his situation.
But not today.
Before he was compelled to shift Mr. Lockhart from his path as he would a tall bookcase, his wife came to her senses and stepped out from behind her protector.
“For pity’s sake,” she murmured. “Mr. Lockhart is right, and I wouldn’t have been forced to come and seek their council if you hadn’t sent Augustus away.”
She turned to Miss Lockhart and her brother. “Thank you for listening and for your friendship.” She opened her purse and took out a generous amount of money she’d been given by Mrs. Higgs that morning, then pressed it into Miss Lockhart’s hand. “Please use this for the almshouse. It’s my duchess’s allowance, but it’s much better used here than on dresses and jewelry. Forgive me. As you see, the duke objects to my coming and helping at the almshouse. This is one way I can still do that.”
Miss Lockhart squeezed the money and nodded. “I know, darling. We’ll be here if you need us.” She threw a sideways glance at Constantine. “Despite the circumstances.”
Constantine’s heart churned. He did feel like a proper villain. Modesty was pure of heart, and of course, no amount of money would replace a kind word and a listening ear.
“My carriage is just outsi—” he began, but she brushed by, throwing him the most venomous glance, and hurried outside.
As she swept past him, the scent of wildflowers tickled his senses, making his pulse quicken.
He cleared his throat. No one behaved this way with him. Especially not a woman. Now a simple country girl was not only spurning his advances but ignoring him completely. His wife, the one woman he had every right to bed and who should want nothing more than to abide by his wishes.
He nodded politely to Miss Lockhart and her brother and calmly walked after his wife. His pride wouldn’t allow him to chase her like a brute.
As he made his way to the front entrance, he noted what he hadn’t before—the poor state of the almshouse, the women struggling to work, and how cold it was even for October. Although the money Modesty had given them would do a lot of good, it wouldn’t be nearly enough. He’d make sure to send more.
He exited the building into the acrid Whitechapel air to see her crossing the muddy street a few steps ahead of him, though his carriage stood right here. Stubborn woman, he thought, grinding his teeth.
As he strode after his wife, a fight broke out in a nearby gin shop, and a rough-looking man bumped into her, sending her stumbling. Before she could regain her balance, the thundering approach of a brewer’s dray made Constantine’s heart stop. The massive horse reared, spooked by a sudden shout from the gin shop. The cart’s wheels slid in the mud as the driver fought for control.
Constantine didn’t think. He lunged forward, grabbed Modesty around the waist, and yanked her back against his chest. The dray’s wheels splashed mud where she’d stood moments before. She shuddered in his arms, her breath coming in short gasps.
“You could have been killed,” he growled into her ear, his heart hammering. The thought of losing her made him tighten his grip.
His clever, defiant, fascinating wife.
“I—I’m fine,” she said, but didn’t pull away.
The warmth of her body against his, the way she fit perfectly in his arms, was dangerously distracting. He needed to focus.
“My carriage. Now.”
His footman had the carriage door open, and Constantine led Modesty towards it. When they were both seated, the horses lurched into motion. The confines suddenly felt too small for Constantine’s warring emotions. Her intoxicating scent filled the space between them. Even mud-splattered and furious, she was breathtaking.
“You were absent from your morning instruction,” he said.
“I was rather preoccupied with finding my son.”
“Augustus is not your son. And for now, he must remain where he is.”
“Why? Because he threatens your standing in the ton?”
He leaned forward, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms again. The memory of her pressed against his chest moments ago was dangerously distracting.
“Because I cannot risk—” He stopped himself. Good God, he’d almost revealed too much. She seemed to see straight through his carefully constructed walls. “Because right now, discretion is essential.”
“You mean your reputation is essential.”
“Yes.” The admission tasted bitter. He watched her face, wondering if she could understand how everything—his position, his ability to protect those who depended on him—balanced on the knife’s edge of society’s approval.
“I demand to see him.”
Her quiet determination twisted something in his chest. She looked so young, so fierce in her loyalty. Red locks framed her face beautifully, her green eyes blazing in the dim light. Her cheeks were flushed—no doubt from the thrill of the near accident. Or from her anger with him. She was nothing like the cold, calculating women of the ton he was used to.
He remembered how sweet her lips had tasted. God, he wanted to kiss her again. Inhale her, drink her down in mouthfuls. Toss aside all honor, good behavior, and years of schooling and be an animal with her.
“Three weeks,” he found himself saying. “Give me three weeks to arrange matters properly. Lady Virtoux is hosting an antiquarian auction next week. Attend your lessons, learn to be a proper duchess, and I’ll take you. I’ll buy anything you like, for whatever price.”
He knew she was tempted, saw it in how her breathing increased, how her gloved hands twitched. “Do you think trinkets can replace Augustus?”
“No. But I’m offering you both. We will go to the auction, and in three weeks Augustus returns—if you commit to becoming the duchess this title requires.”
He would then have three weeks to resolve the issue with the Regent, find the letter, and come up with a believable story about Augustus’s identity and why he was taking the child in.
She studied him, and for a moment he feared she’d refuse. What then? He couldn’t bear to see that lost, betrayed look in her eyes again. Why did her good opinion matter so much?
“I cannot agree to this. You took away the only reason I married you. Augustus needs me.”
Her words stung more than they should have. Constantine fought to keep his voice level. “He has his nurse. And a maid. He’s safe.”
“I want daily reports about his health and well-being,” she declared. “Two weeks at most. And if you break this promise”—she held his gaze—“I will find him myself, even if I have to search every estate in England.”
He believed her. The thought of her traveling alone, vulnerable, made his blood run cold. “Very well. But you must apply yourself to your lessons. Society will be watching us closely.”
She lifted her chin. “I’ll learn to be your perfect duchess. But understand this. I’m doing it for Augustus, not for you.”
Her concern for the child squeezed something in his chest. If only Augustus’s very existence didn’t threaten everything.
“And I want him christened,” she said. “Papa and I had to christen him as soon as he was born, but now he has you. I know it is unusual, but there’s no rule against presenting him again. He should be properly christened into your house. In All Saints. And my father should do it. I want you to be his godfather, and I’ll be his godmother.”
“I don’t want to draw any attention,” he said through gritted teeth.
“We will keep it small. Only our closest friends.”
“Fine.” He held out his hand. “Do we have an agreement?”
She placed her small hand in his. The touch sent heat racing up his arm. “Two weeks,” she repeated. “Not a day more.”
Would two weeks be sufficient? Before coming to the almshouse, he had stopped at Portside and left the money where the letter had indicated. So the blackmailer should be satisfied. But the letter that could ruin him was still out there. Fortyne’s investigators were working hard to find it, but their efforts would need to be accelerated. He would hire his own people if necessary.
He should have released her hand. Instead, he found himself drawing her closer. Their eyes locked, and he couldn’t look away. His skin tingled with pleasure when he looked into the depths of her eyes…into her very soul. He knew then he had made the right decision.
“We should seal our agreement properly,” he murmured, watching her pupils dilate. The intoxicating blend of wildflowers and her natural warmth tested the very limits of his control.
“I still despise you,” she whispered, but her hand curled into his lapel.
“I know.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. Then, still without breaking the eye contact, he leaned down to her lips.
He brushed his mouth against hers, gentle at first, testing. When she didn’t pull away, he deepened the kiss, drinking in her soft gasp.
She kissed him back, their lips coming together in a small collision, and he thought he’d die right there from the intoxicating sensation. Her slight moan made his body tighten. As he stroked his tongue over her lips, she parted them, and he dipped into her depths. She arched her torso, bringing herself close to him, and he lifted her onto his knees. She wrapped her hands around his neck, and he ran his arms down her back, pulling her in even closer.
His lips left hers, trailing down her jaw to the delicate curve of her neck. Her breath hitched, a faint tremor running through her body. Oh, she was enjoying this. He wanted to give her more. Maybe Eccess was right, and this timid vicar’s daughter was fire in bed…
His mouth moved lower, brushing the skin just above her flushed neckline, where her pulse fluttered wildly. They were both breathing hard, and he was ready to tear her clothes off when he became painfully aware they’d come to a halt, and the driver’s footsteps were approaching the door.
He reluctantly tore himself away. Her eyes blazed as she gazed at him, her lips full and swollen from his kisses.
His kisses, not those of Mr. George Lockhart or any other gentleman. She was his and only his, and he wanted to show her how much pleasure he could provide—that he wasn’t the monster she thought him.
“We’ve arrived, Your Grace,” came a hesitant voice from outside.
Perhaps the driver saw through the window that they were occupied…smart man. Constantine should give him a raise.
“This is far from over,” he said to his wife with a grin he couldn’t stop. “This is just the beginning.”