Chapter 19
19
“I’m going to wash you now,” he murmured into her ear. “You’ll tell me if it hurts, will you?”
Steam rose from the bathtub in the middle of Modesty’s room as Constantine took the washcloth and dipped it into the warm water.
She reached for the cloth. “You do not have to do that. I am perfectly capable.”
His wife was so pleasantly situated between his thighs, her back leaning against his chest. Earlier tonight, he’d rung the servant bell and asked them to bring the bathtub and hot water. The footmen and the maids had thrown curious glances at him as he’d paced his wife’s bedchamber in nothing but a dressing gown while she’d hidden under the sheets.
Let them talk.
“Of course you are. I’d like to do this for you. I know I hurt you before… I’d like to take care of you.”
She inhaled deeply and exhaled, easing back against him.
He loved her, even more now that she had given herself to him. And he’d been much rougher with her than he’d intended.
But his control shattered at her touch. He didn’t recognize himself with her.
He lowered the cloth down to her thighs.
Lit candles surrounded them in candelabras, their flames reflected in her large mirror.
It was so peaceful here. So quiet, with just the water dripping, the coals crackling in the grate, and Modesty’s even breathing as she nestled against him. He could feel the smooth skin of her back, the slight weight of her. And her wet hair pooled in the water around them, clinging to him.
“All right,” she said, and he saw a slight rise in her upper cheek as she must have smiled. “If you wish.”
He lowered the cloth and placed it on her inner thigh. The sheets were bloody as well as her inner thighs. A sign she was truly and irrevocably his.
Someone he treasured. Cherished. Adored.
He never wanted anyone else as long as he lived. She was his now, and he was hers, and that was it.
Softly, he ran the cloth closer to her sex. He kissed her cheek, her ear, her neck. “Is this all right?” he asked.
She chuckled and wriggled her behind against his groin, sending an onrush of heat straight into his cock, which quickly began to let him know it appreciated the attention.
“Very much so, indeed,” she said.
When the cloth reached her sex, she tensed slightly.“Too much?”
“It stings a little. But do continue.”
He chuckled and patted her very gently between her thighs, acutely aware of her body. She didn’t flinch or pull away, and that told him she was all right.
“You must know your way around virgins,” she said.
He ran the cloth over her other thigh. He couldn’t see what he was doing, but he wanted her to feel cared for.
“Yours is the only virginity I have taken,” he said.
“Oh?”
“You are the second woman I have known in such a way. And whatever happens, you will be the last one I’ll ever know.”
That made her go rigid, and he stopped patting. She craned her neck to meet his gaze.
“Does that surprise you?” he asked.
“Yes. Second woman, really?”
“Yes. Before you, I had a regular lover at Elysium. She was my first.”
She didn’t move, barely breathing. “Aren’t you forgetting Ophelia?”
Stunned, his mind raced as he searched for something to say.
Damnation. This lie was still haunting him. He wanted to tell Modesty the truth, but she trusted him, thought him a good man. She’d never look at him the same way if she knew he’d lied to her about something so monumental as Augustus’s parentage, that he’d never corrected her misunderstanding. And that wasn’t even the biggest lie he was living…
“And Ophelia,” he said, hating himself. “But that was just once. The woman in Elysium was my lover for ten years. And now I have you.”
He waited for her reaction. It was quite a confession, he knew. And it must not be easy for her to hear about any other women in his life. He certainly hated to see or hear about Mr. George Lockhart, who Constantine was sure harbored much more than friendly feelings towards her.
She made a circle in the water with her finger. “And…you stopped it?”
“Yes. After I proposed and you accepted, I knew the only woman I could ever have in my life was you. My wife.”
“Was she…was she more than just a lover? A body?”
He swallowed. “She was a friend, in a way. Just someone I talked to. As well as someone who allowed me to satisfy…certain needs. I never wanted to sire a bastard…”
“But you did.”
Wrong. But, of course, he couldn’t admit it.
He lightly ran the cloth over her sex. “Could be worse. Testament to how right I was to restrict myself to only one…two women.”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “And you will not miss your lover at Elysium?”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t need a lover when I have my wife.”
How could he ever miss another woman when he had her—the most beautiful, kind-hearted, challenging, and intelligent woman he’d ever met?
She was everything he could ever wish for. And he wanted to make her happy.
Only, one day he’d shatter this fragile happiness like glass.
He let go of the cloth andwrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. She turned to him in the water, sleek, her movements tickling his thighs and stomach. He met her eyes, like molten malachite in the candlelight.
She cupped his face, taking a lock of his hair between her fingers. “Let me wash you now.”
He chuckled. Her washing him felt like a seductive, forbidden delight. “Very well, my duchess.”
Dripping water onto the floor, they switched sides, and he nestled comfortably between her thighs as she cleaned him with the warm cloth.
“Tell me about that woman from Elysium,” she said.
He frowned. “Are you certain? It might not be pleasant to hear.”
She dipped the cloth into water. “I am stronger than you think.”
He inhaled deeply. “There’s not much to tell, in truth. My experience was…mechanical. Clinical, even. It was necessary to satisfy my body to maintain control over my emotions. My father taught me I must do whatever it takes to ensure the honor of the bloodline. I never wanted my relationship with a woman to be different…until you.”
The words “because I love you” almost slipped from his tongue.
She ran the cloth down his shoulder. “You must have had quite a strict childhood.”
“Yes,” he said bitterly. “My father made it very clear that I was supposed to be a certain way. I’ve always liked horses. That was encouraged, but only if they were purebreds. Once, when I was seven, I cried when my favorite horse died. Father found me in the stables. ‘Dukes of Pryde don’t weep,’ he told me. ‘Tears are for common folk who have nothing to offer the world but their emotions.’ Then one day—I was twelve, I think—I found myself in the stables at night, and one of the mares had a difficult foaling. The stud groom asked me to help, and of course I did. When that foal finally emerged, alive and healthy, I felt like I had touched a miracle.”
She dropped the cloth and massaged his shoulders with both hands. “That sounds wonderful.”
Her touch soothed the stiff, achy muscles of his shoulders, his back, his biceps, and his neck. If heaven existed, he was in it. As his body relaxed, it became easier to talk, to share the worst things that had happened to him. He wanted her to know, to be part of him.
“After that, I became absorbed with learning everything I could about horses—their anatomy, their care, their illnesses. I’d follow the grooms whenever I had a free minute. I’d sneak books into my room, draw horses from memory.”
She lightly pressed his head back onto her chest. Picking up a pitcher standing on the table by the bathtub, she filled it, then poured water over his hair. “You were a passionate boy.”
Constantine chuckled softly. “Obsessive, more like. When I found something that interested me, I had to master it completely. Know everything. Do everything correctly.”
She poured more water over his hair. “That is where your drive for perfection lies, does it not?”
“Hm. I’ve never thought of it that way. But of course, when my father noticed my involvement, he told me dukes did not doctor horses. Dukes rode them.”
A small, indignant huff escape her lips. Her reaction, so protective and understanding, made his heart swell with affection.
“So I had to hide my obsession from him,” he continued as she picked up a cake of soap and foamed her fingers. “I secretly helped in three more foalings. When I was sixteen, I heard about the Royal Veterinary College opening in London. I wanted to study there. But when I told Papa, he said it was unworthy of a duke.”
She dug her fingers into his hair and began massaging the soap into the wet strands, her fingertips sending delicious sensations across his scalp. “I am sorry to hear he thought that way.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Whoever heard of a duke who was a horse surgeon? Certainly that would have been beneath any Duke of Pryde. But I had a different idea that I thought Papa might approve of—to establish a small horse hospital right here on our estate. Can you imagine what a difference it would have made? We’d have employed graduates from the college, cared for our horses and those of our tenants. And I…well…I secretly hoped to learn alongside them.”
She tipped the pitcher again to wash the soap out of his hair, and he closed his eyes as one or two rivulets ran down his face. “I was overjoyed when I told my father. I thought he’d be proud, you see, to establish something so new and so honorable.”
“That is a most excellent idea,” she said, melting his heart. “It is new and honorable.”
He smiled softly at her sweet acceptance and support as she rinsed away the rest of the soap. He felt free. Warm. Happy.
Then he chuckled bitterly. “But he laughed at me.”
He felt her go still.
“I am sorry he crushed your dream like that,” she said as she picked up a soft linen cloth and massaged his hair with it to absorb the water.
He didn’t reply, just enjoyed the movements of her fingers over his head. He’d never felt this connected, this intimate with anyone in his life. God help him, it felt wonderful to set his pride aside and just be who he was. To stop trying to always be right and win at all costs. To stop pretending that he never made a mistake.
To stop pushing people away.
She picked up a comb from the table beside the bath and began running it through his damp hair.
“I’ve never told anyone about this before,” he said, “but because of that dream, my father thought I stole his diamond tie pin.”
“Was that the pin you wore at our wedding?”
“Indeed it was. My mother had given it to my father, and one day he wanted to wear it as a gesture of reconciliation, but he couldn’t find it.”
She kept combing his hair. It never felt so good when his valet did it. “Do you know who stole it?” she asked.
Constantine nodded. “Mr. Hawthorne.”
She froze, the comb positioned against the side of his head. “Mr. Hawthorne?” she asked, shocked. “He seems so kind, why would he ever do such a thing?”
“He had a younger brother who was in deep trouble due to gambling debts.”
Modesty’s hand tightened around his.
“When Father discovered the pin was missing and ordered every room and drawer to be searched, I took it from Mr. Hawthorne and hid it among my own belongings. I just couldn’t have Father sack the only friend I ever had.”
“Did you really not have any friends your age?” she asked softly.
There was an edge of pity in her voice that made him bristle up with wounded pride internally. But he could also understand her pity.
“Pathetic, isn’t it? I was not allowed to play with the tenants’ or servants’ children, and my father preferred to make political connections in the city rather than entertaining guests in our house. So, yes, Mr. Hawthorne was the only friend I had.”
Modesty smiled. “I wish I could have been your friend.”
His throat tightened with a raw emotion, tears prickling his eyes. He thought of Chastity and Lucien, who had known each other all their lives and had been friends for years. How would it have been to have someone like that in his own life? Someone who understood and accepted him, who’d be his partner in mischief and by his side in the most difficult moments?
Instead, he’d always been an adult in child’s clothes.
“I wish that, too. I would have secretly climbed out of my window at night to spend time with you.”
She smoothed his hair, humming softly. “So what happened with Mr. Hawthorne?”
“To protect him, I confessed to taking the pin, claiming I wanted to have something that reminded me of my mother close to me. My father was furious. He saw it as further proof of my unworthiness. I was too sentimental about horses and people. He punished me, but it was nothing. Mr. Hawthorne stayed.”
Constantine fell silent. He was acutely aware of her skin against his, her breath against his back, her fingers on his shoulders now, a silent sign of support. In this moment, she felt more precious than any title or estate.
She moved like a sleek water creature and was soon straddling him, her gaze locked with his.
It was terrifying to look into her eyes after everything he’d shared. But there was nothing but love and acceptance in her gaze.
His heart shriveled with fear. Perhaps she thought well of him now, but when the truth came out, she’d know what he’d done—lied, robbed a babe of his true inheritance, and lived the life of someone he was not.
And yet, like a coward, he allowed himself to selfishly enjoy more of her affection, her touch, her support.
She cupped his face with both hands, and he was lost in her eyes. Her skin was luminous, water droplets glistening on the tiny freckles on her shoulders that he adored. “You’re a wonderful man, Constantine. Under that hard chest of yours is the kindest heart.”
All lies. The man she described was who he wanted to be. But not who he was.
But he didn’t contradict her. He let her kiss him, melting his bones like honey.
He only wished he deserved her high esteem and regard. In that moment, he knew he couldn’t go back on his word to her, even if it harmed him. Even if gossip would spread like wildfire, he’d return Augustus to her as he’d promised. He’d told her he couldn’t bear to hurt her, and he meant it.
As he kissed her back, his blood waking up with desire, he knew perhaps he didn’t have the kindest heart.
But his heart most definitely beat for her.
It had for longer than he cared to admit.
And it would always belong to her.