For the Love of a Pirate (23 page)

“So she took it well?” Blaise asked.

“And with relief,” Constantine said, stretching out his legs, and blowing a cloud of smoke from his cigarillo.

They sat in his study that night, swilling brandy and smoking.

“Bad blood indeed!” Kendall snorted into his goblet of brandy. “Horses and dogs can have bad blood, but not men. Men think, and can overcome it.”

“Men
think
they can overcome it,” Constantine said. “To tell the truth, I don't know. When I looked at the old portraits and then when I rode the waves, even in that stinking fishing smack, on that turbulent sea, I swear I felt something stirring in me.”

“Seasickness,” Kendall said.

“Idiot,” Blaise told Kendall fondly. “Your blood stirring?” he asked Constantine mildly. “She caused that, you fool. Your Lisabeth would stir a dead man's blood.”

Constantine said nothing. He was too busy remembering Lisabeth, especially those dazzling moments in the grass with her that he couldn't forget. He'd never made love in the sunshine before. He'd never felt such profound lust. She'd lain beneath him, her hair spread out like a shining corona behind her, her lovely face glowing with blushed color, her shining eyes on his as her lips parted for him. He'd felt the rise of her body against his, and realized that the man he'd thought himself to be could never have come to her as a lover. That had to have been the wild blood thundering in his veins, set free at last. It had both shocked and delighted him. If that was bad blood, he was glad of it. He'd felt alive as he'd never felt before. But since then, sometimes he wondered what else was lurking inside of him, just waiting to be set free.

“So when are you sending for her?” Blaise asked.

“After the announcement in the paper is old news,” Constantine said, called back to reality. “After the gossip about my aborted wedding with Miss Winchester has died down. Let's give the
ton
a chance to chew over something else for a while first. I don't doubt Miss Winchester will be engaged to another lucky fellow soon. Something about one man wanting her and then being thrown over by her will make her more desirable to all men.”

“You've become a philosopher,” Kendall muttered.

“I don't know what I've become,” Constantine said truthfully. “I do know I don't want Lisabeth embarrassed. And I dislike getting up at dawn to fight fools in the morning mists. I'm sure you two wouldn't want to be rousted up that early in order to be my seconds either. There's bound to be some unwise words said and overheard after a thing like this. Those words are usually said by a drunk or a fool, and that means man to man.”

Blaise laughed. “Whatever you've become, you've become more clever, Con.”

Constantine sketched a bow from his chair. “Speaking of clever, I can fight men, but women are cleverer than we are; they deliver cuts so sharp they aren't seen until they're bleeding. Why should Lisabeth be victim to that? Or just imagine if her grandfather heard of it and responded in his own inimitable fashion? Now
that
would be a tragedy. I'm going to let things calm down. Then Lisabeth can safely come to London at last.”

“I'd think you'd be longing to see her, come what may,” Kendall said.

So had Constantine. But now he felt infinitely tired. Much had happened. He'd changed; his world had changed. He couldn't quite believe what he'd done, or know what he wanted to do next.

Of course he wanted to see her. He wanted to hold her in his arms, hear her laughter as well as her sighs of pleasure; have her to himself once again. He'd thought of little else—except for the future, and the consequences of doing what he wanted.

Could he live in London with Lisabeth? Would she even like the life that he led or the life she'd be expected to lead? She was an original, a rare handful; the prize of her grandfather's eye and doted upon by all the people in her little village. But it was only a little village. Could she cope outside of it? Would she care to? She'd surely miss her home. Could they live on his estate, or near her grandfather, instead? Would he feel cheated of all he'd previously enjoyed? If so, could they live apart for part of the year?

Miss Winchester had never expected more of him. He'd seen Lisabeth's expression when he'd mentioned it, and knew she would.

There were a great many things to sort out. As much as he longed for Lisabeth, he also needed time to see his way clear again. She'd enchanted him. But the increasing miles and living in London town again had woken him from that enchantment. What he'd done with her had been glorious, but the intensity of his reaction to her had shocked him. It had perhaps even alarmed him. He didn't know the man who had made such passionate love. Or did he?

He was, indeed, a new man. He had to learn how to live as one. And so he needed his wits together now. One foolish commitment to a life with a stranger had been ended. He needed some repose in order to plan before he took up life with another. But how much of what he'd felt for Lisabeth was raging lust and how much was love? Or were they the same? He'd never really experienced either.

Whatever his real feelings, there were two things he knew. He knew he had to marry Lisabeth. And he knew he wanted to make love to her again. He just didn't know if their marrying was wise, sane, or sensible, for him or for her. And he'd always been sane and sensible.

“I long to see her,” Constantine said honestly. “But I want things to go easily for her and for me when I do.”

Kendall exchanged a look with Blaise.

“Bloom off the rose?” Kendall asked.

“Does distance lend disenchantment?” Blaise queried.

“Fools,” Constantine said amiably, as he closed his eyes and laid his head back on the back of his chair. “A thing this important needs time and careful consideration. I have time for both now.”

“Another letter from Lord Wylde?” Miss Lovelace asked.

“Yes,” Lisabeth said.

“Lord, the man uses up paper. So, when are we leaving to meet him?”

“As soon as we choose,” Lisabeth said, folding her letter again, and again.

Miss Lovelace clapped her hands together. “It's about time! It's been weeks. Why hasn't he sent for us before this? It's not just me prying. Your grandfather's started to boil about it. You know what that means.”

“I do,” Lisabeth said. “Constantine just wanted to be sure I'd be safe from spite and gossip. He hasn't changed his mind.”

“No, dearie, that's true. But he ought to have been clamoring for you to join him. Three weeks, it's been.” Miss Lovelace looked around the small salon, making sure no one was dusting, sweeping, or lingering nearby. “Have you told him yet?”

“It's not a thing to put in a letter, so no,” Lisabeth said.

“Has he asked?”

“Constantine is very proper. He wouldn't,” Lisabeth said in sadder tones.

“He should be dying to know. I dislike this, luv, I really, truly do.”

“No need,” Lisabeth said. “He's sent for me. He hasn't forgotten.”

“He'd better not,” Miss Lovelace muttered. “Or nobleman or not, your grandfather would have his bollocks hanging on his belt.”

“Lovey! That's a terrible thing to say!” Lisabeth ruined her expression of disapproval with a giggle. “But Grandy would, wouldn't he?”

“Aye. It's pride and worry about you that would have him haring off to London armed to the teeth if your grand lord ever left you here to face things alone.”

“There's nothing to face, and I'm never alone. Lovey?” Lisabeth asked softly, “what shall I do when I do go to see him?”

“What do you mean?” Miss Lovelace said, frowning.

“Well, the thing of it is—I'm no longer sure I should marry him.”

Miss Lovelace stood dumbstruck.

“What?”
roared the captain as he strode into the room. “What's this you say? Not marry him? Have you run mad?”

“You've been eavesdropping,” Lisabeth said.

“Of course! How else will I learn anything round here, what with everyone being so ladylike and fancy all of a sudden. What's this you say? Not marry him?”

“I've been thinking,” Lisabeth said. “Hard. You said I didn't have to marry if I didn't want to, but when you said that, I was sure I wanted to. Now? I don't know. Constantine was everything I ever dreamed about.” She sighed thinking of him. But now, though she could never forget how they'd made love in the sunshine, that glorious incident was fading from her memory, becoming indistinct, like some wonderful erotic dream she'd had about his ancestors in the deep of the night. None of it seemed real to her anymore.

“He was smart and worldly, clever and kind,” she said. “And yes, very like Captain Cunning in his looks, and like his bold father too. But he was prim and proper, and that was amazing to me since I'd never met anyone like him before.”

“He warmed up fast enough,” the captain growled.

“So he did,” Lisabeth said. “But see, I don't know now which man was the real Lord Wylde and which the one I wanted him to be. There's a big difference. I'm not cut out to be a Society lady, Grandy.”

Her grandfather and her old governess looked at her, standing in the sunlight that was coming through the windows. She wore a bright peach-colored gown, and she glowed, from head to toe. It was only her expression that was sad.

“I've read about the
ton
in the newspapers and periodicals. Miss Lovelace told me about them too. The gentlemen are charming. Look at Lord Blaise, and Lord Kendall. They're different in many ways from each other and from Constantine, but there are similarities.”

“Aye! The very thing,” Miss Lovelace cried. “They both were smitten by you, and I think you could have either of them if you wanted.”

“I don't, Lovey,” Lisabeth said. “If I wanted any gentleman, it would be Constantine. The point is that their expectations of a wife are the same, I think. But I don't want to go to parties and balls every night. I don't want a husband who needs a separate bedchamber, or who goes out every night never saying when he'll return; one who expects to live a separate life from his wife. I'd kill a husband who took a mistress, and I hear it's all the thing in circles of the
ton
. In short, I'll never marry where my heart doesn't lead me.”

“It led you into enough already,” her grandfather muttered. “Time to let your brain do some work.”

“It has, it is, that's why I'm no longer sure.” She looked at him imploringly. “How can I be sure?”

He scowled.

Miss Lovelace frowned.

“Can never be sure,” her grandfather grumbled. “Can be married twenty years and still sometimes wonder if you acted too fast, and if you acted aright. I loved your grandmother, God alone knows, even though we bellowed at each other most of the time. She was the one for me. But still, I'll tell you, when the wind blew in from the east sometimes, all perfumy, I remembered . . . Never mind what. What I'm saying is that you can never be sure. You just go where your heart tells you, I suppose.”

“Well,” Miss Lovelace said, “there are ways, little tests. Not that I'm qualified for giving such advice, for I never loved again, not after . . . well, that makes no matter. What I would do, love, is bring up the subject your grand lord is too prim to write about, and you're too afraid to put in a letter. Then watch his face carefully. If he's relieved, then you know there might be something wrong. If he looks sad, then you know he loves you truer than you do him. After, it's up to you to decide what to do.”

“And if you don't want Lord Wylde,” Miss Lovelace said, “you'll be in the perfect place not to want him. We'll stay in a fine hotel, you'll have new stylish gowns, and you can finally wear all your jewels and meet fascinating new men.”

“Aye,” her grandfather interrupted, “you have a fortune of jewels to wear in your hair, on your neck, round your waist. They've been sitting in trunks too long. Some of them are from princesses and queens, that's sure. And don't worry, no one's going to ask for them back, because they've been in the family for generations.”

“So if you decide Lord Wylde's not for you,” Miss Lovelace said, “you can pick and choose from all the gents in London town.”

“And if I don't want any of them?” Lisabeth asked sadly.

“Then any lad from hereabouts,” her grandfather said. “It's time, don't you think, my girl?”

“I do,” she said, sighing.

“And don't worry,” her grandfather said, “I'd never push you to anything. Fact is, I don't know what I'd do without you here.”

“I see,” Lisabeth said, her hands on her hips. “Then why did you go get Lord Wylde to come here in the first place?”

The captain's face turned ruddy. “Never said I'd be averse to grandchildren,” he said.

She laughed, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. “Whatever else I do,” she said, smiling, “I'll try to give you those.”

“Aye, grandchildren,” he repeated, “whose mother's got a wedding ring on her finger, mind.”

T
he gentlemen were eyeing her. They were two exquisites, paragons of fashion and credits to their valets and tailors. One actually held up his quizzing glass to study her, the other simply goggled. Lisabeth looked straight ahead.

“If they don't stop that, I'll go over with a few choice words,” Miss Lovelace told her. “It's a pity your grandfather isn't here.”

They were sitting in the lobby of a fine hotel in the center of London, waiting for Lord Wylde. Lisabeth was dressed in the most elegant clothes she'd ever worn. Her village might not be a patch on London; in fact, she realized her entire village, ancient church included, would probably fit snugly on two, maybe three, if you included the village green, of London's long streets. But the seamstress at home was a French émigrée, and Lisabeth believed there was no finer dressmaker in the world.