For the Love of a Pirate (28 page)

“Aye, there's that.” The captain sighed. “Poor lad was brought up stiff and proper, and no wonder his eyes lit up when he found out there was wild blood in his veins. Must have been everything he'd secretly dreamed about.”

“After he got over the first shock of it,” Lisabeth murmured.

“And secret dreams fulfilled don't always bring happiness above the moment, that I can tell you,” Miss Lovelace said sadly.

“Aye,” the captain said.

“Did you want me to marry someone who regretted me, hid me away, or even if he didn't, passed the rest of his life ruing the day he met me?” Lisabeth asked. “Not I. I'm to blame too, you know. I should never have believed the change in him, or trusted him so soon and so completely. There, I've said too much. Can we speak of something, anything, else?” She bent her head and sorted through her pockets.

The captain handed her his handkerchief. “No,” he said, “you were what we brought you up to be: honest with yourself and your feelings.”

“And I'm as much to blame,” Miss Lovelace said. “I forgot that there aren't many honest maidens in England anymore, and for good reason, because there are fewer honest men.”

“That's not true,” Lisabeth murmured.

“Maybe not,” Miss Lovelace agreed. “But there's fewer honest gentlemen, that's for certain.”

“He didn't know which he was,” Lisabeth said. She raised her head. “Let's be done with this, please. I acted rashly. I'm glad I have you two, because you didn't insist I act even more rashly in order to save my reputation. Thank you.”

“Your reputation is still good with us, and still good at home,” the captain declared. “There's many a lad who still pines for you, and no one I know who would blame a lass for falling for a handsome stranger with smooth and studied wiles.”

“Especially if he's the image of old Captain Cunning,” Miss Lovelace said.

“He didn't use smooth and studied wiles,” Lisabeth said, remembering who had started her seduction. She'd been honest with them about everything, but that still embarrassed her too much to speak of. Perhaps one day she could. That led her to another melancholy thought. “That's over and done,” she said softly. “But surely, another man, a different man, any man that marries me, will always think I could have been more moral and will always hold it over me. Because I will not lie about my past.”

“Nor should you!” the captain shouted.

“Just let him say one word!” Miss Lovelace cried.

“The men at home aren't that stupid. And I don't care if you never wed,” the captain blurted. “Though I'd love to see great-grandchildren, I admit I'd miss you something terrible. You light up my house and my days. So if you do marry, I'd be better pleased if you married a good honest lad from home. I'm just as relieved that you left London for good. Tell the truth, I don't think a lass can trust a man from there.”

“A
gentleman
from there,” Miss Lovelace said on a sniff.

“Truth is,” Lisabeth said, “I don't think he knows what he is.”

They were quiet after that, and so Lisabeth could think about the man she was leaving. She didn't know if he'd ever leave her heart, and she didn't want him gone from her memory. She'd felt a connection to him as she'd felt for no other being. It might have been brought about by his resemblance to the dream men of her childhood, but certainly there was more to it than that. She wasn't a fool. Surely she hadn't just succumbed to her overwhelming desire for the face and the body of the man in the portrait? The real man had been beyond her imaginings. She'd fallen in love with a kindred soul, or so she'd thought. Someone wise and learned, with manners and morals and charm, yet with spirit enough to act foolishly sometimes, to play and to laugh, and yet be a man who knew right from wrong, and would never stray.

She ought to have known how impossible that was. She still didn't blame him. She wished him joy with his Miss Winchester, or another female like her, the sort he'd surely eventually marry. But she knew, in her heart, that he, in his heart, would never be satisfied with a wife and a life like that. She knew she wasn't the one, but she didn't think he'd ever know what was right for him.

In that, she felt blessed. Because she was only one sad woman, and she'd wager he was and would always be two confused men from now on.

Lisabeth stared out the carriage window but closed her eyes and mind to everything but her new resolve. She was going home, sore at heart. But she wouldn't sit and pine and wither to a disappointed old age. She'd wait her sorrow out, and then go find herself a man she could trust and desire, and then maybe, one day, love—if she could only forget Constantine. The feel of him, the taste of him, the ecstasy in his embrace, the laughter and the moments of pure foolishness she'd shared with him were too delicious to abandon for all time. So she decided she wouldn't.

She resolved to keep a proper mourning period for the dream that had died, and then keep the memory of it someplace in her heart. But she'd never let it rule either her head or her heart again. Then one day she'd be able to make a future for herself in reality, knowing it would never be as thrilling or bright as her dream. But, at least, at last, it would be something real and right.

“Miss Winchester,” Constantine said, bowing over the lady's hand.

She greeted him in her salon. The slight smile on her lips was one of triumph. She shot a knowing glance to her mother, who sat in the room while morning callers visited, as was proper. But the only guest in the salon this morning was Lord Wylde. Miss Winchester's mother had managed to hastily shuffle her daughter's few lady friends out the moment she'd heard Lord Wylde had called and was waiting in the hall.

Miss Winchester had suffered since she'd last seen him. Her mother had shrieked when she'd heard of her daughter's decision to let him go. Her father had been beyond fury. But the notice of the canceled engagement had been put into the paper when Lord Wylde hadn't come back to plead for a reprieve.

“Are you mad?” her father had thundered when he'd heard the news. “Your good blood will wash out his bad. And this is the nineteenth century. Who the devil cares about yesterday? He's one of the most eligible men in London town, and would be if his father had been a . . . cannibal!”

“Go see the slut who turned his head while he was gone,” her mother had advised her. “She's no one, a country nobody, I've asked. Go see her, and let her know what damage she's done—and what will be done to her if she stays with him. The
ton
will not accept her, and that will destroy him.”

“How can I forgive him?” Miss Winchester had moaned, her hand to her forehead, because she doubted she'd be asked to.

“Forget it. Every man has a moment of madness,” her father had commented, earning himself a sharp look from his wife.

Miss Winchester had definitely suffered. But now, here was Lord Wylde again, bowing over her hand. And gossip had it that the strange woman from the countryside had left town. “I'm pleased to see you again, my lord,” she said, with heartfelt sincerity.

“Are you?” he murmured. “I wonder. You see, my dear Miss Winchester, I've come here to scold you, and I don't know a female alive who'd welcome that.”

Her smile grew broader. “Scold” was such a playful word for a gentleman to use with a lady, and he didn't look at all angry or annoyed. “Whatever have I done?” she asked in a teasing way.

“You've interfered in business that was none of yours,” he said coolly. “You've hurt an innocent female's feelings, and I believe that while you were at it, you've also traduced my name.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said, as her mother's head shot up.

“Well, you should,” he told her. “We ended our alliance because you couldn't endure my family's past reputation. I understood. We parted friends, I thought. And that, my dear Miss Winchester, ought to have been that. What motivated you to try to end all my future alliances?”

“She was clearly not worthy of you,” Miss Winchester said, growing red-faced.

“She was worthier than I am. Her family's reputation is spotless. And even if it were not, what business was it of yours? We no longer have a connection, Miss Winchester. What sort of nonsense was it for you to go to Miss Bigod and tell her that I aimed for a future in politics? And what sort of spite to infer that if her name were linked with mine, my plans would fall to dust? All untrue, all surmise, you didn't even know what my plans were for myself, or for her.”

“Yes I did!” she shot back. “You were seen kissing her!”

“I see,” he said. “And this offended whom? Public morality? In this day and age? I doubt it. You? Why should it?”

“I'd hoped . . .” she said, and paused. “When I considered matters at length, after we'd agreed to part,” she went on, “I thought I had been too hasty.”

“You weren't,” he said.

His face became expressionless, but there was a dangerous glitter in his dark eyes that she'd never seen before. He towered over her, and cast a shadow. She suddenly remembered that she had let this man go because of his pirate forebears.

“There's no question of a reconciliation between us,” he told her. “But I guarantee, Miss Winchester, there is definitely a question of a libel suit, or perhaps one of harassment, or maybe neither, but at least a good deal of gossip about your actions in the highest circles of the
ton
. I may not aim for a political life at the moment, but I have many friends who are so occupied. And even more flighty fellows who live for rumor. So I warn you, my lady: no more of this. Forget me, my diversions, my life and my plans, or be prepared to have your own life and motivations examined by everyone in London town.

“And ma'am,” he said to her mother, who was standing now, her mouth slightly open, “I beg you to counsel your daughter wisely in this. I don't care to be the subject of vile rumor, and your daughter, I know, cares for it even less. Good day, ladies. And good luck.”

He turned, and left them standing there. As he reached the front door, and a footman handed him his high beaver hat, he could hear them begin to berate each other. He clapped on his hat, and then, at last, he smiled.

But not for long.

“You're terrible company,” Blaise said.

“No fun at all,” Kendall agreed.

Constantine waved a hand. “Then go. No one invited you, no one's holding you here, and I assure you, no one cares.”

His two visitors exchanged glances.

“Stupid insult,” Kendall said. “Not creative or funny. Might be if you were jug bitten, but you're not. Unless you've drunk yourself into the blue sullens, that is. That happens. Get very happy, and then so miserable you could die, and the more you drink, the worse it gets.”

“That, we could understand,” Blaise said. “If you were, we'd leave you in a happy, or unhappy, stupor. But I believe you're stone sober, and have been for days; in fact, your face even begins to look like a stone. Unshaven stone, that is. Obviously, you haven't let your valet near you in days. You look ghastly.”

“Thank you,” Constantine said, staring into the fire crackling in his hearth. “Then go away so you don't have to look at me.”

“Can't leave a friend in distress,” Kendall said sorrowfully. “Not done.”

“Do I look as though I'm in distress?” Constantine asked, from where he lounged in a deep chair, as he had every evening this week.

His friends gazed at him.

“Actually, no,” Blaise said. “You look beaten, defeated, drowned, and dead. A man in distress has some energy, he at least struggles to live.”

Constantine chuckled. It was such a strange rusty sound coming from a man who had been brooding for days that his friends cocked their heads.

“That's what I've been doing,” he said, sitting up straighter. He ran a hand over his stubbly chin and then through his hair. “Lord! I didn't realize how long it's been. Even I'm tired of myself. Gads. I don't know why you put up with me. Why do you, by the way?” he asked curiously. “And don't say it's what friends do. I want to know why you are my friends. Honestly.”

“Honestly?” Blaise said. “That's difficult for me. But in truth, I suppose because you have a sense of humor. You've always been fair, and always been honest with me. I don't know, Con. I met you years ago, and liked you, and have had no reason to dislike you since.”

“Even though I'm straitlaced, and hard-shelled?”

“Wouldn't say that!” Kendall put in. “I agree with Blaise. Everyone knows you're a bit of a stick. But you know? Truth is, not really. I mean, think on. You never ratted on us and our nonsense at school. Never lectured us then, or since. Thing is, you try to live like a parson, but you aren't one. Not at heart, I don't think. Couldn't stand one of those.”

“Kendall has it exactly,” Blaise said. “You're a good friend, Con, and we hate to see you like this.”

“So do I,” Constantine said. “But how would you feel if you were raised a tortoise, only to discover you want to leap like a hare? Bad analogy,” he said. “The point is that I got to this great age and only just discovered what I am. I wasn't really happy before.”

“You're overjoyed now?” Blaise asked.

Constantine chuckled again. He stretched. “I will be. But, I think, at this point, I need your help.”

“Always ready,” Kendall said.

“Be pleased,” Blaise said. “How?”

“I have to do something foolish. Daring. Dangerous. Even stupid. But I have to do it to make a point. Care to join me? But wait! There really may be danger involved, and if I see it coming, I'll ask you to leave me so you aren't involved.”

“Going to kidnap Lisabeth!” Kendall crowed. “Capital idea!”