Sins of a Duke (8 page)

…

The play restarted and Constance’s fingers laced with Lucan’s, her heart beating in anticipation. She held her breath, hoping he would kiss her and uncaring that Charlotte would return at any moment. Constance had spied her stopping at Lady William’s box, several rows below their balcony, and had prayed Charlotte would stay there for a while. Lucan spoke so freely when they were alone, and Constance wanted nothing to interrupt it.

“Will you ignore my assessment, Lucan, or do the gentlemanly thing and confess the truth of my statement? Or is it possible you are afraid for me to have the secrets to Decadence?”

Subtle challenge lit his eyes. “You are a fearless little thing aren’t you?”

Before fear could rule her and common sense won out, she spoke. “I only thought you might want to kiss me again.” She had caught him several times glancing at her lips, and each time tension had seemed to tighten his frame. It had occurred to her after a while, that maybe he had been thinking about their kiss in the conservatory as much as she had.

“You play a very dangerous game, Lady Constance.”

She faltered at the undercurrent in his voice. “I am being too bold, aren’t I? Young ladies do not tease gentlemen about kissing them.” She hesitated and then pressed on. “I never figured you to be so prudish; you are after all the Lord of Sin.”

He threw back his head, and she loved that she made him laugh. Was she insane? This was the second time she had made such inappropriate remarks. It was as if he brought out the worst in her, or was it the best? She only knew she was certainly behaving in a most scandalous fashion. A voice in her heart whispered that it was because of her illegitimacy. She was not proper at all, so why should she pretend?

She searched for a safe topic before she did something as reckless as pulling his head down to hers to kiss him. She wouldn’t be able to bare the hurt when he rejected her. “Isn’t Her Majesty’s theatre grand? I think your cousins would be thrilled to be here.”

“They are too content with learning the secrets of Woodbury Park for anything in London to appeal.”

“
The
Woodbury Park?”

“Yes.”

It was a magnificent estate, and well known to her, possessing some of the finest acreage in Hampshire. Sitting on two hundred acres of prime grounds, with one hundred rooms, and with a lake revered for its wealth of fishes, the estate had been coveted. The earl that had owned it before had had to sell it to cover his debts. Her brother Anthony had a love for purchasing old estates and restoring them and had wanted Woodbury Park, but someone had purchased it before he had been able to make an offer. “It is a beautiful home. I certainly understand their happiness to stay in the country. I feel most relaxed and unburdened when I am surrounded by nature and such effortless beauty.”

His eyes dropped to her lips, and his sliver orbs blazed with an indecipherable emotion.

“Indeed,” he murmured.

“I really do believe you are thinking of kissing me, Your Grace,” she said on a whisper, heat curling through her at his soft chuckle and intent regard.

“You are a danger to yourself,” he muttered, then drew her to him.

The heat of his hand burned her shoulders. His gaze locked with hers and desire shimmered in the air. Something shifted over his face, and she trembled. He wanted her. Constance was sure of it. So why did he hesitate? Her lips tingled with the need to kiss him; did he not feel the same? “Why are you waiting?”

He tensed, then released her.

The hurt that pinged inside switched to annoyance when he chucked her against her chin as her brothers did. She did not want him to possess brotherly affections for her. It could not be so after how he had ravished her mouth before. Was he trying to put distance between them? After all, she was the one who suggested they kiss—twice! Shame scorched her and Constance sucked in a harsh breath. “I…I…misread the situation. I am mortified, I…I thought us being here that—”

Lucan leaned forward and his lips swallowed the rest of her inarticulate stammer. Relief eased the tension from her frame.
He wants me
. The sensual thrust of his tongue into her mouth set her body alight with wanton desire, and she eagerly responded. He kissed her slowly, deeply, without the raw passion of their first kiss, but somehow it was sweeter, more thrilling.

It was over before it even started as he gently pulled away from her. His breathing was ragged as he spoke. “Behave yourself.” Then as if he could not help himself, he placed another quick kiss on her lips and then whispered. “Revenant.”

The curtain to the box parted as he leaned back in his seat and Charlotte swept inside. Constance could feel her friend’s gaze on her, and she was thankful the box was darkened enough to hide her flushed face.

She had felt a sliver of doubt earlier that she could really make him fall in love with her. Her illegitimacy was always in her mind, though she promised herself she would not dwell on it. She had seen her brother Anthony ravaged by similar doubts when he had fallen in love with Phillipa. Who would really want to align themselves with the Thornton’s bastards? The stain on the person’s reputation and honor would be irreversible. But Phillipa had still fought for Anthony, and Constance slowly started to realize Lucan could not want to take advantage of her perceived inferior connection. Many of the young men from last season had wasted no time in being improper, but Lucan had only behaved like a gentleman. He had made no lurid suggestions, and it was at her teasing he’d relent and kissed her. She wished she knew the reasons he had not declared his intentions, but for the first time she considered her illegitimacy may truly not matter to him. She thought of all the signs Phillipa had told her that indicated a man’s interest.

He couldn’t stop staring at her. Check.

He smiled whenever she smiled. Check.

He laughed when she was being silly. Check.

He kissed her. Check twice.

She frowned in consternation. Phillipa’s exact words had been “when a man is falling in love with you, he won’t be able to stop himself from kissing you”. Constance steadfastly discounted the fact that she had hinted for Lucan’s kisses. What mattered was that he had been unable to prevent himself from kissing her.

And best of all, he had given her the secret code. She was sure that was the word he had whispered against her lips.
Revenant
. He was a charming rogue who made her head spin and her heart giddy with excitement. Constance resolved then that she would not be the one to initiate an intimate embrace between them again. She wanted to be without illusion of Lucan’s regard for her. But she certainly would discreetly allow for ample opportunities if Lucan wanted to steal kisses after he declared himself. She sighed and sank into the cushions, pleased with herself. She was determined to plan her siege of his heart carefully, for she feared she was already losing hers to him.

Chapter Eight

Lucan was dragging his feet. His plan to ruin Calydon had not allowed for him to be in Constance’s presence so much. A few days at most should have been sufficient for him to determine how he would use her to destroy Calydon. And that was the problem. Lucan knew how exactly, but he was reluctant. She had sent him a thank you note after the theatre. To which he had responded with an invitation to the Royal Italian Opera, and teased he held more secrets of
Decadence
to which she held the bartering chips. That had started a written banter between them, which had now become the norm for them between outings. He had seen her a few times since the opera, and she only drew him further into her spell. They had visited the splendid Kew Gardens and the Royal Academy of Music, where she hoped to attend one day. He learned the lady’s interests were vast and that she spoke several languages. She was refreshingly honest, and kind to a fault. Strong, too. Many young ladies would have already buckled under the disparagement of society.

Erotic visions of taking her also tended to keep him restless deep into the dark hours of the nights. The ones that scared the hell out of him weren’t the sexual visions of her riding him slowly, of seeing Constance on her knees, her lush hips and back arched in the most sensual manner to take him. No, those visions tied him in hot chains of lust and need. The ones that petrified him were when he dreamed of laughing with her, reading a book and having a lively discussion before the fire, of seeing her swollen with his child, strolling by the lake. He imagined her green eyes challenging him, teasing him, and the feelings that encompassed him had been more intense than what filled him when he thought of making love with her. The lady was dangerous. Lucan needed to keep a safe and emotional distance. No more touching, and certainly no more kissing, despite the cravings in his body and soul. He needed that damn distance if he ever hoped to succeed in ruining Calydon.

It is not your sin.

Lucan closed his eyes against the words he had uttered to Constance. He had not known he would say such a thing to her until they spilled from his lips. But they had slapped him with the truth, and it was an ugly truth he had forced himself to consider over the past few days. The sins of Calydon were not hers to bear.

Marissa’s life had been forfeited way before her time, at the tender age of twenty-two, and Calydon had been the one to execute it surely as if he had put the rope around Marissa’s throat. But was it Constance’s sin? Lucan could not seem to pacify his growing disquiet. He had been so sure of his path of vengeance, so undoubting. Now a mere slip of a girl was enough to shake his resolve. It angered him that he could be so easily swayed from years of plotting. And for what? Pleasure? To taste her lips again?

“Please, Your Grace, I beg of you. Have some mercy,” the sobbing voice pleaded. “I will find means to pay my debts, I swear to you, Your Grace.”

Lucan gazed at the pitiful form of William McFarlane, Earl of Stanhope, his late sister’s husband. Several months ago Stanhope had not been pitiful. Far from it. He had been living a lavish life style, one of wild decadence. He had gambled heavily, certain with a roll of the dice, he would regain his fortune. Lucan had extended credit to the man for months, despite his mounting debts. And when Lucan owned all of Stanhope’s non-entailed properties—his lands, horses, and possessions—Lucan called in the debts, and revoked Stanhope’s entrance into his club. Lucan had ensured Stanhope would never see wealth again.

Nothing Lucan could do would atone for his sister’s death. Nothing would bring her back. But each man that contributed to her downfall would surely pay, and Stanhope was the guiltiest of them all. He had brutally beaten Marissa until she had taken her own life to escape. Lucan held Stanhope’s gaze. “Marissa Alicia Wynwood,” Lucan said without an ounce of emotion.

Understanding was slow in coming, but when it came, all the blood leeched from Stanhope’s face, and he sunk to his knees. With a twist of his lips, Lucan turned and walked out of the man’s townhouse, deaf to his wails and pleas for forgiveness. He had only visited because he wanted the man to understand the reasons for his downfall.

Lucan exited without fanfare and jumped into his waiting carriage. His driver knew exactly where to carry him, and they rumbled into motion. No, he would show no mercy to all who had participated in Marissa’s ruin. He had already claimed vengeance on two of the men responsible for her demise. And in a very similar manner, Calydon would be the last. Lucan would not be swayed. No matter how tempting it was to pursue a different path with a green-eyed beauty.

…

An hour later, Lucan stood in bleak stillness in Kensal Green Cemetery, immune to the cold gust of wind at his sister’s grave. He stared at the carved letters on the monument: Marissa’s name, her date of birth and death—the sum of her existence. No withered flowers other than his to show anyone thought of her beyond the foul rumors that whispered of her demise.

Even now, years later, he could still unearth the whispers that had tainted her name. Marissa the pure, Marissa the lovely, had slowly become Marissa the mistress, Marissa the abandoned. Misused and abandoned by The Duke of Calydon.

When Lucan had started his hunt, old gossips had surfaced of the duke himself being her murderer and people were sure he had strangled Marissa with his own hands. Lucan heard of how Calydon had fought with Lord Stanhope in his country home over Marissa. Then later when Calydon had been spurned, they said he had killed her. Then the rumors changed, insisting Lady Stanhope had killed herself. Lucan, however, knew the full truth; he had dozens of her letters, which he read over and over again.

“You are tormented by the path you have taken,” the Reverend murmured.

Lucan grunted and placed the flowers on the grave. After saying a quick prayer, he walked off and the Reverend followed beside him silently.

“I had never thought it would be so. Is it because of Lady Constance?”

Lucan glanced at Westbrook, the second man he called friend and his partner in
Decadence
. Their relationship was very much a paradox. Westbrook was the rector at Lucan’s ducal seat in Suffolk. They were childhood friends who had known hardship and pain together. So when Westbrook had approached Lucan for the post, he had simply appointed Westbrook rector, despite Lucan’s surprise his friend desired such a position in life. He knew Westbrook understood about demons and wanting redemption for past failures, so Lucan never hesitated. Before he could even begin to formulate and express how Constance made him feel, Westbrook spoke.

“Since your return to London I have never seen you so free, so relaxed.”

Lucan grunted, unable to refute Westbrook’s observation.

“Are you still adamant on making Calydon pay?”

“I cannot release him from his debt.”

“No one forced Marissa to do what she did, Lucan,” Westbrook pointed out firmly. It was not the third or fourth time his friend had tried to make him see reason with that argument. But Lucan saw clearly enough. He was without illusions. They
all
failed her, and Lucan may have been the greatest culprit of them all, for he had not saved her. He had read the unhappiness in her letters, seen the path of destruction she had been on. But he had stayed in India, then sailed to the West seeking his fortune, thinking that was what she needed to be happy. He should have dropped everything and come home for her. Now he had more wealth than he could use in his lifetime, and she was far beyond his help. Nothing he could do would atone for her death, but he could ensure every party suffered.

He ignored the taunting whisper of his conscience proclaiming Constance to be blameless. God, she was beautiful. He did not like how she appealed to him. To court vengeance against Calydon would be to ruin Constance. Something Lucan doubted he could do. As if Marissa heard him from the grave, the yew trees rustled and swayed under a powerful gust, and the wind whistled a long mournful cry into the night. No, he could not turn back. He would not fail her so completely. But he could not bring himself to do what Calydon had done to Marissa. Woo her, bed her, and then abandon her.

Constance was too innocent. Lucan promised himself then and there, no matter the temptation, he would not make love to her. He gritted his teeth even as his body surged in denial. She was so responsive, her kisses so sweet and enticing. He hungered to be inside her more than how he had ever done with any other woman. And he feared he would never feel such a visceral desire for anyone again. But he would leave her untouched by him at least in that regard. He was a blackguard, but he was not that far gone.

He closed his eyes against the ache that bloomed inside his chest. He would have to execute his revenge against Calydon soon. He moved ahead of time, but he had to do so. Constance tempted him too much. He had to act now, or fall into her lures so deeply he would abandon his plans and fail his sister all over again.