The Problem with Seduction

Chapter Ten

ELIZABETH RUBBED HER PALMS, now damp with perspiration, across the front of her skirts. She’d done naught but pace the nursery since handing Oliver over to Mrs. Dalton. What was she to do now? She and Lord Constantine had rubbed well together the other night, but well enough that he would take her with him to Devon? They weren’t lovers. He’d confided in her, but he wasn’t ready to rely on her. Just remembering his indignant expression when she’d offered to pay his brother’s IOUs made her wince. He might not take kindly to her inserting herself his affairs, even if only for show.

She clasped her hands together. Now that she’d bluffed her way through Nicholas’s attempt to frighten her, she couldn’t risk not making the trip. He’d know. He had eyes and ears all over, or mayhap he was simply good at ferreting out answers.

Either way, if she and Con failed to depart for the country, Nicholas would use it against her.

She could make this happen. It was as simple as planting the idea and letting it grow. But how did she accomplish that, when she anticipated him being resolved against her involvement?

Her mind sifted through ways she might make a quick jaunt with her to Devon sound appealing to him. She could promise him sex, but he wasn’t quite ready to be tempted by it. Besides, they’d yet to consummate their arrangement in London, making her townhouse seem just as illicit as any hideaway in the country.

No, the promise of a tryst wouldn’t be enough. There must be another way. She continued to wear down her carpets, pausing every few minutes to peek into the crib at her sleeping son. She was still shaken by her encounter with Nicholas and her thoughts were a jumble, so much so that she couldn’t even fathom where to begin concocting a story that would end with Con taking her to Devon.

She stopped suddenly in the middle of the carpet. What about honesty? She could try telling him her quandary and trust he’d want to help her.

The idea was so foreign, she almost dismissed it.

Thinking on it more, however, she couldn’t discredit the notion that honesty could very well be the less complicated route in this case. Fatigue was overtaking her. Her creativity was depleted. Why not lay it out for him and see if he rose to this occasion, as he’d risen to the last?

When Oliver went down for his nap, she sent for a pen and a sheet of vellum.



My Lord Constantine,





I have had an unpleasant encounter with our mutual friend whilst on a walk in the park. I regret to inform you that he did not act the gentleman at all, but boorishly attempted to terrify me and asked rude questions about our association. My nerves were set upon and I fear I failed to act the lady. I would appreciate your counsel on this matter.





Your dutiful servant,





Elizabeth Spencer





When the note went off on its way, she went to work on the next step: combing through a stack of old newspapers for relevant information about any of Con’s investments. She’d improve her odds of success if she were informed. That didn’t mean she had to tell him what she knew…especially if he seemed put out by her request.

In the previous Thursday’s edition of The Times, she found what she was looking for.



Exeter’s Grand Canal project, which of late has come to be considered a farce due to the endless series of delays and mishaps associated with it, is to have a bit of success at last. Leaks in the section of canal abutting the small village of Holcombe Rogus will soon be mitigated by the production of puddle clay, which is to be fired in lime kilns set to be constructed within the month.



The perfect excuse for a jaunt to Devon, if she did say so herself.





Hours later, despite her best effort to tire Oliver with another walk through the park, it was clear from the toothless grin on his baby face that he was in no danger of falling asleep before Constantine arrived. Elizabeth bounced her son on her hip and sent an exasperated glance toward Mrs. Dalton. “Is there nothing we can do? I’ll be asleep long before he succumbs, if his happy gurgling is anything to go by.”

Mrs. Dalton’s eyes followed Elizabeth’s promenade about the nursery. “Barring a sip of laudanum, I think not.” Her hair, normally coiffed into a respectable bun, wisped around her face in an unkempt coronet. “At least he’s unlikely to wake up in the middle of the night once he does fall to sleep.”

Oliver’s downy hair brushed Elizabeth’s chin as he swiveled his head from side to side. He took in his surroundings with inquisitive eyes. One chubby fist gripped the bodice of her dress while the other beat in a staccato at her shoulder.

She took him to the window and pulled the curtain back. He was all wide smiles and coos, and even if she dearly wished he would go to sleep, she delighted in watching him study the world around him. “See there, Oliver? The sun set an hour ago. It is time for babies and children to be tucked into their beds, and I see no reason why you should be special tonight.”

He let out an ear-splitting happy squeal in response.

A knock at the door below stairs was followed by the steady thumps of Rand navigating the narrow hallways to reach the foyer. Elizabeth had no clock in the nursery, but guessed the time to be a few minutes after nine. Mrs. Dalton approached to relieve her of the squirming, wide-awake bundle in her arms, but Elizabeth hesitated. It felt wrong to leave Oliver in order to greet a man. Even if that man was not a lover in the strictest sense, she knew better.

Just seeing Mrs. Dalton come closer caused a small whimper from Oliver. Elizabeth knew then that she couldn’t abandon her baby for Lord Constantine, not while he was alert enough to know it.

Mrs. Dalton reached out to take Oliver. He snatched onto a loose lock of Elizabeth’s hair and started crying.

“Not yet,” she told Mrs. Dalton, then yelped as he yanked the curl and drew it toward his mouth, still howling as loudly as his little lungs would let him.

Mrs. Dalton dropped her arms and looked on apologetically. “I don’t think Lord Constantine will treasure Oliver’s dribble like we do.”

Elizabeth was too focused on the hot, red face of her angry son to do anything about her ruined hair. “You’re likely right. But I don’t think we should protect the man too much, either, do you? A bit of spittle won’t cause him to melt.”

Lord Constantine’s fortuitous arrival in the doorway freed Mrs. Dalton from needing to respond. “Am I interrupting?”

“My lord!” Elizabeth jerked to look at the door and yelped as Oliver’s fist yanked on her scalp. Her lips pursed in dismay. She was going to have to warn Rand not to let the man have full run of the house!

She shifted Oliver to her left arm and began the painful process of working the curl loose from his chubby fingers. Lord Constantine watched with open amusement. Heat spread along the back of her neck and flushed across her breasts. She wasn’t embarrassed by her baby. She wasn’t. But never did she feel more like a weary mother than when her hair was coated in dribble and the bundle in her arms smelled suspiciously…ripe.

“May I hold him?”

She looked up from the arduous task that had already cost her a few long strands of hair. Con had entered the room and stood not two feet from her. Close enough that she could detect the heady scent of his shave lotion over the less-subtle smell of Oliver’s wet cloth.

“My lord! Please, come no nearer!” She turned away, as if a few inches could shield Lord Constantine from the ripe stench.

He frowned, clearly puzzled. “I merely wanted to—”

Her cheeks had never been hotter. “He—he isn’t ready.”

Con’s aquiline nose twitched. “I see. Rather, I smell.”

She closed her eyes briefly. Yes, she detected the soggy warmth spreading from her son’s bottom to her arm. No, that was not her imagination. Yes, this too-handsome man was regarding her with twitching lips and glowing mirth. “I think I may have caught you at an awkward time.”

“Here,” Mrs. Dalton said, “I’ll take him and get him freshened up. I’ll ring for Nelly on the way.” She looked at Elizabeth’s sodden arm and her cheeks reddened, too. “I’m afraid these things happen, my lord.”

Con was outright laughing now. He stopped long enough to glance around the room. “Is there a bellpull?”

“It’s broken,” Elizabeth replied. “Mrs. Dalton will need to go ring for her from another room. I’ll be just a minute, my lord. Dalton, have Nelly meet me in my room.”

“Yes, madam.”

Con’s eyes darkened at the mention of her room. His laughter warmed unmistakably to something else.

She was too exhausted to understand it. Why would he still think of her in that way? When she’d just shown him a glimpse of her world when he wasn’t there?

With a last look for Oliver, who had abandoned his tears and now gurgled contentedly at his nurse, she preceded Lord Constantine from the room. She could feel his presence in the hallway behind her. She hadn’t meant for him to follow her to her room, but she didn’t doubt now that it was where he meant to go.

He ambled while she hurried. She forced herself to slow. The pressures of motherhood had clearly affected her tonight. She didn’t feel the least inclined to lure Lord Constantine into her bed—even though he seemed almost intent on following her there.

She stopped abruptly just before the stair and took a quarter-turn step to thrust her back against the wall. Con easily came abreast of her.

His eyes darted at those breasts before he caught himself. “What is it?”

Her heart skipped a beat. He was clearly coming around to the idea of bedding her. But she hadn’t forgotten that her hair was coated in spittle and her sleeve reeked of urine. “It wouldn’t be proper for you to come with me.” She made herself sound teasing, but she had no intention of allowing him into her room.

“Oh?” His gaze made a slow walk down the stairs. “I didn’t realize there was such a thing as propriety, when it comes to one’s mistress.”

Mistress. The appellation warmed her like hot tea. When she looked up at him again, however, he was laughing at her. “It’s about time I’ve bowled you over as hard as you’ve bowled me.”

Another splash of tea turned her insides sweet. She was careful not to let it show on her face, however. He was already reading her so well it left her at a disadvantage. She couldn’t let him see more than what he’d already discerned. “I thought you’d be happier exploring my sideboard than watching my maid do her level best to remove this dreadful stain from my favorite gown.”

He pulled a face. “You do manage to take all the mystery out of it. Very well, I’ll kick up my heels while you see to your toilette. And then I will get to the bottom of your note?” He raised a mischievous brow while still managing to maintain the slight furrow between his eyes.

She nodded sharply once, feeling the strain of the day weigh her down again. She’d almost forgotten the reason for his visit. What was it about him that sent her all aflutter whenever he entered the room? “I will.”

He watched her warily. “Your expression concerns me.”

There was no way to respond to that other than to lift her skirts, bob a curtsey and scamper down the stairs to her dressing room. Distasteful. That was how she felt about her objective tonight. First she must trust him with the truth—but she’d already done that, hadn’t she? And he had come. Her fragile faith hadn’t been misplaced. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind her imposition, either. Wouldn’t it be nice to feel as though he indulged her because he wanted to, rather than because she twisted him to do her bidding?

Nelly poked her mobcapped head into the hallway as Elizabeth approached from the stairs. “Is aught amiss, madam?”

“Oliver has no regard for the dearness of watered silk,” she replied with amused chagrin.

Nelly covered her smile with her hand.

Elizabeth quickly stripped to her chemise. She bathed her arms and neck, then changed into a clean chemise overlaid by a plain silk gown. Once again dressed properly, she turned to leave, but one look at her lady’s maid’s distressed face and she was reminded of her hair, now tumbled down around her shoulders, and the talc powder that had no doubt caked on her cheeks long ago.

She dutifully sat on the stool before her dressing table and let Nelly primp at her hair. All the while, she simultaneously wondered how in heavens’ name she’d managed to forget her disastrous appearance, and silently urged Nelly to be quick about her tasks.

A hurried knock at the door caused both women to startle. Nelly set down the hot tongs and scurried to open the door. “Sally! What on earth! You know better than to come to my lady’s chambers.”

Elizabeth leaned to see around her maid. It was a girl she barely recognized, up from the kitchens. The fretful maid stood wringing her hands in Elizabeth’s doorway.

Elizabeth immediately anticipated the worst. “What is it?”

The girl bobbed. “I’m so sorry to be a nuisance, ma’am, but Mrs. Dalton begged me to bring you a message. Lord Constantine—I believe that is his name, ma’am—he returned to the nursery a while ago and insisted on her fetching the little master for him.” The girl’s youthful face blushed brightly. “She don’t know what to do and thought you might want to come straightaway. That’s why she sent me, because the rest o’ the staff is sleeping.”

Elizabeth pushed her mass of half-tonged curls over her shoulder and rose. She collected the small reticule containing her face powder and a few cotton cloths—in the event Oliver decided to play the same trick on her again—and slipped past the girls and into the hall. She took the stairs as quickly as her narrow skirt would allow and paused only long enough to catch her breath when she reached the nursery door. Mistake.

Con’s voice drifted through the open entrance. It struck a chord that vibrated straight through her heart.

“Why yes, that is my nose. It’s a nice nose—well, I’ve always thought so, anyway, though I’ve never thought to hold it just like that.”

His friendly, simple chatter affected her with a sudden, sharp poignancy she hadn’t dreamed possible.

“Oh?” he continued. “No, you didn’t have to let it go… Yes, yes, that’s also my nose, but not a place fingers usually go…”

She smiled at the nasal quality to his voice.

“Yours are very little, however,” he chattered on, “just the right size for such an adventure. Ack! Not my eye! I’m particular about those. But you have little lashes, don’t you? What a fine man you are, now that I’ve had a good look at you. I don’t know why your mother ran off, do you? I think I might have frightened her away. At any rate, she never has let me have a good look at you, God knows why. You’re a sturdy little chap. Yes, bounce on my thighs if you must, but—OW! My chin!”

Elizabeth rushed into the room, intending to scoop her baby off of Con’s lap. She didn’t want him to think he’d made a mistake. But he surprised her. His large hands expertly lifted Oliver and moved him from one knee to the other just fast enough that she was left to grasp thin air.

Oliver’s chubby arms waved indiscriminately in the air. He gave her a toothless smile and sucked one fist, then the other. “Gah!” he chortled happily. “Mah! Bah!”

She stopped in her tracks. “I thought he was disturbing you.” She felt silly even as she said the words. Oliver’s cheerful patter certainly hadn’t implied vexation. And Con dandled her son on his right knee as easily as if he’d handled children all his life.

A quick glance around the room revealed nothing amiss, if she didn’t count Mrs. Dalton hovering nervously in the corner. Although, to be perfectly truthful, her nursemaid seemed to be trying very hard to hide a dumbstruck expression. Elizabeth’s belly squeezed at the soft, almost longing look on Mrs. Dalton’s face as she watched Con play with the baby.

“Not at all,” Con replied. “If anything, I’m disturbing him. I believe you said he should be sleeping.” Con’s blue eyes looked up at her. He wasn’t thinking about having her against a wall anymore. He wasn’t thinking about her at all.

Strangely put out, she crossed her arms under her breasts.

He turned Oliver around so that her baby faced him. “He doesn’t seem interested in sleep, does he? I think he wants to play.”

“Mrs. Dalton will see him to bed when he’s ready. You have no need to worry yourself about him.” When he continued to disregard her, she added, “It’s quite out of your realm to even be in here.” It was the least accusing way she could think to order him out.

What was it about his commitment to her son, and now his lack of interest in her, that made her defensive?

Con was too busy forming exaggerated Os with his lips to look up at her. “He just wants to be where the excitement is. You could never convince me to nod off right now—Ow!”

“Goo!” Oliver replied. “Goo, goo!”

“Talkative little thing,” Con muttered, but she didn’t think he meant for her to comment. She felt strangely irrelevant…and more than passingly uncomfortable to realize she was jealous of her own son.

“We should retire to the drawing room, my lord,” she tried.

“I think he’s trying to tell me something,” Con said, ignoring her statement. “Is it about the goo? Give me more hints, Oliver. I want to know.”

“My lord, what are you doing here?” she exclaimed, for he didn’t seem to have come for her at all.

His eyes darted sideways at her. “You invited me?”

“Not to the nursery.” She stressed the last word, but Con was finished with her, at least for the moment.

He watched Oliver intensely, never ceasing the rhythmic bounce bounce bounce of jiggling the baby on his knee. “I should like to take you out for a day, little chap. It’s high time we became better acquainted. What do you say? Your mother might not agree, I suppose…” Con turned his head ever so slightly to make inquiring eyes at her. “Pleeeease?”

She wanted to laugh, but she would not be charmed by yet another man whose primary interest in her was Oliver. Her teeth ground just a little. “It seems you hardly need my approval to entertain my son.” His absorption with Oliver was too similar to how Nicholas had behaved before he’d sent her packing. When would a man ever see her?

Con’s brow arched again. “Your son? I thought he was our son.” He peered into Oliver’s sunny face. “He looks enough like me, I suppose.”

She forgot her annoyance for the moment and took a step forward. If enough people agreed with Con, Nicholas would lose his advantage there. “Do you think so?”

Con laughed. “I’m fair and blue-eyed, Elizabeth. Of course he doesn’t look like me. But he does look like you.”

Disappointment coupled with her frustration. For no rhyme or reason, she preferred to think Oliver looked like Con. “No one cares a whit if he looks like me.”

“Captain Finn is dramatically dark-haired and brown-eyed. I can’t say I’ve spent any length of time admiring his features, but even I know that we’ll have a hard sell convincing anyone this baby isn’t his. You did realize that?”

Was he trying to anger her? “Of course I have!”

Then she glanced at Mrs. Dalton, just remembering the young woman’s presence. “You may leave us.”

Mrs. Dalton looked disappointed to be dismissed. Nevertheless, she bobbed and went to the door. “You’ll ring for me?” she said before pulling the door closed behind her.

Belatedly, Elizabeth realized she’d just asked to be left alone with Lord Constantine and her baby.

Too late.

Con resumed making popping noises at Oliver. Elizabeth could almost believe he’d forgotten their previous conversation, but then he looked up at her quizzically. “You were saying about Finn?”

Why should she trust him with the nightmares that kept her up at night? What was he to her? “It’s no matter.”

Oliver tossed his body full-force against Con’s broad chest without warning. Con caught him in a modified bear hug. “Whoa, there! You have some legs on you, my boy!” The room echoed with Con’s crack of laughter.

Oliver shrieked back in delight. Unbidden, a smile came to Elizabeth. She wanted only for Oliver to be happy. She must set aside her jealousy and ignore her pride. Lord Constantine had a natural way with children. He might never be more to her than that. But she could be pleased with herself as she watched them from afar, knowing she’d chosen the best possible man to be Oliver’s father.

Mayhap it was time to ask him about Devon. He didn’t seem to be ready to move to the drawing room posthaste. “I saw Finn today,” she began.

She stopped when his face tightened. Her heart seemed to turn over. Did he care?

“So you said in your note.” He sat Oliver on his knee. “I trust you didn’t get into a shouting match in the middle of the park. I believe our goal is to bore the gossips to death, not titillate them.”

She hadn’t even considered that. Had they been indiscreet? At the time it had seemed like he was hounding her; certainly they hadn’t been taking a pleasant stroll. She hoped no one had taken notice of them. Funny, as at the time she’d prayed for a kind stranger to intervene. “Not a quarrel. He did try to take Oliver from me. I would have screamed without a second’s hesitation, had he succeeded.”

Con straightened. Finally, she had his attention. “The rotter. How did you hold him off?”

She remembered Nicholas’s anguished eyes. Perhaps “take” was too strong a description. He’d wanted to hold Oliver. Would he have stolen him?

Maybe. Maybe not. She must assume the answer was yes. “I mentioned the canal in Devon to him, my lord, and relieved his mind about our dubious history. A crumb of information that places us both in the same area at the same time.”

Con went silent. He dandled Oliver by rote, clearly deep in thought. Her instinct was to fear for her son’s safety. As though Con might forget altogether he held the baby. But quickly, unsettlingly, she realized that his handling was instinctive. He didn’t need to think directly about Oliver to keep him from coming to harm.

“I wish you wouldn’t have told him,” he finally said.

Con sounded weary, not angry, but a churning in her belly sent her rushing to explain. “He already knew about the canal. He was more surprised that I knew. I seized upon that doubt and attempted to double it by…” Here was her opportunity to explain her true quandary and trust Con would want to help her. “…by telling him that we are about to set out on holiday to see it for ourselves.”

“We?” He glanced down at the top of Oliver’s downy head. “All of us? I can’t possibly afford a trip to Devon. Even if I could”—he shot her a warning look, as if to quell any offer to finance the trip—“I don’t think it’s at all the thing for a man to take his mistress on that sort of venture. Mixing business and pleasure is bound to be seen as inappropriate.”

“I don’t think so,” she said carefully.

“Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

Hm. She hadn’t. A man’s business was a matter for his wife to handle, not his mistress. Nonetheless, she couldn’t give up.

But how did she convince him?

She’d already settled on telling the truth. What was a little more truth now? “I spoke thoughtlessly to Finn. I reached a bit. But surely you can see the imperativeness of following through. I fear what Finn will think of my untruth if we don’t go.”

Con’s lips turned down. He adjusted Oliver’s gown and touched his round cheek. Then Con looked up at her with those devastating eyes and said, “We could stay here and attempt to make our relationship just as convincing.”

His voice held a gravelly hint of promise, as though he were willing to follow through…

She was close. She quelled the urge to push too much, when he’d given her the perfect opening to do so. “We could, I suppose. I don’t think staying here would be quite the same.” She walked closer to him, then turned and stood by his side. Presenting herself as unified with him, as opposed to a quarrelsome wench. “I read a bit of news in the papers that might be of interest to you. The Grand Canal Company has made headway. Exciting, is it not?”

He seemed to mentally pause, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “What kind of headway?”

Perfect. He was distracted. “Something about puddle clay.”

He formed an ironic moue with his lips. “Yes, of course. That was going to be my first guess.” He returned to cooing at Oliver.

She shrugged. “I’ll fetch the copy when we go downstairs. I saved it. I thought you might like to speak to your solicitor about the decisions that have been made by the board, and perhaps go to Devon to see the progress for yourself.”

He looked up in surprise. “You know I haven’t got a solicitor.”

She kept her face expressionless. “All the more reason to investigate their actions yourself, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I can think of nothing I would know less about than the building of a canal,” Con replied drolly.

She tried for an empathizing smile. “Don’t you care if they lose the last of your money?”

His furrow deepened. She was on dangerous ground, if his expression were any indication. “I don’t know what I could propose that would be helpful to the board—or anyone involved, for that matter.”

“You could learn.” She drawled this as wickedly as if she’d offered him lessons in seduction.

He looked aghast at her. “Why?”

And here their perspectives clashed. He was a creature of the moment, content to float along on others’ whimsy, and she made her own fortune. “To know. You don’t know the first thing now, but you could learn. Then the next time you make a decision, you may do so wisely, or at least, in an informed manner.”

He scowled. “You make me sound like an idiot.”

“What else are friends for?” She gave him her winningest smile.

He cracked a grin in return. Elation lifted her. She’d pushed him far enough that he heard her, but not so far that he was angry.

“Suppose I agree to learn about canal-building. How do you propose I do it? I can’t exactly walk around asking my friends. It would ruin my reputation.”

She laughed. “My solicitor can be made available in a trice. As for Devon, an investor like you should be welcome to observe the venture at a moment’s notice. If you are greeted any other way, then there is a serious issue that most certainly warrants concern.”

His lips pressed together as though he remained unconvinced, but his laughing eyes ruined the effect. “Should I be wary of your intelligence?”

“Most certainly, my lord.”

“I’m not without an ace of my own,” he warned her. His gaze fell to regard the back of Oliver’s downy, dark head. “Before we leave for Devon—because I don’t fool myself thinking you’re going to allow me the use of your solicitor and not demand to be brought along—I need to borrow this little one.” Before she could object, he said, “My mother is asking to see him. Trust me, it’s difficult enough to suffer her disappointment for the way I’ve gone about procreating.” He sighed and looked ashamed of himself. “Given the ‘no time a’tall’ it’s taken me to become fond of him, I foresee more than one such excursion in his future.”

Elizabeth didn’t need time to think about his request. Absolutely not. He was not going to take Oliver out of her sight. What if Nicholas harassed him? There were other dangers, too. Runaway carriages. Ruffians and pickpockets. Oliver crying inconsolably. “I need to be there.”

Con regarded her with just a touch of pity. “I can’t take you to see my mother.”

That hit her squarely in the chest. She wasn’t welcome at Merritt House. Naturally, she wouldn’t be. But it bruised her to hear him say it. “Just to your door, then,” she said. “Let me go with you across the park to your house, then wait outside. I need to be there if he needs me.” She didn’t want to risk letting Oliver out of her sight when he was in the open for all to see and grab. Nicholas seemed to haunt the parks.

Con kissed the back of Oliver’s head. A blade stabbed between her ribs at the unconscious gesture of affection. He cared about Oliver. Even if he had no reason to care about her.

She shamed herself with her pitiful jealously. She’d always been a petty, spoiled girl. Could she really be resentful of her son simply because two people loved him, and she had no one?

Even she couldn’t be so horrid. She was being foolish again, and putting feelings into her heart that might not actually exist. It was too soon for her to have anything more than a passing interest in Lord Constantine. He was handsome and kind, but that was all. His affection for her son should have no effect upon her own poor heart, so what did it matter if he didn’t care about her?

Though she couldn’t shake one little word…

Yet.





Con arrived at Elizabeth’s front door the following day at two of the clock, rapped once and waited to be let in. Why, he almost felt like a proper suitor. It wasn’t every day he went for a stroll with a pretty woman on his arm. He was almost looking forward to it, actually. After all, he couldn’t really have expected to deny her the right to join him when she’d looked at him like he might very well misplace little Oliver somewhere between her townhouse and his mother’s sitting room. Even if it did disappoint him to know she had so little faith in him, he allowed that he was unlikely to manage the baby without her.

He rapped again on the door. This business of being made to wait for entrance was an odd way of keeping one’s mistress; at least, it seemed so to him. He supposed if he were truly paying her an annuity and keeping her in style on his own penny, he wouldn’t have to haunt her steps like an errand boy.

He liked her competent manner. Even if it made him all the more aware of his own lacking. He expected a woman in her profession to laze about during the day, eating ripened berries and taking the occasional walk to improve her figure. Every time he came to Elizabeth’s house, on the other hand, it felt as though he’d arrived at the absolute worst time. Her staff always seemed to be engaged in resolving a problem, and today was no different.

When he was finally let in he had to show himself to the drawing room as the footman who’d opened the door ran off to attend to some matter of more importance than the arrival of the madam’s protector.

Maids scurried past the drawing room door as he waited for Elizabeth to join him. After a quarter hour Rand entered, causing Con to look up from the book he’d opened across his lap.

“I thought you might like to know what all of the fuss is about,” the butler said in a statelier tone than Con would have thought possible. “The young master has learned to roll over. The housemaids are in a frenzy collecting all the long tablecloths and other dangling bits that could present a danger, for I am told that very soon now he will be able to sit up and reach for them.”

A smile tugged Con’s lips. “And Elizabeth?”

“Madam is so charmed, I daresay she hasn’t left the nursery since the news was brought to her at breakfast.”

Con nodded slowly. Then he closed his book and set it on the couch, preparing to come to his feet. “In that case, I’ll go up.”

“You’ll frighten the upstairs maids half to death if you arrive unannounced.”

Con smiled. “Then you’ll have to announce me.”

Rand grunted, but Con thought he saw the man smile just before he turned and presented Con with a view of his broad back.

Con felt embarrassingly slender in comparison to the massive servant. Rand’s expansive shoulders weren’t like the shoulders of any butler Con had ever seen. He nonetheless managed to maintain his aplomb as they navigated the narrow hallways and stairs to reach the nursery.

Nothing about Elizabeth’s household, Con was coming to realize, was what he’d consider dull and normal.

“Lord Constantine to see you, madam.” Rand bowed with an elegant flourish.

“Oh, no, I—” she exclaimed, but it was too late. Rand stepped aside to allow Constantine entrance.

She froze. Instantly, Con knew why she’d objected to his presence. Just as suddenly, he knew why she was considered one of the most beautiful women in London.

She stood in the center of the room with one arm stretched toward the floor and one toward the wall, as if Mrs. Dalton and she had been measuring a distance. She wore not a hint of cosmetics. He wouldn’t have ever noticed that she normally wore the stuff, except that the freshness of her face unmarred by powder and kohl nearly bowled him over.

Her pink lips were slightly parted, as though his sudden arrival had thrown her off-kilter. Dark brown curls escaped an ivory turban wrapped haphazardly around her head. In the back of his mind he slowly registered that everything, even time, seemed to have stopped the moment he’d walked in the door.

A white-gowned little body flipped over at his feet and just like that, everything became about Oliver again.

“He just started that?” A hint of pride took root in Con as Oliver pushed himself up onto his forearms and lifted his head to watch Con with large, inquisitive eyes. The area just under Oliver’s bottom lip glistened with drool.

Con drew out a kerchief and knelt to swipe the baby spittle away. “There now, that’s much better.” He set his elbow on his knee and looked up. Elizabeth’s longing expression tightened around his gut like a fist. Why was she looking at him like that?

“He’s been trying,” she said slowly as Con rose, “but he could only flail against the carpet. That was quite adorable, though I did feel his frustration.” Her uncomfortably intimate expression was replaced by wry amusement. “Now I feel sorry for Mrs. Dalton and me. Next he’ll learn to sit up, and crawl soon after that.” She sighed contentedly.

Oliver made a wobbly reach for Con’s shiny Hessians. He leaned forward too far and caught himself with one hand before he fell onto his face. His mouth opened and closed against the carpet like a fish as he blinked up at Con. “Gah. Gah!”

“Good morning to you, too, little man. But you don’t look ready to meet my mother, so I suggest you apply your energy to a different pursuit.”

Elizabeth shook herself a bit, as if she’d been in a trance. “Oh! I’d entirely forgotten. Heavens, I’m late. Does this really need to happen today?”

Con staved off a flutter of annoyance. “Yes. She’s been looking forward to it and besides, this was a commitment. I took you at your word.” He felt bad enough about pulling the wool over his mother’s eyes without disappointing her today, too.

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “If I were a man, I would slap my glove across your cheek for your tone.”

Ah, he had been a bit sharp. Con grinned. “If you were a man, you’d be ready to leave.”

“Huh!” She shook out her skirt. “Isn’t this frock good enough for stepping out?”

“To the contrary, I think you look lovely. But do you want to meet my mother in that gown?”

She looked momentarily nonplussed. “I thought I wasn’t going to meet your mother.”

“Oh,” fell out of his mouth before he could stop himself. It hung there between them: the honest, unvarnished truth. He’d almost forgotten. How had their arrangement become so natural to him that he’d misplaced the fact that she was a courtesan?

She paled. “I’ll freshen up.”

Taking command was an odd feeling for Con, yet one he was coming to like and growing accustomed to. “Mrs. Dalton, please ready the young master for his excursion while your mistress sees to her toilette. We’re already dreadfully late, so your timeliness is appreciated.”

Elizabeth made a small peep of protest then visibly, she attempted to contain her objection to that one squeaked syllable. She appeared stricken. She hated the idea of him taking her baby. He tried not to feel offended, tried to put himself in her place. The last man to take her baby had stolen him. Was it any surprise she didn’t trust him?

Then again, maybe she did…just a little. He’d finally managed to get her to agree to this excursion. Could it be that little by little, he was earning her faith? Did she want to trust him, but was afraid?

The idea of her coming to depend on him placed so much pressure on his shoulders that he turned to the door. He wasn’t needed while they readied themselves. He’d retire to the drawing room, have a stiff drink, and try not to play out the scene about to unfold in his mother’s sitting room.

He’d feel more comfortable if he could bring Elizabeth along, for he wasn’t at all ready to manage Oliver on his own, but that was obviously out of the question. Even if he was willing to ruin his own reputation, he could hardly take it upon himself to skewer that of his brothers and his own mother. He’d never risk his mother’s social standing just because he’d feel more comfortable with Elizabeth at his side. Ruining his own life was one thing, but he refused to ruin anyone else’s.

He felt better grounded by the time Elizabeth breezed into the drawing room with Mrs. Dalton behind her. The latter carried a pristinely wrapped Oliver.

Elizabeth stopped just short of him and dared him to disrupt the confidence she’d apparently armed herself with. “We’re ready to depart, my lord. I trust you weren’t bored in our absence?”

He wasn’t about to admit he’d done nothing but think of her and the complicated yet welcome disruption to his life she presented. “Not at all. Let’s kick on, then. It’s a bit of a walk.” He looked at both women, neither whom looked dressed for a stroll. “Do you have a parasol or a bonnet or…?”

He should have known Elizabeth would take offense to his gentle nudge—he could almost hear her teeth grind. “I’m certainly of an age where I remember how to leave the house, my lord.”

There seemed no point in asking her to stop “my lording” him. She did it when she was angry, or when she wanted to put space between them. “Then let’s be off.”

The women preceded him from the room. In the foyer, they collected hats and parasols and managed to get them righted and tied on by handing off the baby between them while Con stood idly by. It would have, of course, been much easier for him to hold the baby, instead of them juggling him, but he’d inserted himself enough today. Instead he returned to worrying what would happen when he finally did reach his mother’s sitting room. Was it truly fair to lie to his mother, even if he’d made a promise to Elizabeth?

But he had given his word and with that, inadvertently, roped his entire family into his commitment. His job wasn’t yet done. Their job wasn’t yet done. Ten thousand pounds was a lifetime of being her child’s father. Not a few hours.

Perhaps Oliver was a family matter for the Alexanders, as Tony had been saying. Even if they weren’t aware of the real reason why.

Elizabeth’s hips sashayed as she took the steps to the street one at a time. He caught up to her at the walk and offered her his arm. She smiled demurely and slid one kid-gloved hand across his forearm. Stupidly, his skin prickled with awareness. She was confoundedly good at making herself desirable. He should be glad of it, else she wouldn’t have had the means to save his hide.

Instead he felt a touch of jealousy.

Mrs. Dalton trailed behind them toting Oliver. Constantine had requested a footman to bring up the rear. All together like that, their party presented a scene of domesticity, and Con again felt the bracing slap of responsibility. Too much responsibility.

Before he could scare himself with such an unwanted thought, the clip-clop of an approaching rider caused him to lead Elizabeth to one side.

“Ho, there!” the rider said, drawing up alongside them. “If it isn’t Lord Constantine and his pretty piece. That’s how I knew ’twas you, you realize, and not your brother. You’re Mr. Elizabeth Spencer to the lot of us now.” Lord Steepleton cackled to himself.

Con would have laughed, too, if such a remark had been made about one of his friends. In his current mood, however, he didn’t find it the least amusing. “You could always know me from Lord Dare by the cut of my coat.”

Steepleton paced them easily. “A bit of a dandy, that boy. You, on the other hand, don’t need fancy togs to let us all know you’re Quality. Or this pretty bird, either. How are you, Elizabeth?” He leaned forward to see around Con and gave her a look full of awareness and something more. As if he knew her very well indeed.

Those protective instincts Con had been warring with won out. He pulled her closer to him. “She’s fine,” he grated.

“Lord Steepleton, how do you do?” Elizabeth gave no indication that she’d heard Con answer for her. She did move even closer to him, though. The side of her soft breast brushed against his arm.

He felt better after that. He felt a lot better when Steepleton’s lips tightened and he touched the brim of his beaver hat.

“Well, I must be off,” he said. “Enjoy the day.” He rode away, leaving Con alone with Elizabeth.

And Mrs. Dalton, the footman and Oliver. It was feeling like a very odd day.

They made their way into the park without incident. They had only to cross the grounds and exit on the other side, a block from Merritt House. But what ought to have required a quarter hour was turning into an afternoon’s activity on its own, for every few feet, Elizabeth paused to exchange polite—or not so polite, in Con’s opinion—discourse with familiar faces.

He’d intended as much. He had to remind himself of that every time he had the urge to plant yet another man a facer. This was his declaration to the ton, the big show he’d considered putting on for them. But while he’d started the afternoon feeling like a knight clad in shining armor, with each encounter he recognized Elizabeth’s consequence more, until he could no longer delude himself into believing he was anything more significant than the dreaded bauble on her arm.

He’d always considered himself a man about town. He wasn’t universally known like Montborne, or well-respected like Bart, or feared like Antony. He didn’t have the wild reputation of his twin. But he was known. He’d always liked his distinction as the perfectly normal Alexander brother, in fact.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was recognized by all. Even straitlaced Lady Gantry, riding high and mighty on a prime piece of flesh, knew Elizabeth by sight well enough to turn her long beak of a nose and her horse in the opposite direction.

And as Mr. Tewseybury and Lord Scotherby approached, they didn’t give any indication they’d even seen Con.

“Miss Spencer,” Tewseybury intoned as he took her hand and pulled her right out of Con’s grip, “it’s been far too long. What on earth has kept you hidden? And don’t tell me it’s none of my business.”

Hearing her called Miss Spencer grated on Con’s nerves. She was Lady Elizabeth. Or had everyone forgotten?

Her laughter would have irritated him, too, if he didn’t catch the slightly strained note to it. “You must think me dimwitted if you believe I’ll fall for that, Tewsey. You, not know every morsel of gossip about one of your favorite girls?”

Mr. Tewseybury chuckled. Then he sent Con a furious look so fleeting, only the two men seemed aware of it.

Lord Scotherby elbowed Tewseybury in the arm hard enough to jostle him to the side. He deftly slipped into Tewseybury’s place. “Miss Spencer, allow me to apologize for my buffoon of a friend. But of course we know why we’ve missed you.” He, too, shot Con an evil eye. “What we don’t know is when we’ll have the pleasure of a night with you again.”

Con took a menacing step forward but stopped his advance when she placed her hand on his arm.

She patted his forearm patronizingly as she addressed the interlopers. “You must be clear when you address me, my friends. Lord Constantine will think you mean something wholly inappropriate. I wouldn’t fault him for defending my honor.” She bestowed a worshipful smile on Con. “He’s been nothing but kind to me.”

Her public adulation should have made Con feel better. Instead, he felt lacking. He should be the one to defend her, not the other way around.

“But of course I meant—” Scotherby stopped when Tewseybury got a good jab at his ribs. “Pardon my vulgarity, Lord Constantine. And my piss-poor observational skills. I was blinded by the beauty before me.” He gave Con another blazing scowl. “Hyperbole aside, we will be looking for you at every engagement. Our set is unconscionably bored. We have only youth and inexperience to entertain us, without you and Celeste to grace us with your wit.”

“You’ve left us at Mariah’s mercy,” Tewseybury said with a shudder.

“That’s what you’ve done, Miss Spencer,” Scotherby agreed. “New girls have their momentary appeal, but at our age, a man prefers a woman with a little substance to her chatter.”

“Or no prattle at all,” Tewseybury joked.

Elizabeth chuckled. Con couldn’t be more disgusted by the subject. He didn’t even try to hide his revulsion.

Thankfully, she didn’t encourage the lummoxes further.

Tewseybury looked from her placid smile to Con’s dark glower then back to Elizabeth. His head shook ever so slightly and he sighed. “Ho, there, Scoth, I see Jessica. You will excuse us, won’t you, Miss Spencer?” He bowed and blinked soulful eyes at her before tapping the brim of his hat. “Let’s be on with it, then.”

A lungful of air hissed from Con’s lungs when the men finally took themselves off. He’d never felt so tightly sprung in his entire life.

Elizabeth’s slanting glance revealed nothing of her reaction. Frustratingly. She went to Oliver in Mrs. Dalton’s arms and clucked over him for a moment, then returned to Con’s side to continue their walk.

“You’re all the rage,” he said abruptly when they’d gone about a dozen feet. It wasn’t an accusation. Not quite. He’d known she was sought-after. He just hadn’t realized how invisible it would make him feel. As if he were a well-compensated human shield that she’d placed between herself and the father of her child.

Montborne wouldn’t have felt that way, or really, any of his brothers. Any other Alexander would have brought along his own consequence.

Con was overwhelmed by her fame. “You’re beautiful, I’ll grant you that, but many women are. Why do men nearly come to blows to gain your attention?”

And—terrifyingly—was he one of them?

Was he just another one of them? Crippling, juvenile terror took hold of him, the angst of a boy just realizing the fairer sex’s existence and frightened to death he’ll never catch one’s notice.

He hadn’t even been one of her admirers before she’d approached him with her devil’s bargain. Now he had the boyish urge to steal her away, like favorite toy to be hidden from the other lads.

“My allure is in my head,” she said, breaking into his shameful and confusing thoughts.

“It’s not the least in your head,” he retorted. “I can see it plain as day.” He jutted his chin in the direction of a bold debutante watching them curiously from an open carriage. “She can see it. And that bounder hasn’t stopped looking at you.” Mr. Harcourt barely pulled his horse up short before he trotted right into a tree.

“I mean, I believe I am beautiful, and so I am to others.” She looked sidelong at him. “Does it bother you?”

“Of course not,” popped out too fast. Blast. He didn’t chase it with a rebuttal, though, for he wouldn’t credit his unintentional revelation with more attention than it warranted.

Thankfully, her answering silence helped him to avoid saying anything compoundingly stupider, like asking her to stop being so damned beautiful, or begging her to explain precisely how she used mental acuity to control what seemed like every man in the park.

It wasn’t that her dress was cut too low, or her skirt swirled too high. Nor did voluptuousness alone account for her appeal. She must be telling him the truth. When others looked at her, they saw what she wanted them to see: a desirable woman available to any man with the nerve to ask her price.

But was that visage the real her? The woman Scotherby and Tewseybury knew was a different woman altogether than the Elizabeth who spent her every moment concerned for her son. Only he seemed to know the vulnerable yet lionhearted woman she truly was.

At least he had that comfort.

“Merritt House is just ahead,” he said as they exited Hyde Park. He turned to be sure Mrs. Dalton followed them off the grounds and caught the last dozen eyes watching their departure. Though he’d meant to create a scene, he was glad to be done with being a spectacle. It had been a bold thing, taking his mistress into the open. He was proud of himself for following through, even if it hadn’t gone as he’d imagined.

At the door to Merritt House, Elizabeth’s fingers slid reassuringly along his forearm as she withdrew her hand from his escort. She cast him an overly sunny look before she went to the nursemaid holding Oliver. Con perceived the worry in her eyes, even she cheerily instructed the nursemaid, “Go along and help Lord Constantine with Oliver. I’m headed to Bond for some much-needed shopping.”

“Alone?” he asked. “You’ll take a footman. No, two.”

Before she could do more than lift her eyebrows with a fine hauteur, he turned and rapped on his door. Mr. Benjamin opened the vault without delay. He stood to the side as if to let them pass, but Con held up his hand. “Fetch Mr. Sneed. He is needed for a trip to Bond.”

Mr. Benjamin nodded once and disappeared into the foyer. Within moments the dark-skinned butler returned. “Mr. Sneed will be out shortly. Is there anything else, my lord? A small glass of lemonade for the lady while she waits?”

“Very good idea.” He was glad Mr. Benjamin had intuitively discerned Elizabeth wouldn’t be entering Merritt House. Explaining as much to the butler in front of her wasn’t high on Con’s list of things he wished to take on today. “Refreshment…and a basket. Two baskets. One for each footman. And please see Mrs. Dalton to the drawing room. I’ll collect her when I’ve seen…” He faltered. “Lady Elizabeth” was on the tip of his tongue, but confound himself, he just couldn’t say it. He shifted uncomfortably. “…when I’ve seen Miss Spencer off.” He’d been so judgmental of his peers not an hour earlier, yet here he was, doing the same. He wasn’t even sure why.

A few minutes later, she swayed away with her own footman and young Mr. Sneed dogging her heels. Blast it, even Mr. Sneed appeared enchanted.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Con turned back and entered the foyer. “Well, Mr. Benjamin, I suppose that is that. Did you ever think I would be the one to settle down first?”

The butler’s African skin concealed any flush of potential discomfiture at Con’s intimate question. “I wouldn’t have offered my opinion on it,” he said in his deep, polished voice, “but I’d have been more surprised if any of your brothers had managed it before you, my lord.”

Con blinked, taken aback. He wouldn’t have laid a bet on himself, but Montborne certainly wasn’t going to beat him to monogamy. Antony and Bart had too many obligations to tie themselves to a single woman any earlier than must be done, even to one of ill repute. And Darius…

Con supposed if he’d known to picture any of them bound in an impossible agreement with a prostitute, he’d have placed his wager on Darius. But taking on the responsibility of a child? His twin? Never.

Con had to agree he the most family-minded one out of all of them. “Good put as always, Mr. Benjamin. Now, please tell Mrs. Quinn to send up the tea tray, and have a care to include a cup for Mrs. Dalton.” Family-minded though he might be, even he didn’t dare risk an hour without the nursemaid.

He arrived in the drawing room doorway just in time to hear a peal of baby laughter. Mrs. Dalton’s soothing chuckle followed. Curious to know what amusement they’d discovered, Con paused to observe them. They stood before a portrait of the five Alexander brothers, done when they were all children. Con immediately espied his younger self amongst the brood of blue-eyed boys, as he always did when he happened to notice the thick-framed portrait at the side of the room.

His lips parted in surprise when Mrs. Dalton stuck out a gloved finger and pressed it almost directly onto his three year-old self’s face. “Who is that?” she asked in a gently prodding voice. “Who is it? Is that your papa? Do you see your papa here with all of your uncles?”

“Ahem.”

She startled and spun to face him. Her cheeks mottled red. “Forgive me, my lord, I shouldn’t have taken the liberty—”

“Not at all. Tell me, how did you know that was me and not Lord Darius?” He was genuinely curious.

As he awaited her reply, his ears rang with her words. Is that your papa? Do you see your papa here with all of your uncles?

He swallowed hard. She couldn’t have meant it in the literal sense. She knew what had transpired the night Captain Finn had made his appearance near Ellesmere. She knew Con wasn’t really Oliver’s father.

He supposed she could have meant that he was now Oliver’s papa. In which case, it would be well within the boy’s rights to know what a terrorizing little beast Con had been in his youth. Con smiled. With that upturn of his lips, he had an epiphany. He ought to start thinking of this as a fosterage instead of a swindle. That alone might be enough to calm the foreboding he felt at lying to his mother.

Well, this was a fosterage, wasn’t it? He was now Oliver’s father. He’d pledged to be there for the rest of the boy’s life. Was that any different than taking Oliver as his legal ward?

A soothing peace settled over him. Now this, this felt right.

Mrs. Dalton craned her neck to look at the portrait behind her again. “Lord Darius? Do you mean the anxious-looking little boy?”

“We are identical,” Con replied tersely. Blast. He’d managed one unfettered breath and now he was back to feeling disquieted.

When she cocked her head at that, he explained, “I wondered how you were able to tell us apart.” Now he was sorry he’d made a point of it.

She bit her lip. Her gaze slid again toward the portrait. “You have kinder eyes.”

He wanted to see if it were true, if the painter had captured an intangible difference between Darius and himself that he’d never been aware of. That seemed too intimate a moment to share with the nursemaid, however, and for some inexplicable reason, he wished Elizabeth were here instead.

“My mother is waiting.” He’d come back to the painting later, perhaps with a stiff drink, and see if Mrs. Dalton was right. It wasn’t as though he could bring Elizabeth to see the portrait, at any rate. Best to contemplate it alone.

He wasn’t sure why it mattered that he and Darius be even a little different.

Mrs. Dalton bobbed a curtsey and followed him out of the room. If she was nervous about meeting the marchioness and presenting their lie to her face, she didn’t show it in her bearing. That alone made him wonder about her past.

Con showed her to the stairs and then around the corner to his mother’s suite. The door to her private sitting room stood open.

He paused to rap once on the doorcase. The bright satin of his mother’s purple grown assured him that she was inside. Waiting. This was it. “Mother? I apologize profusely for being late.”

“Do you?”

He went in and saw that she had one eyebrow raised teasingly. Her expression elsewise appeared anxious, and he felt badly for causing her to worry. She’d feared he wouldn’t come.

“I promise I do. Have you met Mrs. Dalton? She came to help me with Oliver.”

His mother shook her head and regarded the nursemaid with warm interest. Or was she looking at Oliver?

“In that case,” Con said, eager to get on with it, “Mrs. Dalton, may I present Clara Alexander, Lady Montborne. Mother, this is Mrs. Dalton.”

His mother inclined her head. “How do you do?”

Mrs. Dalton bobbed again. “Very well, your ladyship. Lord Constantine has been ever so nice, and I’ve never been in a grander home.”

Mother winced almost imperceptibly, though her smile remained gracious. Did she know they couldn’t afford this house? Even after all they’d done to protect her sensibilities? Shame stained Con red all the way to his toes.

“Please,” she said, “make yourself at ease, Mrs. Dalton.”

The nursemaid found a chair in the corner and went to it. Oliver went with her. Con remained stiffly at attention. He hadn’t settled into his role, and then there was the awkwardness of the situation. How was this to go? Did he just come out with an introduction? To a baby? What was he even to say?

The longer he paused, the more uncomfortable he became. He indicated the child squirming on Mrs. Dalton’s lap and extended his other hand toward his mother. “I would like to formally present my son, Oliver Nathaniel Spencer, age four months.”

Mother inhaled sharply. Tears came into her eyes. “I’ve waited so long to hear those words. Oh, Con. He’s beautiful.”

She didn’t rise from her perch at the edge of the couch, but gripped her small fists tightly against her knees and looked fervently toward the baby. Con’s conscience reared. But he wasn’t anywhere near to setting up his own nursery, and she was so desperately, desperately lonely. What was the point in denying her this pleasure?

Besides, Oliver was his son now.

“Would you like to hold him?” It sounded like someone else’s question. They weren’t words he’d ever directed at anyone before.

She nodded without hesitation. Oliver was looking around the room, one fist in his mouth. He appeared adorable and alert, squirmy enough to give Con’s mother something to manage but not so edgy he wouldn’t take to being held. Con surprised himself with his confidence in his assessment. He surprised himself even more when he went over, reached out and masterfully plucked little Oliver from his nursemaid’s arms, then cuddled the lad to his chest with one arm and crossed the room to his mother.

Oliver instinctively grabbed hold of Con’s cravat and mangled it in his plump little grip. Mother’s eyes widened and Con smiled, because he supposed he had been more worried about his appearance a few weeks ago than he was today. But a drawer full of identical, starched cravats was only a few steps away in his bedchamber, and there was something delightful in the innocent destruction a small child could wreak as he explored his new world.

Mother didn’t comment on Con’s change of heart, for which he was grateful.

Stopping just before her, he pried Oliver’s grip from his linen cravat and handed down the baby. Greedily, she hugged the small boy to her. She pressed her cheek against the top of his head and drew in a breath undoubtedly laced with Oliver’s warm baby smell. “I love him already,” she breathed.

When the cuddling became too much for Oliver, she set his feet on her knees and held him up so they were face-to-face. “You’re a good lad, aren’t you?” she cooed, brushing a kiss onto his forehead. “It’s not your fault your papa has been hiding you away.”

Con didn’t really need any more guilt added to his already heavy burden, so he took himself to the side of the room to observe from afar. Mrs. Dalton also made herself almost invisible, tucking herself into the small chair she’d selected. She seemed to enjoy watching his mother and Oliver playing together.

When she caught Con observing her, she blushed and looked away.

He waited patiently while his mother fussed over the baby. In time, even Mrs. Dalton lost interest in his mother’s antics. Then, with the same effect of a crack of thunder renting the room, his mother mused, “He doesn’t look a thing like you, Constantine.”

Constantine almost doubled over in a coughing fit. “I’m sure he looks like his mother, Mother.”

“Your mistress, yes,” his mother replied evenly, without taking her adoring gaze from Oliver. “That’s true. You know, I hadn’t any idea you had a mistr—”

“Mother! For God’s sake, have a care for Mrs. Dalton, if not for your own gentility.”

She finally turned to regard him. Oliver jerked his head Con’s way, too, and flashed him a toothless grin.

“Firstly,” Mother said, looking rather baffled by Con’s prudish outburst, “Mrs. Dalton is her employee. It would be very odd for the nurse to be offended by what is surely common conversation in their house. Second, it’s perfectly normal for a man of your age to keep a paramour. Your father had dozens. I’d be more surprised if you didn’t, and to be far more frank than I ought to be—”

“Yes, you are being,” he drawled.

“—I’m glad to put the rumors to rest. Really, Constantine. How closeted do you think I am?”

He couldn’t even look at Mrs. Dalton. “It doesn’t befit a marchioness to discuss the private and very personal matters of her son’s activities,” he bit out, “nor would I care to hear more about my father’s prowess, nor a single word more about my own proclivities.”

She turned back to the baby without comment. For another quarter hour she dandled Oliver and pressed her nose to his cheek until he laughed. Quite honestly, Con hadn’t entertained the slightest thought that his mother would be so enamored of children until she’d begun pleading with him to see Oliver. Most women of her station dispensed their babies to the care of nursemaids and governesses. Had this been his childhood? He remembered very little of his father, who had died when Con was twelve, but he had fond memories of his mother as far back as he could recall. He would have been too young to remember her doting on him like this, however, and as one of the youngest, he had no memories of his brothers as babies.

“You may pretend innocence in all of this, Constantine,” she said at last, gaining his attention, “but I hold the evidence right here. Where is she? Your mistress?” She slid a satisfied glance askance at him as if she’d thrown that last bit in just to set him off again.

“Out.” He shifted to the other foot, suddenly finding the swirls on the carpet fascinating.

“Out? Out where? Out of doors? Did you leave that poor woman on the steps?” His mother sounded horrified.

“Not on the steps.” He shifted back to his right foot.

“But out of doors? You did not invite her in? Even to the servants’ quarters?”

Even Mrs. Dalton was looking at him with interested pity.

“Pray tell,” he began defensively, “how I was to ask the servants to entertain a woman whose name shouldn’t even pass their lips? They may not be blue-blooded, but they know these things ought to be discreet.”

“But she’s a lady!”

Oh, yes. Mother had ferreted out the name of his mistress and paid a call on her parents. He’d forgotten. Not that she’d needed to do much sleuthing, for the name of his paramour was all over London, just as he’d intended.

Despite her excursion to Shropshire to appeal to Lord and Lady Wyndham on his behalf, and thereby demonstrating that she truly didn’t give a fig for propriety, he would never, never grow used to speaking this frankly with her. “The topic of Oliver’s mother is off-limits from now on, Mother.”

“I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t receive Lady Wyndham’s daughter,” she replied, making it clear she wouldn’t rest on this issue, just as she’d refused to retreat on her demand to see Oliver. “It needn’t be public, but for all that is good in the world, I won’t be on unspeaking terms with the mother of my only grandson.”

He couldn’t begin to imagine what she meant to do about it. He couldn’t let her do anything, really, because her demand was so ludicrous, she couldn’t be humored even the tiniest bit. While he’d been perfectly willing to parade Elizabeth through Hyde Park at the hour when Cyprians typically stretched their legs, bringing her here, to his house, and leaving his mother and brothers to suffer the ton’s shock was entirely different. In fact, he could hardly agree to it without his brothers’ permission, as it was indeed their reputations that would suffer, if and when word escaped Merritt House. “It’s nice to learn you’re so progressive, although I’m not certain you’ve thought through how such an association could change your lives. Nevertheless, I won’t bring her here without the express consent of each of my brothers.” He was certain this would quell any more talk of Elizabeth setting foot in their home. Didn’t Mother have a care for her own reputation?

“Very well,” she replied staunchly. “I will speak to Antony myself.”

Con’s stomach twisted. That was not reassuring. What if she immersed herself in his scandal, all for the goal of seeing a baby who wasn’t truly her flesh and blood? He’d feel like the worst son imaginable if she lost the respect of her friends, all for supporting his impetuous commitments.

Belatedly, he remembered that he was supposed to be thinking of Oliver as his legal ward. That didn’t really hold up, though, when it came to the potential devastation of his mother’s position in society.

Antony chose that moment to round the corner and prop his shoulder against the sitting room door. “Did someone call for me? Oh, look. A baby.” His blue censure found Constantine, but he said nothing else in their mother’s presence.

“Isn’t he the sweetest little thing?” She glanced from Oliver to Antony and back. “Now, there’s a bit of a resemblance. He couldn’t look less like Constantine with all that dark hair, but you and Bart are swarthy compared to the others.” She squinted at Tony again before nodding her head decisively.

“Constantine,” Antony drawled, “we need to talk.”