The Problem with Seduction

Chapter Sixteen

WHEN CONSTANTINE AWOKE the next morning it was to realize three things: he’d never had a liaison as intense as the previous night’s, he was starved, and Elizabeth was gone.

Smugness and a touch of embarrassment flowed through him at the realization that he could hear her in the next room seeing to Oliver and Mrs. Dalton. Without a doubt, the sound of their lovemaking had drifted through the inn.

Of all the places to have finally succumbed, when in London she let a house with a dozen private rooms…

He was grateful Lord Wyndham had chosen to leave.

There was nothing to do for it but to pack his things, have a hearty breakfast and move on before he encountered anyone else he knew. A glance around the room showed it hadn’t been disturbed since the night before. No fire, no tray of cold, untouched dinner, no trunk with his fresh change of clothes. That must have been delivered to Elizabeth’s room. He grinned. If there’d been a knock at his door, he certainly hadn’t heard it. But he very much doubted any servant would have had the gall to even attempt entry.

Pulling on his shirtsleeves, he tucked the tail in halfway and tied the strings at his neck. Then he ran his hand through his hair and left his room to knock on Elizabeth’s door.

After an initial scuttling, he was met through a six-inch crack by the blushing face of Mrs. Dalton.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dalton,” he said in a teasing tone, and enjoyed the way her breath expelled in soft, reprimanding tsk. “Lovely day, is it not?” He was feeling rather pleased with himself this morning. Yes, he was. He supposed he ought to be discreet, and not bandy his conquest about like this, but Elizabeth had paid him to make it public, had she not? And he wanted his success to be recognized. He’d made Elizabeth his last night and he had no doubt in his mind that Elizabeth knew it. Given the thinness of the walls, everyone must know it.

What would happen between them next, he couldn’t say, but then he’d never been one to think too far ahead. It ruined the surprise.

Mrs. Dalton cleared her throat. “It is, my lord.”

He did like making Mrs. Dalton blush, but there was no call to be boorish, and if he was making her truly uncomfortable then he must stop. He gifted her with a perfectly bland smile instead of the beaming, cocksure one he wanted to flash. “Is my trunk in there?”

Relief relaxed her face. “It is, my lord. Would you like me to bring it over?”

As if he’d let her! He’d sooner have her darning his stockings. “It’s far too heavy. I’ll fetch it myself—” He braced a hand against the door to push it open, but she held fast. He lifted an eyebrow. “Mrs. Dalton?”

She didn’t budge. “Madam is occupied at the moment. If you’ll wait but a quarter hour, I’ll have the trunk brought over.”

There was nothing Elizabeth could be doing that involved parts of her that he hadn’t engaged with last night. He stepped forward and Mrs. Dalton instinctively stepped back. The door slipped open another few inches, just enough to give Constantine a view of Elizabeth reclined against the bedframe with Oliver snuggled against her shoulder. She looked up. Her eyes caught his and she smiled.

A wave of possessiveness socked him hard. It fair knocked his breath out. She looked nothing like the siren he’d seduced last night. She was a benevolent, adoring mother in perfect harmony.

An emotion he’d never felt before filled him so full he felt as though he might burst with it. She looked so beautiful, like the Madonna. Morning sunlight even shined upon her from the open window.

If any woman had ever made him want to protect her more, he couldn’t remember it.

Mrs. Dalton swiveled her head back to look aghast at him. “My lord, please! She’s still abed.”

His first attempts to reply were nonsense syllables. He felt a need to cross the room and sit beside Elizabeth, to become a part of the magical painting she and Oliver created. His son and his mistress. But he realized the inappropriateness of his intrusion and the lack of right he had to insert himself and he retreated a few steps into the hall. With an abrupt nod, he tore his gaze from the surreal image and turned back to his room. “Send it as soon as you are able.”

He returned to his room grudgingly. It had changed since he’d seen it last. It was cold. A room and a bed for a man who’d needed little else. Now it felt like his purpose was in the next room.

Impatient to return to her—and still decidedly hungry—he paced while he waited for his trunk to be brought over. Finally, a rap on the door ended his misery. He performed his ablutions quickly and donned a new set of clothes, then gave his boots a cursory wipe with an old polish rag and set back for Elizabeth’s door.

This time, she answered it herself. It took all his control not to gather her in a tender embrace and cover her lips with a sweet good morning kiss. He would stop to wonder at this sudden rush of feeling, but it was too heady, and her gray eyes too soft and adoring, for him to want to ruin it with an exploration of why.

“Good morning.” His voice sounded rough. Was he nervous? Ridiculous. Yesterday he hadn’t even wanted to talk to her. What a difference her yielding to him made. “Have you taken breakfast?”

“They brought it up earlier. I imagine you were still asleep.” Her eyes twinkled. She knew he’d been, because she’d left him sprawled across the narrow mattress, the minx.

“I’m not quite awake even now,” he admitted. In fact, he’d very much like to slide under the covers with her…

She made a moue. “Is my lord a slugabed?”

“Until I’ve had my morning dish of coffee, yes.” He attempted to peer around her. “You wouldn’t by chance have a leftover slice of toast?”

“If we did, it would be an impenetrable crust by now. Perhaps you should take your breakfast downstairs in the main room while we complete our packing.”

The thought of leaving her again, and while she toiled no less, didn’t sit right with him. “Why don’t you join me and I’ll have one of the maids sent up to help Mrs. Dalton.”

Elizabeth’s features seemed to soften even more, until her adoration transformed into a glowing approval that made him feel both ten feet tall and terrified at the same time.

What was he doing?

She apprised Mrs. Dalton of their plans while he kicked his heels in the hallway. Then she stepped out with him, drew the door closed behind her and looked up into his eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly, and came onto her tiptoes to brush a kiss along his jaw. That sweet gesture stole his heart, for finally, finally, she’d appreciated him, instead of seizing back control.

He offered her his arm and led her to the carpeted stair. When they came to the first landing, she laughed, a giddy, delightful sound, and he raised a brow in question. She shook her head. “I don’t recall any of this, though we must have come by here on the way to your room.”

Her bold way of speaking should have cemented her place in his head as less than a lady. Instead, he’d grown inured to her frank language. His Lady Elizabeth had a brazen way of speaking. He liked it.

It didn’t hurt that he didn’t remember any of the wall hangings or polished banisters, either. The red carpet runner beneath their feet might as well have been rolled out that morning. “I fear my memory isn’t what it used to be, either,” he said, looking to continue her easy, flirtatious tone. “I can hardly recall anything from last night at all.”

She tapped his hand playfully. “Then I shall have to help you remember. Where would you like me to start? I have it etched in my mind quite clearly.”

He stopped one step lower on the stair than she and turned to her. He took her mouth in a deep, languid kiss. She smelled like flowers and baby and buttered toast. She kissed him back with the same fervency he felt, even lifting her hands to his hair and cupping both sides of his head until he had a mind to turn them around and let breakfast become a distant thought.

But he pulled back. Despite being breathless, glassy-eyed, and hard as a rock, he couldn’t take her back to his room. He’d feel sordid. Actually, now that the moment had passed and she was watching him with inquisitiveness and that same hopeful worship he’d waited so long to see, he felt rather like a cad for accosting her on the stair where any passerby might have seen.

“Forgive me,” he said, turning back, his hand instinctively reaching for hers and placing it again on his arm, “it appears I do remember certain events after all.”

He caught her smile, but she said nothing more. In the dining room, two plates were set before them almost immediately, along with a pot of tea and his blessed coffee. He tucked into his meal. It would be hours before their next stop, and then another half day of travel until they reached Devon.

He didn’t think that was at all the reason he was famished.

Elizabeth ate in dainty bites compared to his shovelfuls of eggs and kippers, but when he looked up again, her plate was clear. She sipped at her tea. Over the rim, her eyes traveled around the room. It shouldn’t have surprised him that she’d enjoy watching strangers go about their morning. Londoners like themselves were naturally drawn to people. Certainly, he spent enough time at Will’s doing the exact same thing that he couldn’t help but feel a kinship with her for it.

“Anyone of interest?” He set down his fork and took up his coffee. Bliss.

“That depends on who you find interesting.”

“Maybe I want to know who you find interesting.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

She smiled, not taking her eyes from whatever had caught her attention. He looked over his shoulder and immediately saw a young mother attempting to feed two unruly children at a trestle table in the corner of the room.

“It looks like she could use some help,” he observed, and didn’t miss the flash of approval Elizabeth shot him. He sat taller in his seat. He might never know why she’d finally unbent for him, but by God, it felt good to see her appreciate him at last.

She suddenly became intent upon the act of pouring out another cup of tea. “What are we about today, my lord?” she asked without looking up at him, for spooning sugar into her tea was apparently too absorbing to share her attention with him. “More driving, I suppose.”

He savored the satisfaction of her being shy around him. She saw him. As a man, not a pawn. “We have a full day of driving left. I trust you’re up to it?”

Her tea must be syrup by now. She sipped from it and he laughed when she pulled a face. “What?” she asked.

He grinned and shook his head. “Nothing. Today will be a dull day indeed, but you may look forward to tomorrow. We’ll ride out to the canal then and see what there is to see.” He didn’t divulge his skepticism with that. If her solicitor thought he should see the project himself, then he would go, but in all truthfulness, he didn’t feel the least optimistic about it.

She took another sip of tea, grimaced, and topped off her teacup from the pot. “Have you decided where we’ll stay?”

“Now that I don’t know. There is an inn in Brixcombe, the Hound and Hen, but…” He didn’t like the idea of taking Elizabeth to such a public place, where she would be vulnerable to the open stares and scandalized judgment of his neighbors. Just like here, but with people he knew.

“If I might make a suggestion,” she said, and he almost laughed aloud. Since when had she been bashful about offering her opinion? Did she see him as a partner now, rather than a hired mercenary who could be ordered around?

He gestured for her to continue. “Please do.”

“Lord and Lady Trestin have a small cottage on the outskirts of town. I believe it was once the vicarage. We may be able to stay there, with only a small inconvenience to Lord Trestin.”

Ah, there was the wily Elizabeth he’d come to esteem.

“The vicarage, you say? You don’t mean the old Amherst property? Isn’t that a crumbling ruins of a place?”

An emotion he couldn’t quite identify flashed across her face. Sadness? Anger? Disappointment? “It was, but not anymore. Lady Trestin and I put it to rights earlier this year.” Another vulnerable flicker of melancholy. “I believe we’d be welcome there. Lord Trestin might even be persuaded to send down a few servants, if you asked it of him.” She regarded Con expectantly.

He couldn’t possibly afford the upkeep of an entire cottage even for a few days, with personal servants, too, but she looked so hopeful that he set aside his apprehension. “I’ll send a runner ahead of us. I suppose we should kick on, then, if we’re to arrive before dinner. Lord Trestin is notoriously fixed on taking his meal at six of the clock, if I recall correctly.”

Her answering laugh crawled along his spine and reminded him too well of the previous night. “Trestin has improved in many ways since marrying my friend, but he hasn’t changed that much.”

Con rose and went around to help her with her chair, then turned back and flipped the innkeeper a coin. It felt like it lightened his pockets by half, but he tried to put it from his mind. Lord Trestin was a good sort, if Con recalled correctly. He might even accept an IOU if it came to it. But in the back of Con’s mind played the knowledge that she could afford to open a cottage for a week. Money was like air to her, a commodity she used without thinking about.

As she regaled him with a picturesque description of a place he remembered as barely more than a crofter’s hut, he realized that it wasn’t just her gobs of money that made her richer than he. She lived life, while he’d only been passing through. Had he ever done more than accept what was given to him? Her tale of the cottage restoration left him wondering. He’d tried to be useful, what with sinking his money into the schools and making the odd investment, but he’d never done more than draft a bank note.

She seized opportunity. She lived. Her situation wasn’t one most women would want, but she had friends, and even a purpose. She’d made the best of her lot and established herself at the top of her profession. What had he done, but dragged himself from one day to the next?

He wanted to be part of her vivacity. But he couldn’t, so long as he felt like a hanger-on, as he did whenever the topic of money came up. He could almost feel the handful of coins in his purse rubbing together like dry kindling.

Last night had been an aberration. He’d felt like a king for a time, but he should have known his lack of consequence would catch up to him. Her newfound adoration only magnified his shortcomings.

If she had any indication of his maudlin thoughts, she didn’t show it. She touched his hand to punctuate her sentences and granted him warm looks when he remembered to make noises at the appropriate places. Montborne’s fear that she’d been manipulating him looked ridiculous in light of her new adulation of him.

No, she wasn’t the problem. He was. If he was to continue on with her—and by God, he meant to—he must do two things to be worthy of her: find a way to be self-sufficient and prove to her that he had as much purpose in life as she did. That she could count on him…even if such a promise sent icy chills through his veins.

But that was how he’d come to be unworthy of her in the first place. He was eight and twenty years old, for God’s sake. It was time to act like a man, or else he would end up alone like his oldest brother—and despite Montborne’s protestations to the contrary, the last few months of his moping about the house belied his professed love of being unfettered.

All Con had to do was convince Elizabeth that he was more than the convenient, insolvent clod she’d needed between Captain Finn and herself. Then she’d keep looking at him with that trusting gaze and he wouldn’t feel like such a confounded fraud.

He estimated he had until the end of their holiday to improve himself. If Montborne’s experiences were representative of the whole, women were only blind to one’s faults until the novelty wore off.

He grimaced. He’d have to do better than “best his blockhead of a brother” for his sense of purpose. That was a low bar, indeed.





After another long day of being jostled, they reached Brixcombe only an hour before dinner. Elizabeth closed her pocket watch and tucked it into her reticule. Lord Trestin wouldn’t be enthusiastic about their tardiness, but it couldn’t be helped. This late in the year, the roads were in poor shape from all of travelers escaping London’s insufferable heat.

She pressed her back against the squab and brushed aside the window hanging. From his rear-facing seat across the carriage, Con watched her with open interest. She paid him no mind and craned her neck to see beyond the window. In the few months since she’d left, Brixcombe hadn’t changed a bit, but then this sleepy village nestled just beyond a horseshoe-shaped ring of surging cliffs likely hadn’t changed in four hundred years.

A commotion from the top of the carriage lasted just long enough for her and Con to exchange worried glances. Then the horses drew up suddenly and Elizabeth reached her arm across Mrs. Dalton’s chest, as if she could stop the force of a grown woman and four-month-old being catapulted across the carriage.

Luckily, they weren’t tossed from their seats. Con threw the door open and jumped out. Moments later he returned, bounding into the carriage with the easiness of a man born a dashing rake.

Elizabeth didn’t pause too long to admire his agility. “What’s the matter?” she asked before he had time to settle.

“James, the runner I sent ahead, waved down your coachman. Lord Trestin has extended an invitation for us to stay at Worston rather than at the cottage.”

Elizabeth did her best to hide her disappointment. “That’s very kind of him.”

Con nodded and tapped his knuckles on the coach ceiling. The horses pulled forward and once again, Elizabeth whipped her arm across Mrs. Dalton and Oliver. Con shot her an odd look but then, he couldn’t truly understand the innate need she felt to protect her child, even when her attempt would be futile if put to an actual test. “I take it you’d rather stay at this cottage you spoke of this morning,” he guessed.

Her gaze darted to her lap. Seeing the cottage would have been lovely, though she didn’t think her impulse to stay there was purely for sentimental reasons. It would have been so much more private than the Hound and Hen or Worston. “I don’t want to be a bother, and of course I would be if he were made to open the cottage just for us. Worston is a fearsome place. Have you been?”

Con cast her a commiserating look. “I grew up next door, so yes, I do know what a monstrosity it is. I wondered, though, if it is the thought of staying on with Trestin himself that has brought on your obvious regret. I don’t know him as well as you might think, seeing as how we grew up neighbors, but I can say that he isn’t the easiest man to talk to. I never felt slighted in the least to know that he preferred Montborne to me, though Trestin and I are of an age. Antony and Bart have always had their secret language, and Darius and I were conveniently paired. Montborne was welcome to him.”

She frowned. “I like Lord Trestin very much. He can seem cold, but he is kind to me.” It hadn’t always been that way, but she didn’t see the benefit in confirming his poor opinion of Trestin.

“I suppose he must have a quixotic bone in his body. I’m still flabbergasted that he married—” Con winced. “Er, your friend.”

She smiled though his honesty scared her. He meant that Celeste hadn’t been worthy of Lord Trestin. It was only the truth. Still, thinking of him marrying Celeste in spite of her past gave Elizabeth a kernel of hope. Maybe she exaggerated the impossibility of Con’s ever marrying her.

“They suit each other very well,” she said, careful not to force too much hope into her words. “He is a steady, dependable sort who is faithful to his family and friends. But,” she allowed, “he doesn’t have many of those.”

Con’s nostrils flared. Why? Because he wasn’t known for steadfastness?

Or was he jealous?

He forced a smile to his lips. “Then you shall have to reintroduce me.” It sounded, just the teeniest bit, like a warning.

Her belly fluttered.

The carriage began the steep ascent to Worston. Oliver slept against Mrs. Dalton’s breast. Elizabeth smoothed his hair. She’d cherish these last few minutes before pleasantries were required of her. That would have been a benefit of staying at the cottage: it offered a retreat to collect her thoughts after a day of being subjected to Celeste’s eagle eye.

She caught Con’s gaze. Another benefit? Privacy.

The carriage rocked forward and stopped. Elizabeth lightly touched the back of Oliver’s fist as she waited for the stairs to be set down. Did Worston have a nursery? It must. All great houses must be prepared for the eventual arrival of the heir.

The carriage door opened, letting in a blast of sea air, and she allowed Con to help her down. Lord Trestin was already outside and standing before the formidable white granite steps that spilled from the front door to the impeccably manicured lawn. He waited for Con to escort her, but she saw the question in his amber-colored eyes even from ten paces. What were they doing here?

“Welcome, Lady Elizabeth,” he said, taking her hand, and though she might have expected him to use the name she’d been raised with, it still startled her. Beside her Con stiffened, as he had when he’d seemed jealous earlier. Though why Lord Trestin using her formal name should disturb him, she had no idea.

“Thank you.” She withdrew her hand from the reassuring grip of the man who had taken care of her when her own brother, a man of God, had never so much as sent her a letter. “You’re most kind to invite us here. We would have been comfortable enough in the cottage, I should say.” She smiled to take the edge from her admonishment.

“I wouldn’t hear of it. Not when there are so many empty rooms here.” His amber eyes darkened, perhaps at the thought of his sisters, who had filled Worston’s bright hallways with friendly bickering and the occasional tantrum, until they’d set out on their own after the last London Season ended.

The butler appeared at the top of the stairs. He took one look at Mrs. Dalton and the baby and scrambled down in an agile display at odds with his years. Before Elizabeth could exchange a word with Mrs. Dalton, the young nurse was whisked away. Two footmen materialized and began unloading the trunks and hatboxes.

It seemed Elizabeth really did have no choice in the matter. They would benefit from Lord Trestin’s hospitality, whether they wanted it or not.

After giving her one last questioning look, Trestin turned his attention to Con. They touched the brims of their beaver hats and sized each other up. Celeste would have laughed at their bluster, but Elizabeth had always preferred to observe without drawing attention to herself. Con’s earlier description of the viscount and their childhood left her curious.

“I trust you arrived without issue?” Trestin asked.

Con nodded. “Brixcombe seems exactly the way I left it. Time stands still here, doesn’t it?”

A twinkle came into Trestin’s eye but he didn’t smile. “It did.” Then he caught Elizabeth’s smile and cleared his throat, perhaps moments away from returning her chuckle—nothing he would want to do too soon in front of a virtual stranger. “Lady Trestin is resting,” he said, “but will be down for dinner soon.” His tone turned scolding. “I know that last leg from London stretches interminably, but you’re late. Nordstrom will set you up in your rooms, but I fear there is little time for ablutions before you will need to join me in my drawing room.”

Elizabeth tugged Con’s arm. “Heavens, if things are that dire, please see me in now. I won’t be down to dinner in this dusty gown and by God, I won’t keep Lord Trestin from his schedule.”

Trestin smiled his first real smile since they’d arrived. “Your consideration is appreciated.” He had very little room in his world for exceptions, but he did know how to laugh at himself.

Elizabeth bit back a rejoinder lest Con think she was flirting. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. She hadn’t warmed to Trestin as quickly as Celeste had, but once she’d learned to recognize his wit she’d found she could banter with him endlessly. That was before he’d married Celeste, and before Elizabeth had concerned herself in any way with rules of propriety. Flirting with one’s best friend’s husband showed poor form. She cared about that now.

They followed Trestin up Worston’s granite steps and into a foyer. It opened to an entryway lit by windows built into the supporting structure of a massive onion dome ceiling. Con’s childhood memories likely didn’t extend to an appreciation of Byzantine architecture. He must be seeing it all as if for the first time. He didn’t make any murmurs of appreciation or gasps of surprise, though, as she had when she’d first entered Worston, but he did tip his head back to examine the fresco painted on the inside of the dome and scuffed his boot along the black and white tile floor.

The next quarter hour was a blur of fabric and ribbons as Elizabeth doffed her traveling gown and tidied up her simple chignon with the help of Mrs. Dalton’s agile hands. Belatedly she realized Oliver would have to be fed. She then spent another quarter hour giving him milk and bread and rocking him to sleep—and feeling horribly derelict for her lapse. It wasn’t that the nurse couldn’t handle Oliver’s meal, but the fact that Elizabeth had forgotten. One night with a man and she was already slipping back to her selfish ways? It couldn’t be borne.

After turning him over to Mrs. Dalton, Elizabeth fairly flew down the steps and arrived in the doorway of the drawing room at one minute past. Conspicuously, Lord Constantine was absent. Where could he be? He didn’t have a baby to feed.

“You’re late,” Lord Trestin said, rising and giving her a stately bow.

Celeste, too, rose. She laughed at her husband. “At least I’m not the only one.” Then she crossed the room and reached for Elizabeth’s hands. “Dearest, it’s wonderful to see you again.”

Elizabeth stepped back to see her friend better. “Marriage looks well on you.” She took in Celeste’s modest evening finery and artfully styled yet simple curls. It seemed Celeste had truly left behind her common origins. If they hadn’t been best friends for ages, she might have been wary of the beautiful lady before her. “How is country life?”

Celeste smiled demurely. “Perfectly bland.” She arched a lascivious eyebrow at her handsome husband. “Sometimes.”

Perhaps the courtesan wasn’t entirely suppressed.

Lord Trestin cleared his throat. “She means we’re busy from dawn until dusk, as she’s taken it into her head to redecorate every room in the house and I can’t seem to receive immunity from the list of tasks required to please her.”

“I exhaust him,” Celeste drawled. “That is what he means.” She looked sidelong at him as if expecting a certain reply.

He was blushing. Elizabeth almost chuckled aloud. But then he drew himself up and, with a great show of fortitude, drawled, “There is only one way to get an heir,” in a velvety voice that sent shivers down her spine.

Her heart melted at that. Where was Con? This was her version of Trestin. Proper, yes, but indulgent with his wife. Provincial to Elizabeth’s tastes, but a caring man who desired to please Celeste above all else.

In that moment, Elizabeth knew that she and Nicholas had been doomed from the start.

Watching Trestin gaze tenderly at Celeste also made Elizabeth’s burgeoning feelings for Con sticky-sweet. Celeste’s marriage seemed like a fairy-tale ending and something rather ordinary. Two friends who were joined in holy matrimony. Not a momentary flare of passion, but a trusting intimacy that would stand the test of time. Was such a thing possible for her?

Celeste moved to stand next to Trestin. A sinking feeling came into Elizabeth’s belly. The polite banter had, evidently, ended.

Where was Con?

“Do tell us,” Celeste asked, though she didn’t lose her sultry smile, “what has brought you back to Devon? I thought you were done with the doldrums we rustics appreciate so much.”

Trestin squeezed her side as though he agreed they were rustics inundated with doldrums…and it suited him very much.

“I like the cottage well enough,” Elizabeth replied, not wanting to miss an opportunity to point out that she would rather have stayed there, even if she did like seeing her friend so happy.

Celeste clasped her hands together. “I know you don’t give a fig about propriety, but I must. It’s perfectly normal to host an impromptu house party at Worston, but I’m sure you can infer the inappropriateness of closeting you two together at the cottage without the least bit of chaperonage.”

Elizabeth chose a Louis XVII chair and seated herself with as much grace as she could muster considering she was being called on the carpet. “I was counting on it.”

Celeste pressed her lips together briefly. She’d always tried to be Elizabeth’s conscience, perhaps because she was the older by almost eight years. It could be fatiguing at times. “Does he mean to marry you?”

Sometimes, it could be brutal.

Of course he wasn’t going to marry her. She could almost shout it, for the pain it caused her. No man had ever wanted to marry her. No man had even looked at her with one tenth the fervency with which Trestin guarded Celeste.

That wasn’t entirely true. Constantine did look at her that way…when he thought no one was watching. That was the cruel truth: he didn’t want to want her.

He certainly wasn’t going to marry her.

She bit her lip before any of that could escape her. She’d never admit her loneliness, or her foolish hope. Especially not to the two people she least wanted to judge her.

“There is no plan to marry,” she replied breezily, as if it didn’t matter.

“He can’t afford a wife,” Lord Trestin said bluntly. He glanced at Celeste, perhaps remembering their mismatched fortunes, then looked at Elizabeth again. “But I don’t suppose money is an issue for you.”

Elizabeth smirked. She refused to let him know how deeply his dismissal of her cut. “I may not have had the best choice in men, but I’m more than average when it comes to turning a profit, my lord. You could say one has necessitated the other.”

Con chose that moment to enter the room. “I think I should be offended.”

Had he heard everything, or only just the last? Elizabeth’s face heated. And she never blushed.

“My lord,” Celeste said, “I don’t think we’ve formally met. I’m Celeste, Lady Trestin.”

He inclined his head, then took her hand and bowed over it. “Lord Constantine Alexander, at your service. I believe you’re great friends with my brother Montborne.”

Angry color heightened Celeste’s pale cheeks. Montborne had vehemently objected to Celeste’s pursuit of Lord Trestin and ultimately caused the demise of his friendship with her. To Elizabeth’s knowledge, there had been no apology made in the months since. Didn’t Con remember her telling him of their fallout?

Celeste returned to her seat on the couch. When she looked up again, her color had abated. “How is Roman? We don’t see him in Devon, and I fear we missed him in Town.”

Ever the consummate actress. But her pretending was lost on Con. He was evaluating the seating arrangement carefully. It was all very proper, with chairs and couches set apart so that no guest must be made to sit too close to another. Without a word, he dragged a second small Louis XVII chair from its position on the outskirts to within a few inches of Elizabeth’s.

Heat crept across her cheeks again. She glanced at her friends. Their wide-eyed expressions of incredulity wiped her blush away. Her face seemed to drain of blood, in fact, and her ears rang until she could barely hear what was happening around her.

She didn’t need them to say it aloud, for their expressions said it all.

It was possible.

He might be made to marry her.

“My brother?” Con eased into the narrow chair, evidently oblivious to the exchange taking place before him. “The last time I saw him, he was lecturing me on one thing or another. I wasn’t able to get a word in edgewise to ask him how he fares. But before that, he was blue-deviled most of the summer. So, there’s that.”

Trestin’s eyes narrowed. “Lecturing? Why?”

He was faster to ask that than Elizabeth was to inquire as to why Roman was blue-deviled. His was the better question, however. Roman hadn’t been the lecturing type until Celeste had set her sights on Trestin. Why was he hectoring Con now?

She blanched again. It was obvious. Because of her.

She blinked and looked at Celeste, this time frantically. If Roman had it in his head that she was trying to sink her claws into Con and not merely entertaining a dalliance, there was no telling how much of an obstacle he might become.

Con crossed his long legs at the ankles. “Because I’m not the best choice in men, nor average when it comes to turning a profit. Montborne feels I have room to grow.”

Her hopes were dashed. Montborne must know about their bargain. He’d been very, very close to heading off Celeste and Trestin’s marriage. What sort of threat did he pose to Elizabeth’s happiness?

“I’ve never been one for prolonging awkwardness,” Trestin said, “so I’ll have out with it. Lady Trestin and I are aware of your contract with Lady Elizabeth.” He paused when Con sat up straighter and simultaneously shot Elizabeth a look of horror. “I can’t say it’s my preference, but I was willing to do the same for her for much less in return. I can’t fault you.” He didn’t pause when Con obviously wanted to ask what he meant by that. “Now, while I had thought Montborne recovered from his sudden onset of scruples, if he’s hunting you down to give you a tongue-lashing, then I suspect he’s still suffering his pangs of conscience. Which brings me to my next question. What do you intend to do about it?”

Con opened his mouth. Then he clamped his jaw closed and settled back into his chair, all while giving Trestin a look that would have struck down a lesser man.

Trestin rose and moved to the sideboard. He returned with a decanter and two snifters. “Brandy has always been my preferred method of dealing with Montborne.” He handed a snifter to Lord Constantine, then filled it.

Surely Con couldn’t argue with that approach. Brothers they may be, Roman could be pure obstinacy when he made up his mind to disapprove.

Con tossed back his drink. “He used to be so forgiving,” he said with a touch of irony.

Trestin settled onto the couch beside Celeste. “If by that you mean he was oblivious to the world around him, then I have to agree.”

Elizabeth relaxed a fraction. At least these two men wouldn’t come to blows.

Lord Trestin continued, “The unfortunate fact is that I fear he might be right to be concerned.”

Con sat forward abruptly. “I can handle myself—”

“You’ve managed to bring it this far. You’ve done better than I had supposed. But the gossip hasn’t waned. In point of fact, I have heard it. These things usually have their time and then they die. Why hasn’t it?”

Elizabeth’s mouth went dry. Her belly turned leaden. Trestin was right. The rumors ought to have stopped by now. She’d been counting on it. Was her father aware? If even Trestin knew what was being said…

But what more could she do?

The longer Con remained silent, the more her fear magnified. She caught Celeste’s eye. What she saw there made her feel like a helpless child. Pity. For poor Elizabeth had once again dug herself a hole impossible to escape.

They were all saved by the call to dinner. They filed into a massive dining room dominated by heavy oil paintings and dark blue walls. They were seated together at one end, with Trestin at the head and Lord Constantine to Celeste’s left. Elizabeth took her chair beside Trestin and folded her hands in her lap. Then she glanced about the room as if lightning were about to strike her. This was the first time she’d sat at a respectable table as a grown woman. She’d been barely out of the schoolroom when she’d fled her parents’ house with Captain Moore, and lived as an outcast after that. Even now she was nothing more than Con’s mistress, welcome only because Trestin had laughed in the face of propriety by marrying his.

She felt the strangeness of formal dining as if she were in someone else’s skin. Coupled with her fear of her father and Celeste’s sympathetic stare, she almost felt like a little girl again.

“So Montborne is suspicious,” Trestin said after they’d all been served the first course, “but I doubt that’s what’s sent you scurrying into the country. Your clan has done a fair job of avoiding Devon.” He shot Elizabeth a pointed look. “And don’t tell me it’s because you were homesick for the cottage. I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

She would mention again how much she really had wanted to retreat to the obscurity of the cottage, but she wasn’t in the mood to tease. A glance at Con told her he wasn’t about to explain their reason for coming, either. He seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.

Was he reconsidering all that he’d tangled himself up in? The way he stared at the candelabra in the center of the table twisted her belly.

“Elizabeth,” Trestin said in a warning tone. “There is always trouble afoot when a Londoner comes to Devon. Or haven’t I told you my theory?”

Roman ran to Devon every time scandal broke around him. She’d come when Nicholas had yanked her world from under her. And today, they were here for a reason. Two, actually.

“Have you heard of the Grand Canal?” she asked when Trestin seemed ready to demand an answer, and Con was frowning so furiously into his soup that she expected it to steam at any moment. “I believe it isn’t far from here.”

Trestin set his spoon down. “Are you a shareholder?”

“Not I,” Elizabeth said. “Lord Constantine has a sum tied up in it.”

Trestin turned to Con, who had lifted his head at the sound of his name. Good. Maybe she’d distracted him from rehearsing the speech she knew must be coming. Elizabeth, while this seemed in my favor at the start, now I can no longer support it in good faith…

“As do I,” Trestin said, much to Elizabeth’s surprise. “As it happens, neither of my sisters required their dowries. When I heard there was to be a renewed attempt to complete the canal, I had my man of business look into it. A canal linking Exeter and the Channel can only be beneficial to everyone.” He smiled in a rare flash of humor. “The fact that it is to go through your family’s land and not mine held its own appeal.”

Con’s relief was evident. “You believe it will pay out?”

“I certainly hope so. It was an easy decision, especially now that it’s so close to completion. There was a flood a few days ago, trouble with the new lock or some such, but it seems to be under control now. Not like several years ago, when few investors had the sense to bail out before they were ruined.”

Con’s bark of laughter startled Elizabeth. “They didn’t bother to tell us the direness of it until it was too late. Engineers are like politicians that way.”

“Is that why you’re here, then? To see it with your own eyes?”

Con cast Elizabeth guilty look. He’d dragged his feet coming here, but clearly he wasn’t about to admit as much to Trestin. “If it’s as far along as they say,” Con answered, “I’ll invest more money. If it looks to be a sham, I’ll pull out. But I won’t be taken for a fool again. I’m getting too old for that.”

Trestin leaned back as the footmen began clearing bowls. “I’ll ride with you to the site tomorrow and show you around. While I can’t claim to be an expert in canal-building, I’ve done a bit of ditch-digging. This looks to be a very fine ditch.”