A Secret Affair (27 page)

She was not nearly as hard as that woman was. Or as certain of her destiny or the route she must take to get there. But the duke had never taught her to be either hard or certain. He had taught her to like herself, to take charge of her life, to be immune to the worst of the jealousies and gossip that were certain to follow her about wherever she went, and …

And to wait for that someone who would be the center of her life’s meaning.

Was
Constantine
that center?

But her mind turned from the thought in some dismay. Heavens, did she have
no
sense of self-preservation even after eleven years?

But he was
not
the devil.

She felt as if she had a whole arsenal of windmills in her head.

“Does that mean yes?” he prompted.

He had asked if she was disappointed.

“Not at all,” she said. “I promised myself the best lover in all England, and I have no reason to suppose I have not found him. For this year, anyway.”

“That’s the spirit, Duchess,” he said. And his eyes laughed into hers again from a face that remained in repose. Not in mockery, she thought, but more in …

Affection?

Well.

But …
affection?

The windmills turned in her mind again.

“Now
what,”
he asked her, “is this about a
children’s
party at Copeland?”

Ah, yes, and there was
that
. A purely spur-of-the-moment plan that she must now make a reality.

She never spoke impulsively. Nothing with her was spur of the moment.

Except this visit to the Countess of Sheringford.

And the children’s party at Copeland.

Constantine laughed softly.

“Duchess,” he said, “if you could just see your face now.”

“It will be the best party ever,” she said haughtily.

He laughed again.

H
ANNAH LEFT FOR
C
OPELAND
with Barbara three days before any of the house guests were expected to arrive. Not that their presence there was needed. The housekeeper was an exceptionally competent lady who had complete control over her staff and the running of the household. She also had the advantage of being a likable person, to whom all the servants were devoted.

Hannah was well aware that for those three days, as she prowled restlessly about the house, she was in danger of getting under everyone’s feet and possibly on their nerves too. It was somewhat provoking to discover that her household did, in fact, run so smoothly, even under the stress of an imminent house party, that her presence was not needed. She sometimes felt she would be happy if there was a floor somewhere she could get down on her knees to scrub.

How startled and amused the
ton
would be if they could know that the Duchess of Dunbarton was nervous.

And excited.

The duke had bought Copeland for her when he was a very elderly gentleman indeed. They had come here occasionally and spent a few days at a time. They had even entertained some of their neighbors to tea. Hannah had done some entertaining during her year of mourning here too, but not often and never on any lavish scale. She had been melancholy and quite content to be alone most of the time.

This was to be her first house party here. She wanted everything to be perfect.

She envied—and was somewhat irritated by—Barbara’s cheerfully calm demeanor. She strolled outside with Hannah, even inside on the wet third day, the one before the guests were expected. And she sat for hours on end embroidering or reading or writing letters.

“What if it rains
tomorrow?”
Hannah asked as they strolled in the gallery on the last day. Rain pattered against the windows at either end.

“Then everyone will hurry inside from their carriages,” Barbara said with great good sense. “It is unlikely to rain hard enough to make the roads impassable.”

“But I
do
want everyone to see Copeland at its best,” Hannah said.

“Then they will be pleasantly surprised when the sun shines the day after they come,” Barbara said. “Or the day after that.”

“What if it rains
every
day?” Hannah asked.

Barbara turned her head to look closely at her and linked an arm through hers.

“Hannah,” she said. “Copeland is beautiful under
any
conditions. And
you
are beautiful under any conditions—lovely and charming and witty. You must have hosted house parties numerous times before now.”

“But never here,” Hannah said. “And what will it be like having
children
here, Babs? I have never entertained children.”

“They will be delightful,” Barbara said. “And they will ultimately be their parents’ responsibility, not yours.”

“But the
party,”
Hannah said, her voice almost a wail. “I have never in my life given a children’s party.”

“But you attended any number of them when we were children,” Barbara reminded her, not for the first time. “And I was in charge of more than a few when Papa was still vicar and Mama was not up to organizing them herself. You have made more than enough preparations to keep them all busy and entertained for every moment of the party.”

“I must have windmills in my head,” Hannah said.

Barbara led her to a bench close to one of the windows, sat them both down, and took Hannah’s hands in her own.

“I am sorry to see your anxiety, Hannah,” she said. “But strangely, you know, I am cheered by it. I do believe that right before my eyes you are becoming the person you were always meant to be. Since I arrived in London, your complexion has started to glow with color and your eyes to sparkle, and your face has become vibrant with life. You are entertaining
families
, not just a select few high-born aristocrats, and you are busy devising ways of amusing them all and keeping them happy. And I think—”

Hannah raised her eyebrows.

Barbara sighed.

“I ought not to say it,” she said. “You will be annoyed. I am not even sure I
want
to say it. I think you are falling in love. Or have fallen.”

Hannah snatched her hands away.

“Nonsense!” she said briskly. “And see, Babs? While we have been sitting here, the rain has stopped. And look, you can see the sun as a bright circle behind the clouds. It is going to be shining by tomorrow, and the grass and trees and flowers will look all the brighter and fresher for having been rained upon.”

She got to her feet and approached the window.

She was very inclined to dismiss what Barbara had said about the
changes in her until the thought struck her that the duke had intended from the start that she reach this moment when she could finally unveil her real self. And
be
her real self.

She was finally daring to be the person he had wanted her to be, still a little anxious and uncertain of herself, but ready and eager to meet life and enjoy it instead of protecting herself from it behind the mask of the duchess. She was finally becoming the person
she
chose to be.

“Babs,” she said, “what shall I
wear
tomorrow? What color, I mean? White? Or something … brighter?”

And why was she asking? It was something she must decide for herself. It was something she had been debating in her mind for three days, perhaps longer. As if the turning of the world depended upon her making the right decision.

She laughed.

“No answer required,” she said. “I shall decide for myself. What are
you
going to wear? One of your new dresses?”

“I want Simon to be the first to see me in those,” Barbara said wistfully. “Though I am sure I
ought
to wear them here, Hannah, where there will be so many illustrious guests.”

“Your vicar must be the first to see them,” Hannah said, turning to look affectionately at her friend. “You have pretty clothes apart from them.”

She was
not
going to think about what Barbara had just said, Hannah decided. She was simply not.

But it had been three days, and three nights, since she had seen him last. And she knew that though she wanted everything to be perfect for
all
her guests and that she wanted them
all
to see Copeland at its best when they arrived tomorrow, she wanted it all to be a little more perfect for Constantine.

Something could not be more perfect than perfect.

But it was what she wanted. For him.

She did not care to pursue her reasons.

“I am starved,” she said. “Let’s go have tea.”

C
OPELAND WAS
several miles north of Tunbridge Wells in Kent. The carriage passed through pretty countryside, past orchards and hop fields and grazing cattle. Constantine kept more than half an eye on the scenery as he traveled with Stephen and Cassandra. They might have left the baby with his nurse, who was coming in another carriage, but he was too new and too precious to be let out of their sight except when strictly necessary, it seemed.

Stephen held him most of the way and spoke to him as if he were a little adult. The baby stared solemnly back, except when his eyelids fluttered and he slept. Cassandra straightened his blanket and rearranged his bonnet and smiled at Stephen.

It was all a trifle disconcerting.
Not
because there were any open and embarrassing displays of affection between husband and wife, but perhaps because there were not. They were so thoroughly
comfortable
with each other, Stephen and Cassandra, and it was very obvious that young Jonathan was their world. It was all so damnably
domestic
. And Stephen, by Constantine’s estimation, was twenty-six years old. Nine years younger than he was.

He felt a vague sort of restlessness. And envy.

He really must give serious consideration to finding a suitable wife. perhaps next year. This year he was too tied up with the duchess. But if he was going to have children—and this year, for perhaps the first time, he felt the stirring of a desire to have sons and daughters of his own—he would rather start his family before he reached the age of forty. Even now he was older than he ought to be.

He distracted his mind with conversation and a more careful perusal of the latest report from Harvey Wexford at Ainsley than he had been able to give it at breakfast.

One of the lambs had died—but it had been sickly from birth. The others were all flourishing. So were the calves, except for the two that had been stillborn. The crops were coming through nicely, the
weather having been warm for a whole month and the rains having come when they were needed—though they could do with another right about now. Roseann Thirgood, the teacher who had once worked at a London brothel, had purchased a dozen new books for the schoolroom since several of her pupils, both children and adults, could read through the primers that had been bought last year with their eyes shut. Kevin Hurdle had had a rotten tooth pulled and had been walking about house and farm ever since with a large, progressively graying handkerchief tied over his head and beneath his jaw. Dotty, Winifred Baker’s young daughter, who was well suited to her name, had skipped all the way back to the kitchen from the henhouse one morning, swinging her basket of three eggs in wide arcs, with the result that egg yolk and egg white had dribbled all over the kitchen floor that Betty Ulmer had just scrubbed, and the basket was smeared almost beyond redemption. There was a fox paying the farmyard nocturnal visits, though so far it had gone away hungry each time. One of the plow horses was lame, but the offending thorn beneath its shoe had been found and disposed of, and the horse was on the mend. Winford Jones and his new wife sent their heartfelt thanks for the wedding gift Mr. Huxtable had sent them in a separate package last time he wrote.

He closed his eyes and, like the baby, slept for a while.

And then they were there. The carriage turned sharply between stone gateposts, waking them all, Constantine suspected, except Stephen, who had been holding the baby with steady concentration and keeping his shoulder firm for Cassandra’s right cheek to rest against.