Romancing the Rogue (56 page)

Simon paced for a moment and then resumed his place on the settee. “Apparently he had more connections than I was aware of. But now that he’s free, I fear my niece is in even greater danger.”

“If what you are telling me is correct, the safest place for Constance is a monastery.”

“I don’t trust her anywhere or with anyone else but you, Percy,” Simon said.

Old fears and uncertainties filled him. He’d been unable to keep his beautiful, adoring sister safe, his father safe. What assurances could he give Simon that he could keep Constance from harm? “I’ve made a public mockery of marriage. No one will believe that I want to marry Constance.”

“You’re heir to a dukedom. Every duke needs to produce an heir. Do not underestimate the t
on
. They will accept your proposal for what it is. Only you and I will know the truth.”

Percy stood, dizzying with the effort. Was it fair to ask Constance to live a lie? What kind of life would that be for a young bride? He wouldn’t stop his ruthless sprints into London’s underbelly until Frink and his benefactors were found and expunged. What if she found out who he really was? Was he capable of living with Constance’s hate when she discovered that Thomas Sexton and Percival Avery were one and the same?

“I will not stop looking for Celeste’s killer.”

“You can do whatever you choose, but either way, you
will
help Constance. She was on her way to get help from her aunt when you attacked the Octavia and ruined her chances of making it to San Sebastian.
You
took advantage of her on your ship when you had the choice to bring her in unscathed. The child is yours,” he reiterated. “The opportunity to right a wrong, yours.”

Percy froze. The child. How quickly he’d forgotten its existence.

“Burton will become enraged when he learns he’s been duped.” If Burton had been the man who’d left the bruise on Constance’s breast, and if the tales he’d recently heard from Baroness Chauncey were true, Constance and his child would certainly be in grave danger when Burton found out she wasn’t a virgin. A gut-wrenching fear unlike any he’d ever known assailed him.

“Exactly! Where will that leave
your
child?”

He thought of his dying father and the vast inheritance that must be passed from father to son. He’d almost been killed the previous night. What would become of Throckmorton if anything ever happened to him? Many lives depended on that living. He touched his head, achingly aware he risked more in his complacence than his public reputation, Constance’s hate once she discovered he’d duped her on board the Striker, losing the chase for Celeste’s killers. His sister was gone. But he was not the only Avery left. No. He stood to gain a son.

“Tell me what I must do.”

Candelabras illumined the
twilight. Light flickered down on the decadently clad crowd striding through the polished foyer of Throckmorton Manor. Patrons assembled to approach the receiving line then meandered into the western ballroom where a large table lining the wall enticed with effervescent lemonade, wine, opulent fruits, biscuits, tea, and chocolate. A piano sonata by Pleyel heightened the atmosphere as guests roamed throughout the rooms one by one. Later a quartet of pianoforte, cornet, violin, and cello were scheduled to play a minuet. Pink and white lilies, roses, and peonies scented the hall. To all who entered Throckmorton and viewed the décor, it was thought to have been masterfully done. Only one, however, remained unaffected.

Constance took her place beside her father, welcoming each guest who’d been announced by a footman, appearing modestly composed in a sea of white. Outwardly, she waxed content as she flashed one smile after another without any sort of joviality reaching her heart. Nothing in the room excited her. Nothing about the night intrigued. Her chest constricted like a cinched-too-tight corset. She could scarcely breathe. Was she doomed to a life of torturous consort? A shiver traveled up and down her spine as thoughts turned to the last dance, when her father would announce her engagement to Burton. Were it not for her unborn babe and her promise to Simon, she would never have played her part in this gala.

She stood woodenly beside her father, acknowledging one patron after another as they passed through the receiving line. Tête-à-tête between her father and members of the House of Lords soured. Women praised the décor and yet nothing, not the presence of dear friends or the sparkle of finery generated her enthusiasm. The conversation muted as she mentally took note of the ticking clock. Not even the pleasant return of Lieutenant Henry Guffald, who bowed stiffly and took her hand in his in an attempt to place a tender kiss on her finger, roused her to smile. His action, though sincere, was quickly interrupted by her father. Guffald’s blue eyes instantly hardened. He rose to his full height, militaristically handsome, his face a stone mask.

“Lieutenant,” she murmured, both thrilled to be reminded of one of the most adventurous, frightening times in her life and afraid someone would learn of it. She peered at their guests to see if anyone noticed their conversation.

“Lady Constance. It is a pleasure to see you — again,” he whispered. His eyes flashed unreservedly and this alarmed her. Would he divulge her secrets? It was an unnerving thought. Light flickered off the small scar slitting his brow, a reminder of his sacrifice aboard the Octavia, marring his too handsome face and providing him a new and foreboding dangerous aura.
A small price
, his eyes confided. One he’d been most willing to bear.

“Lieutenant Guffald,” her father cued, startling her.

Seemingly unaffected, the lieutenant nodded and moved on. Absentmindedly, Constance found herself searching for his tall form as he disappeared amongst the throng. Stretching up on her tiptoes, she then heard the oddest voice dance above the cacophony of guests crowding the doorway and her attention was diverted. Puzzled, she sought the owner of that voice until her gaze settled on the most preposterous looking man she’d ever seen. Impeccable in appearance, from his high-collared, gold-braid trimmed cream dress coat and embroidered waistcoat, to his brilliantly laced cravat, to his buff-toned breeches, complete with fob and watch, he posed in garish champagne pumps and lifted a handkerchief delicately to his nose. He soon stood before her father. Curiously, he peered over at her through a rectangular quizzing glass as if critiquing her choice of gowns and discovering her wanting.

Constance smiled politely and then curtsied. Every other man in the room wore black, which made him stick out like a skunk among rabbits. His face and hair was powdered and he sported a beauty mark on his cheek. She didn’t know how to react to the man and under his scrutiny felt instantly self-conscious of her own attire.

Her father cleared his throat.

“Welcome to Throckmorton Manor,” her father said to the marquess.

The flamboyant man dabbed his nose, eyes twinkling. “The pleasure, I assure you, is all mine, Your Grace.” With an artful dip of his head, he then turned his spellbinding gaze toward Constance, making her take a steadying breath.

“My daughter, Lady Constance Danbury,” her father stated matter-of-factly, inclining his head. “Daughter, I present Lord Percival Avery, the Marquess of Stanton, heir to the Duke of Blendingham.”

“Lord Stanton,” she repeated, dipping into a curtsy. “Welcome to Throckmorton.”

Stanton bowed, and then with a flourish she’d never dreamed possible, he rose, waving his quizzing glass about, making Constance follow his movements with fascinated curiosity.

A sultry woman clung to the marquess’ arm.

“Ah,” he said, “allow me to introduce Baroness Chauncey.”

“Baroness,” her father said, bending over the woman’s ringed gloved fingers.

“A pleasure, Your Grace,” she said with a superior smile. Dressed in shimmering gold, dark hair arranged high above a tall neck ruffle fanning upward from her décolleté, the woman’s keen eyes crinkled affectionately.

Constance curtsied as she regarded the woman, feeling unusually unsettled by her proximity to the marquess. But of course, that was an irrational sensation that didn’t make sense.

The marquess’ eyes danced with impish delight as he said, “Come, Baroness. Let us not take up too much of our host and hostess’ time.” Pleasantries noted, the odd, and notably mysterious, Marquess and Baroness disappeared into the throng, much sooner than she would have liked.

Heat flushed her cheeks and her heart beat a strange pitter-patter. What was it about the marquess that ignited her senses? She sensed something familiar, an odd desire to be in his presence she couldn’t quite place. But her thoughts fled as more people thronged past, and one particular gentleman stepped forward.

“Lady Constance,” Montgomery Burton, Baron of Burton, interrupted, the sound of his voice squeezing the life out of her lungs. “I’ve been eagerly awaiting this moment.”

Constance curtsied, albeit slowly, and bowed her head politely.

Burton reached for her hand, but she kept it hidden in the folds of her gown, as if smoothing away an unwanted wrinkle.

The prickly lord exchanged a quizzical glance with her father. “I take it this soiree will be a joyous occasion for all, Your Grace?”

“I guarantee you a night you will never forget, Burton,” her father replied.

The smug satisfaction on Burton’s face alarmed her. His sly wink was a reminder she’d pay for her public slight. A shiver trailed down her spine, and she swallowed a sickening lump of revulsion, suddenly reminded of the last ball she’d attended in his presence. Nevertheless, Constance stood her ground. She wasn’t his to command… yet.

When at last the final guests arrived, her father put his hand to the small of her spine and led her into the pulsing mob. Haunting strains of the violin swelled on the floriated air. The luxurious mix relaxed her. Though the pianoforte was her favorite instrument, she was devoid of any personal talent herself, which forced her to seek out the presence of others more gifted, like Lady Winifred Simmons and Miss Eleanor Mason, two of her dearest childhood friends. As the night progressed and her father finally released her to her own amusement, she ventured into the throng in search of Winifred and Eleanor. Sighting the former sipping punch with a dark-haired gentleman, Constance set out to intercept her, but a large muscular form outfitted in blue stepped in her path. Immediately, she recognized the shiny naval uniform buttons.

“Lady Constance, it is gravely important that I speak with you,” Guffald whispered.

Constance stared up into Guffald’s eyes, unable to comprehend what could be so urgent. Skirting a glance at guests nearby, she asked, “Is something amiss, Lieutenant?”

He grabbed her forearm none-too-gently and led her to the atrium, away from the crowd. “I’ve been trying to see you, but your father will not allow it.”

Alarmed, she peered around him, noticing her father immersed in deep conversation with Burton. “He’s been preoccupied.” She suppressed a shiver.

“Aye. It seems your father has taken permanent steps in providing for your future.”

An unspoken sadness reflected in Guffald’s eyes. Sympathy overflowing, she offered the only thing she could. “Do not allow my father to unarm your worth.”

“If that were but the case,” he confided. “Tell me, are you presently unattached?”

She laid her hand on Guffald’s arm reassuringly and then answered with an honesty she did not feel. “Yes. At present, I am unattached and thankfully so. This is the first ball of the season, is it not? What better way to spend one’s first ball than to fill a dance card with the name of every man present?”

She smiled, hoping to alleviate his pain. He adored her, that much was plain, and her heart knotted with anguish that she couldn’t reciprocate his feelings. Guffald’s attraction to her might have been enough at one time. But not now. Not after Thomas had successfully ushered her into womanhood. Surely, that is what he feared, and why he felt such a desperate urge to plead his case.

Defying convention, she raised her gloved finger to his brow. “It pains me that you have suffered so cruelly in my stead.”

He flinched at the slightest pressure of her touch and peered over her shoulder. “I would do anything for you, my lady.”

“Indeed, you are brave.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve been unable to thank you. If it hadn’t been for your help with the gig, Morty and I would be dead.”

“No one must ever know of my involvement,” he whispered, his voice thick and unsteady.

She nodded, fully understanding that secrecy meant salvaging her reputation, what little there could be saved. “Rest assured, you would make any woman proud, Lieutenant.”

He gazed into her eyes and held her hand in his. “Any woman?”

“I must go,” she said, averting her gaze, refusing to answer. She had nothing to offer him. Captain Frink and Thomas Sexton had seen to that. One brutalized her into the hands of the other, and she’d willingly fallen. She turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said, restraining her.

Staring down at his hand, she hoped no one took note of his impropriety or had heard him.

“I hate to interrupt so private a discussion, but I thought to ensure my name was written on Lady Constance’s card.”

Dance card? She’d forgotten it hung limply from her wrist. She and Guffald turned to see Lord Stanton standing close by, dipping his fingers into a lion-crested silver snuff box. He dabbed the substance to his nose and inhaled until he sneezed most comically.

“Guffald.”

“Stanton.” Guffald nodded. “I thought you were wasting away in Tuscany, Morocco, or some such place.”

Constance curtsied a greeting and raised a quizzical brow. Tuscany? Morocco? Those were places she had dreamed of traveling to, but her father’s proclivity for keeping her off ships prevented her from experiencing such adventurous diversions. She gazed at Stanton with more appreciative eyes. No matter what could be said of the lord, his attire or mannerisms, he excited her and, for some reason, she felt amazingly safer in his presence than with Guffald’s.

“Odd’s fish! Good of you to remember.”

Guffald looked anxiously back and forth from Constance to Stanton. The majestic lord dropped his gaze and focused on Constance’s arm, which the lieutenant still held.

He cocked his brow. “I say, have I interrupted something scandalous?”

“Nonsense,” Guffald replied, releasing her as if he’d just touched molten steel. “I was simply helping the young lady regain her strength from the dance.”

“What a gallant lad you are! There’s more to you than a uniform, I dare say. But the lady seems quite replenished.” Turning to Constance, Stanton winked. “Shall we?” He offered his gloved hand.

“Shall we what, my lord?”

“Dance,” he suggested, lifting her dance card.

Chastising herself inwardly for sounding like a parrot, Constance nodded and cast her gaze upon the lieutenant. Guffald appeared pained by the prospect of her absence, but the opportunity compelled her to prevent him from forming any further attachment to her.

“I’m quite refreshed, Lieutenant. Thank you for your assistance.” Turning back to the fancy gentleman who wrote his name on her card, she accepted his hand and added, “I should be delighted to dance, my lord.” She briefly inclined her head.

Stanton raised her gloved hand to his lips. His veiled eyes glistened with a hint of mischief. A shiver raced up and down her spine, tingling her all the way to her toes. She held his gaze a moment longer than seemly as he led her to the dance floor.

“I am quite pleased my name is the first on your list. You are a diamond of the first water. Sweeter than memory serves,” he cooed.

She went rigid. “You have me at a loss, my lord. Have we met before?”

“On the eve of lover’s delight,” he waxed poetic, his mouth curling into a smile.

Constance stared, bewildered, too startled by half. What was she to make of this popinjay?

“Ah! I’m quite disconsolate. It appears you do not remember,” he said, frowning.

Constance struggled for poise. “I must confess, you confuse me greatly, my lord.”