The Problem with Seduction (18 page)

“That
Corinthian
isn’t his father,” Nicholas sneered, changing tack. “I’ve made enough inquiries to know he wasn’t even here when Jonat—Oliver,” he quickly corrected, “would have been conceived.”

Her teeth ground at his poorly-executed attempt to pretend he cared about her feelings. He’d wanted to name their son Jonathan Thomas, after his own father. He hadn’t cared a whit that she’d been calling him Oliver since his birth. Nor had he cared that Oliver was the name of all the firstborn sons in her family, because it had been about
his
lineage. Now he wanted to act as though he approved of her choice?

“Conceived is a rather large word for a soldier,” she shot back. Not because he deserved it, though he did. She was scared and angry. Would he ever give up?

Would she, if he were the one withholding Oliver from her?

No. Never.

“You weren’t petty when we were together.” His easy lope quickly gained on her until they were walking elbow to elbow, just as she’d known he could do. He leaned in front of her as if to look into her face. “Stop. Seriously, Beth, stop this.”

She did stop. Not because he’d asked. “
Never
call me that again.”

He appeared confused. Handsomely confounded. But she no longer cared what he looked like, because he had one goal: to separate her from her Oliver.

“Beth was a different girl. A victim of your games,” she said with all the bitter venom still in her.

He looked taken aback. He was tall, though not as tall as Con. His dark hair was shot through with gray and he had the beginnings of a portly belly she’d never noticed before. He seemed tired, more than angry. “You’re a good liar. I think you even believe that. It’s not true, is it, though? I was the one who was played for a fool.” His gaze settled hungrily on Oliver.

Oliver cuddled closer to her shoulder.

A flicker of hurt darkened Nicholas’s eyes. “You knew I was married,” he said to her in a low, steady voice. “You knew my wife is likely barren. And you knew, didn’t you, that I had everything I wanted but a son.” The anger came back for just a moment. “What you didn’t count on is that I never wanted
you
.”

She reeled. She had no words to throw in the face of such cruel rejection.

“I know Lord Constantine was in Devon at the time you and I were…reuniting,” he said, stepping closer. “At his family seat near Brixcombe. I have proof.”

Her blood ran cold.
No.

She curved her lips instead of forming a horrified O. She couldn’t let Nicholas see how scared he’d just made her. “You mean when he was looking in on the progress of the canal?” she bluffed. “I saw him just before he left for Exeter. It was to be a long separation for us, and… Well, you know how that makes me.”

Nicholas’s nostrils flared. “He told you about the Grand Canal?”

Finally, a question she could answer truthfully. “He’s invested quite a bit of time and money into the project. I should think I would know about it.” When it was apparent Nicholas was dismayed by this, she dug the point of her knife a bit deeper. “Lord Constantine and I travel to Devon next week, as it happens. He’s eager to oversee the work restarting. The proper paperwork has been gathered and the project is ready to proceed.” That last part was true, too. She’d had her solicitor look in on it.

Nicholas went white. Then he mottled red. “Liar.”

She paused. She preferred the term “opportunist.” But it was no longer about setting herself up in the best way possible. Now it was about her child. “Why is it so hard to believe he’s confided in me? He appreciates my advice. Some people do.”

Nicholas touched Oliver’s white gown before she could stop him. Then he stepped away. His expression was bleak. “You’ve won this round, Elizabeth. But I’m not giving up.”

He hesitated, then turned on his heel and walked away. But that last look he gave her… He was a man being denied his right to see his son, and it was crushing him.

She banished the thought as soon as she had it.

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.”