The Rogue’s Prize (43 page)

gentleman — one who offered nothing

but fealty, trust, and protection — to

cover up her pregnancy.

“Dearest,” Mrs. Mortimer cooed.

“Do wear the yellow ribbons that match

your dress when you break your fast.

The color will lighten up your face and

buoy your spirits. To be sure, His Grace

will be your slave ’ere long.”

“My slave? I cannot imagine Percy

being

anyone’s

slave.”
Nor can I

imagine he will believe my sudden

support of Burton, should I do as the

bastard commands.

“Well, slave or free man, he will

take one look at you and fall to his

knees. Yes,” she said, happy with her

choice of words. “It’s a grand day, a day

to make a new start. And no finer time to

begin winning your husband’s heart then

the present.”

Constance’s

spirits

soared.

“Indeed. I have but one goal in mind,”

she said honestly. “The happiness of my

child.”

• • •

“I prefer not to gossip, Your Grace.

That does not suit.”

Percy harrumphed. “Must you

adhere to protocol at all times? I do not

want to be reminded that I am not worthy

to eat your bannocks.”

“Old habits die hard, Your Grace.”

Percy folded the Gazette and

placed it near his plate. He had no

interest in the news. Jeffers’s attempts at

humor thwarted his concentration and he

grew sour with impatience. He was

eager to see Constance. Heaven help

him, he couldn’t get enough of the

woman. What was taking her so long to

appear?

Plagued by thoughts of his father’s

death and his pleasurable night in

Constance’s bed, he brooded over on

her new status as the Duchess of

Blendingham and what that would entail.

He walked a tight rope where she was

concerned, risking a legacy hundreds of

years in the making.

“I’m not who you think I am,”

she’d said.

Those seven words were ingrained

into his mind. But what had she really

been trying to tell him? Was she going to

admit she was pregnant with a pirate’s

baby,
his
baby? The idea was ludicrous.

Had she been prepared to admit she was

an informant? That she was, in fact, in

cahoots with Josiah Cane and Frink?

Improbable. He doubted there could be

any involvement with Frink. He’d been

aboard the
Octavia
and witnessed her

violent interaction with the captain.

Still, something wasn’t quite right.

For nigh onto a week, he’d watched

her toss and turn in her sleep. Last night

he hadn’t meant to wake her, but she’d

seen him. His father’s death, the heavy

weight the duchy placed upon him, and

questions about her loyalties had driven

him to her side. That he’d needed her

more than anything else in this world

jolted him. He had never needed anyone

like he needed, wanted, Constance. But

he had to admit there were burdensome

complexities

arising

from

that

admission.

He was playing a game that might

destroy her.

She had feelings for another man.

To add to his dismay, he also had two

buffoons seeking their marital demise,

Burton and Frink.

His fingers played with the locket

in his pocket, tracing the engravings as if

he knew each curve by heart. As well he

should after spending a week pondering

how it had gotten into the wrong hands.

Retrieving the silver locket, he glanced

down at the polished surface, engraved

with the initials OD and caught his

reflection. His powdered skin and

hawkish eyes condemned him for being

false. He was a fool to expect a woman

to fall in love with a popinjay.

Constance wasn’t a fool. She was very

much like the sparkling silver between

his fingers, a polished embellishment,

providing a gentleman distinguished

swagger, making him the envy of every

other male in town.

Burton wanted her, badly enough to

threaten her. Guffald wanted her, but

Percy discounted his friend, knowing he

would sidestep if Percy demanded it.

And there was Thomas Sexton to

consider. Making love to his wife was a

difficult affair. In her arms, he could

neither be a duke by light of day or a

pirate by night.

Voices carried down the stairs,

alerting him that he would no longer be

alone. Setting aside his concerns, he was

eager to share Constance’s company, to

gauge whether or not she still had that

same passionate glow in the wake of

their lovemaking. He placed the locket

back in his banyan.

“Good morning, Jeffers,” her

melodic voice sang. Her skirts swished

and he could hear the tap, tap, tap, of her

slippered feet on the marble floor.

“You’ll find a vast array of

delicacies to sample this morning, your

Ladyship. His Lordship is already

seated. Ring if you need me. I shall not

be far.”

“Thank you, Jeffers. You’re most

accommodating.”

Percy closed his eyes as he listened

to her gentile words. Within seconds,

she rounded the corner with Mrs.

Mortimer at her side. The two women

who stood before him could not have

been more different. Mrs. Mortimer,

with unruly graying hair and dour skin,

paled beside his lovely wife whose

blonde hair had been arranged in looped

braids. Dangling curls fit for a Grecian

goddess appeared like a halo around her

head. And her sunny disposition was a

boon to his spirits.

Mrs. Mortimer glared at him

strangely, making his gut tighten with

apprehension. Lies and secrets had been

forced upon more than one soul at his

table.

“Good morning, Your Grace,”

Constance said, her eyes warming.

“My gel,” he stood and bowed.

“Mrs. Mortimer,” he offered with a

polite nod from the head of the table.

Constance

curtsied.

“Mrs.

Mortimer has told me the terrible news

about your father. Please accept my

heartfelt

condolences,”

she

said,

reaching for him.

He accepted her hand. “Thank you,

madam, for your concern.”

Constance responded so quickly he

couldn’t keep up. “I hope your father did

not suffer. Were you able to attend his

funeral? Did any of your relatives join

you? I am heartily sorry that I could not

attend. A wife ought to be with her

husband during times like these. Why

didn’t you send for me?”

“Odd’s

fish,

madam,”

he

exclaimed,

trying

to

remember

everything she’d just said. “I have only

just returned and you waylay me with

questions like a constable.”

“How am I supposed to react?” she

asked. “My heart aches for you, Your

Grace.”

“You are overly generous,” he said.

“Were I the wiser, I’d suggest you had

your eyes set upon a bauble or some

trifle to go along with your new

position.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I only want

your happiness, Your Grace,” she said.

“If you loved your father half as much as

I love mine, I understand how greatly

affected you must be by his death.”

He nodded, placing his hand over

his heart. She’d gone to great lengths for

her father. Would she be proud of the

lengths to which he’d gone to console

his? But she couldn’t know. Because

play it he must to the bitter end without

involving her and putting her in danger.

“Fortunately, I know how much

your father means to you and therefore,

cannot be tempted to take offense.”

She settled into the seat beside him.

With tactical ease, she reached across

the divide, grabbed his right hand, and

began stroking the sapphire set within

the silver Blendingham family crest —

his grandfather’s ring. She’d never seen

him without the ring, a purposeful

invention on his part and one he’d meant

to use to keep her from confusing his two

personas.

What brokered her fascination with

the trinket now? Or was the ring an

excuse to touch him? He preferred the

later.

“My heart aches for you. I assure

you that your father has been ever in my

prayers since our wedding night.” Did

she have to bring up that night? Though

he’d remedied their union, their wedding

night was the night he’d uncovered her

locket in enemy hands. “What is dear to

you is dear to me, as well,” she

confided.

Her eyes sparkled like dew drops

on newly opened petals in a misty

garden. She appeared innocent, adoring.

Perhaps he’d been wrong. Was she

simply a pawn in Cane’s devilish game?

Or was she the instrument of his demise?

He squirmed beneath her adoring eyes.

She made him thankful he was alive.

She’d bewitched him, unarmed him in

the daylight, and charmed him out of

darkness. No. This definitely would not

do. The yellow-ribboned fluff seated

before him, the woman he called wife,

was his Achilles heel. And woe to them

both when his enemies became aware of

it.

Shifting in his chair, he snatched his

hand away. “Cream?”

Nothing scared him more than the

slip of a girl perched at his right. He

stirred his morning libation and flipped

open

the
Morning Post
, then the

Gazetteer
. She mumbled something

under her breath, making him extremely

grateful for his sanctuary behind the thin

paper

barrier.

China

clanked

unceremoniously into the quiet. Putting

aside the dailies, he noted the glistening

sheen in Constance’s eyes and was once

more overtaken with unease. What now?

Removing his ring, he held it within

reach. “There, there. Since you’ve

shown fascination for my ring, I wish

you to have it, my gel.” She stared,

dumbfounded. “No more tears. Take the

bauble. It’s my gift. No harm will ever

come to you with it on your finger.”

Speechlessly, she stared at his gift.

Percy reached over and gently closed

her gaping mouth with his fingertip. Her

gaze dropped to his hand, and then her

lap. “I cannot accept it,” she said.

“Does my gift displease you? I

thought ladies of every ilk trembled with

delight at beautiful things.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no — I

mean to say, yes!” she stuttered. “But I

cannot accept your gift. The ring is

important to you and your family, Percy.

If I should ever — ”

“I trust you,” he interrupted, if only

to win her confidence. “It would do me

great honor to have you wear it. I want

everyone to know you are an Avery

now.” He wanted to send a silent

message to those she conspired with that

he was fully aware of their connections.

That it was only a matter of time before

her identity was revealed, if she was at

risk.

“It’s too large for my finger, Your

Grace,” she protested.

Clucking momentarily, he said,

“Then you shall wear it around your

neck as you did your mother’s necklace.

Perhaps you will cherish it as much.”

Mrs. Mortimer dropped a serving

utensil and her plate abruptly hit the

floor. “Oh!” the woman squealed,

mortified. “Do forgive my clumsiness.”

“Let

me

help

you,

Morty,”

Constance said, providing him a

delectable view of her derriere as she

bent to retrieve the broken pieces

scattered about their feet. “No harm

done,” she added, turning, moving closer

still, and revealing two mounds of

woman’s flesh for his perusal. Though

his eyes fixated on her ample gifts, he

did not miss her concern. Did she think