Mr. Constantine Huxtable was the Duchess of Dunbarton’s newest paramour.

But this time, for the first time, they would be right.

Barbara was safely down on the pavement.

“Duchess?” He reached out his hand for hers and their eyes met.

She had never in her life seen such dark eyes. Or such compelling eyes. Or eyes that had such a weakening effect on her knees.

“I do hope,” she said, placing her hand in his, “someone has swept the pavement. I would not enjoy getting my hem wet.”

Someone obviously had. And someone had done some quick crowd control too. A path had opened up to allow them into the theater. Hannah half smiled about her as she stepped inside, her hand on Constantine’s right arm while Barbara’s was linked through his left.

The ducal box, which was on the lowest of three tiers surrounding the theater like a horseshoe, was close to the stage. Entering it was a little like stepping out onto the stage itself. It was doubtful that anyone in the house did not turn to watch them enter and greet the duchess’s other guests, all of whom had arrived earlier, and stand conversing with them for several minutes before taking their seats. Or to observe the fact that while the duchess’s friend eventually took a seat between Mrs. Park and her brother, the duchess herself sat beside Mr. Constantine Huxtable.

Her new favorite. Her first since the demise of the old duke and her return to town. Her new paramour.

It was not hard to interpret the slightly heightened buzz of conversation in the theater.

It was not hard either for Hannah to look around with leisurely unconcern, as she had done on dozens of other similar occasions when the duke was still alive. He had taught her to look about her like that instead of directing her gaze at her lap. The only difference this time was the absence of the slight amusement she had always felt to know how wrong the speculation about her male companion always was.

Tonight it was not wrong.

She was very glad of it.

She set one white-gloved hand on Constantine’s sleeve and leaned a little toward him.

“Have you seen A School for Scandal before?” she asked. “It is really quite an old play. I must have seen it a dozen times, but it is always amusing. You will not find it too dull or too long, I believe.”

“On the assumption,” he asked her, “that I am all impatience for it to be over so that we may proceed to the main business of the evening, Duchess?”

“Not at all,” she said. “But I thought you might have more of an interest in tragedy.”

“To suit my satanic looks?” he asked.

“Precisely,” she said. “Though you did, of course, explain to me how the dreadful tragedies of the opera are not really tragedies at all. I was reassured. I suppose next you will be telling me that the heroes of tragedy do not really die at the end of a play.”

“Reassuring, is it not?” he said. “You are looking dazzlingly lovely tonight in white. Indeed, you sparkle.”

There was a gleam of something in his eyes—mockery, perhaps.

“With high spirits?” she said. “I never sparkle with high spirits. It would be vulgar. I daresay you mean my jewels.” She held up her left hand. “The diamond on my third finger was a wedding present. At the time I did not believe it was real. I did not know they came so large. The one on my little finger was a gift for my twentieth birthday.” She held out both hands. “There was a ring for each of my birthdays after that, to fit different fingers, until I ran out of fingers and we had to start over again since I thought they would be uncomfortable on my toes. And there was a ring too for each wedding anniversary and for other assorted occasions.”

“And for Christmas?” he asked.

“It was always a necklace and earrings for Christmas,” she said, “and a bracelet for Valentine’s Day, which the duke would observe, foolish man. He was very generous.”

“As the whole world can see,” he said.

She lowered her hands to her lap and turned her head to look fully at him.

“Jewels are meant to be seen, Constantine,” she said. “So is beauty. I will never apologize for being either rich or beautiful.”

“Or vain?” he said.

“Is it vain,” she asked him, “to be truthful? I have been beautiful since childhood. I will probably retain some beauty even into old age, if I should live so long. I have been told that I have good bone structure. I claim no credit for my beauty just as a musician or actor can claim no credit for his talent. But we can all claim credit for using the gifts we brought with us into this life.”

“Beauty is a gift?” he asked.

“It is,” she said. “Beauty ought to be cultivated and admired. There is too much ugliness in life. Beauty can bring joy. Why do we decorate our homes with paintings and vases and tapestries? Why do we not hide them away in a dark cupboard so that they will not fade or become damaged?”

“I would hate it, Duchess,” he said, “if you hid yourself away in a dark cupboard. Unless, that is, I could hide in there with you.”

She almost laughed. But laughter was not a part of her public persona, and she did not doubt that many eyes were still upon her.

“The play is about to begin,” he said, and she turned her attention to the stage.

She had not explained that very well, had she? The duke had taught her not to curse her beauty or be wary of it or try to hide it. Or deny it. All of which she had been well on her way to doing when she married him. He had taught her to enhance it and to celebrate it.

And she had celebrated. For ten years she had been the light in his eyes, and somehow that had been enough.

Almost enough.

Now she asked herself how much joy her beauty had really given. To him, yes. But to anyone else? Did it matter if it had not? He had been her husband. It had been her duty and her joy to give him joy.

When had she last felt real joy? The sort that set one to twirling about in a meadow of hay and wildflowers, one’s arms outstretched, one’s face lifted to the sun? Or that sent one running along a sandy beach, the wind in one’s hair?

Was beauty really a gift, as musical talent was?

And wherever were these maudlin thoughts coming from when there was a comedy in progress on the stage? The audience laughed as one, and Hannah fanned her face.

She had found intense enjoyment in Constantine’s bedchamber last week. But joy?

She would find it there tonight. She might even stay all night. It must be a strange feeling actually to sleep with a man in bed. To wake up beside him. To—

“Duchess.” His breath was warm on her ear. His voice was almost a whisper. “Woolgathering?”

“Constantine,” she murmured in response without taking her eyes off the stage, “watching me rather than the play?”

He did not answer.

***

CONSTANTINE HAD HAD a brief conversation with Monty in the box before going back down to the lobby to await the arrival of the duchess and Miss Leavensworth. Katherine had been speaking with the Parks and Mrs. Park’s brother, who were also of their party.

“Now let me guess, Con,” Monty had said. “Miss Leavensworth, is it? She is not a bad looker, but—Well, for shame. She is betrothed, I seem to recall. To a clergyman.”

“Not Miss Leavensworth, Monty, as you are very well aware,” Constantine had said.

Monty had recoiled in mock amazement. “Never tell me it is the duchess?” he had said. “After your disclaimer in the park when she looked you over from toe to head but did not offer her hand to be kissed?”

“A man may be allowed to change his mind from time to time,” Constantine had said.

“So the duchess is to be your mistress for this year.” Monty had grinned and shaken his head. “Dangerous, Con. Dangerous.”

“I do believe,” Constantine had said, “I can handle all the danger she cares to throw my way, Monty.”

Monty had waggled his eyebrows.

“Ah,” he had said, “but can she handle everything you throw her way, Con? This will be an interesting spring.”

Yes, it would, Constantine thought at the end of the evening as his carriage followed the duchess’s to Hanover Square—she had insisted, as she ought, upon returning to Dunbarton House with her friend. She would transfer to his carriage once they arrived there.

Yes, it would be an interesting spring. A sensually satisfying one, anyway, he did not doubt. The wait from last week to tonight had seemed interminable, and he guessed that his sexual appetite for the Duchess of Dunbarton would be barely sated before it was time for them both to go to their separate homes for the summer.

Their affair would not resume next year, of course. Neither of them would want that.

But was he making a mistake even this year?

She was beautiful, desirable, and vain. She was rich and arrogant and shallow.

He had not thought himself capable of abandoning all other considerations just for lust. Lust was his only motive for taking the duchess as his mistress, though.

And perhaps a certain fascination too. One he shared with much of the male half of the ton, of course, and with a significant proportion of the female half, for different reasons.

But only he knew the one very interesting fact about her—that she had lived to the age of thirty without ever once having sex.

It was still hard to believe.

His carriage drew to a halt behind hers, and he watched the two ladies disappear into the house. The doors closed. Her carriage was driven away, and his drew up closer to the front steps.