Sinfully handsome.

He had the good sense to dress in black—apart from his buff riding breeches and white shirt, that was. His riding coat was black and molded the powerful muscles of his chest and shoulders and upper arms like a second skin. His boots were black too, as was his tall hat. Even his horse was black.

Goodness, he looked downright dangerous, Hannah thought approvingly. He looked unattainable. He looked like an impregnable fortress. He looked as if he would be able to pick her up in one hand—while she was storming the fortress, that was—and crush every bone in her body.

He was very definitely the one. For this year anyway. Next year she would choose someone else. Or perhaps next year she would give some serious consideration to finding someone to love, someone with whom to settle down permanently. But she was not ready for that yet. This year she was ready for something quite different.

“Oh, Hannah,” Barbara said, doubt in her voice, “he does not look like a very pleasant man. I do wish—”

“But who,” Hannah asked as she walked into the crowd with her half-smile firmly in place, “wants a pleasant man for a lover, Babs? He sounds like a dreadful bore, whoever he might be.” 

***

 SO HERE HE WAS AGAIN, Constantine Huxtable thought. Back in London for another Season. Back in Hyde Park, surrounded by half the ton, his second cousin Stephen, Earl of Merton, riding on one side of him, Monty—Jasper, Baron Montford, his cousin Katherine’s husband—on the other.

It might have been yesterday that he was here last. It was hard to believe another year had gone by. He had thought he might not bother to come at all this year. He thought it every year, of course. But every year he came.

There was just some irresistible lure that brought him back to London in the springtime, he admitted to himself as the three of them tipped their hats to a couple of elderly ladies in big bonnets who were being driven slowly by in an ancient barouche manned by an even more ancient coachman. The ladies acknowledged the greeting with identically raised hands and nodding heads. As if they were royalty.

He loved being home at Ainsley Park in Gloucestershire. He was never so happy as when he was there, immersing himself in the busy life of the farm, in the equally busy activities in the house. There was scarcely a moment to call his own when he was in the country. And he certainly could not complain of loneliness there. His neighbors were always eager to invite him to participate in all their social entertainments, even if they were a bit dubious about his activities at Ainsley.

And at Ainsley itself … Well, the house was so teeming with people that he had taken up residence in the dower house two years ago in order to preserve some privacy in his life—as well as to make his rooms in the house available for new arrivals. The arrangement had worked perfectly well until a small group of children had discovered the conservatory attached to the dower house this past winter and made a playhouse out of it. And then, of course, they had needed to use the kitchen to find dishes and water for their dolls’ tea parties. And …

Well, and one day, in the absence of his cook, Constantine had found himself raiding the pantry to find the sweet biscuit jar for them—and then joining their tea party, for the love of God.

It was no wonder he made his escape to London every spring. A man needed some peace and quiet in his life. Not to mention sanity.

“It always feels good to be back in town, does it not?” Monty said cheerfully.

“Even if I have just been banished from my own home,” Stephen said.

“But the ladies must be allowed to admire the heir without the interference of mere men,” Monty said. “You would not really wish to be there, would you, Stephen? When your sisters have gone to all the trouble of inviting a dozen other ladies to join them in their admiration and to bring gifts, which Cassandra will have to admire and they will all have to examine and, ah, coo over?” He shuddered theatrically.

Stephen grinned. “You have a point, Monty,” he said.

His countess had recently borne him a son. Their first. An heir. A future Earl of Merton. It really did not matter to Constantine. After his father there had been his brother Jonathan—Jon—as earl for a few years and now there was Stephen. Eventually there would be Stephen’s son. He and Cassandra might proceed to have a whole string of spares over the next number of years if they chose. It would make no difference to Constantine. He would never be the earl himself.

It did not matter. He had always known that he would not. He did not really care.

They stopped to exchange pleasantries with a couple of male acquaintances. The park was full of familiar faces, Constantine saw as he looked idly around. There were almost no new ones at all, and those few there were belonged mostly to very young ladies—the new crop of marriageable hopefuls come to the great marriage mart.

There were a few beauties among them too, by Jove. But Constantine was surprised and not a little alarmed to discover how clinical the inward analysis was. He felt no stirring of real interest in any of them. He might have done so without any fear of seeming presumptuous. His illegitimacy was a mere legal trifle. It prohibited him from inheriting his father’s title and entailed property, it was true, but it had no bearing on his status in the ton as the son of an earl. He had been brought up at Warren Hall. He had been left comfortably well off on his father’s death.

He might shop at the marriage mart if he chose and expect considerable success. But he was thirty-five years old. These new beauties looked uncomfortably like children to him. Most of them would be seventeen or eighteen.

It really was a little alarming. He was never going to get any younger, was he? And he had never intended to go through life as a single man. When, then, was he going to marry? And, more to the point, whom would he marry?

He had made his prospects somewhat dimmer, of course, when he acquired Ainsley Park a number of years ago and proceeded to populate it with society’s undesirables—vagabonds, thieves, ex-soldiers, the mentally handicapped, prostitutes, unwed mothers and their offspring, and assorted others. Ainsley was a hive of industry and was gratifyingly prosperous after a few years of nothing but expenses—and hard work.

A young wife, however, particularly one of gentle birth, would certainly not appreciate being taken to live among such company and in such a place—and in the dower house to boot. A month or so ago his living room had been commandeered as a nursery for the dolls too tired to keep their eyes open after their tea in the conservatory.

“Let me guess,” Monty said, leaning closer to Constantine. “The one in green?”

He had been staring quite fixedly, Constantine realized, at two young ladies with two stern-looking maids a couple of paces behind them—and all four had noticed. The girls were giggling and preening themselves while the maids were closing the gap to one and a half paces.

“She is the prettier of the two,” Constantine conceded, looking away. “The one in pink has the better figure, though.”

“I wonder which one,” Monty said, “has the richer papa.”

“The Duchess of Dunbarton is back in town,” Stephen said as the three of them moved on. “Looking as lovely as ever. She must be just out of mourning. Shall we go and pay our respects?”

“By all means,” Monty said, “provided we can get from here to there without being mowed down by the next six carriages in line and without mowing down the next six pedestrians in line. They always will stray from the footpath, to their imminent peril.”

He proceeded to lead the way, weaving a skillful path among carriages and horsemen until they reached the pedestrians, most of whom were strolling safely on the path designed for them.

Constantine saw her at last. But how could anyone not once he paid the proper attention to his surroundings? She was all willowy, delicate whiteness and pink-tinged complexion and lips and blue, fathomless bedroom eyes.

If the woman had chosen to be a courtesan instead of Dunbarton’s wife she would be the most celebrated one in England by now. And she would have made a veritable fortune. Of course, she had made a fortune anyway, had she not, by persuading that old fossil to marry for the first and only time in his life. And then by squeezing him dry of everything that was not nailed down by the entail.

She had a suitably respectable-looking companion with her. And she was holding court, favoring a large number of persons gathered about her—almost exclusively male—with her enigmatic half-smile and occasionally one of her white-gloved hands, on the forefinger of which winked a diamond large enough to bash out the brains of any man incautious enough to be impudent.

“Ah,” she said, turning her languid gaze from her court, most of which was forced onward by the crowd, “Lord Merton. Looking as angelically handsome as ever. I do hope Lady Paget appreciates the value of her prize.”

She was soft-spoken. Her voice was light and pleasant. Of course, she must never need to speak loudly. When she opened her mouth to speak, all about her fell silent to listen.

She favored Stephen with her hand, and he carried it to his lips and smiled at her.

“She is Lady Merton now, ma’am,” he said. “And I certainly appreciate the value of my prize.”

“Good man,” she said. “You have made the correct answer. And Lord Montford. Looking really quite … tamed. Lady Montford is to be commended.”