A Secret Affair

She hoped Constantine would appreciate what she had to show him, that he would not be bored or uncomfortable. That he would not misunderstand and think she was nothing but a bleeding heart or, worse, nothing but a maker of grand gestures.

She did not believe he would think either thing. She thought that he of all people would understand. But she was horribly nervous. Her stomach fluttered uncomfortably as she strode across the terrace and along the graveled path to the stables, and she wished she had not eaten so much at luncheon.

For this, she admitted to herself, was why she had wanted him to come here, why she had devised the house party so that it would be unexceptionable to invite him.

This was important to her. His reaction was important.

He was in the stables ahead of her, saddling the horse she usually rode herself, while a groom was fitting her side saddle on another. But Jet was the only horse really large enough for him, she conceded. He had changed into buff riding breeches and a black coat with black riding boots and tall hat.

He looked just at he had looked in Hyde Park the first time she saw him this spring. But different too. He was Constantine now. Her lover. Though, alas, they had not been intimate for a week. And would not be for several more days until they returned to London since she would not show disrespect for her house guests by indulging in a continuation of her affair on her own property. It seemed an interminable amount of time to have to wait. However, her courses had been kind enough to put in an appearance on the very day she left London. They were already behind her for another month.

“Duchess?”

He turned and looked her over from head to toe, and she saw open admiration in his eyes and pursed lips. Strange that, when she was really looking almost dowdy. She returned look for look, even to the pursed lips, and he gri

“Minx,” he said.

A few minutes later they rode out of the stable yard and set out behind the house and across country rather than keeping to the driveway and the road beyond it, as they would have had to do if they had traveled by carriage. It was not going to rain anymore—at least for a while. The clouds had broken up, and blue sky was taking over.

“Where are we going?” he asked. “Anywhere specific?”

“To Land’s End,” she said. “Oh, we are not going to be galloping all across southern England and down through Devon and Cornwall, you will be relieved to know. Land’s End is the name someone suggested for the dilapidated heap of an old house I bought a few years ago and converted into a very decent home with gardens quite formal enough to satisfy the most exacting of proponents of art over nature. The first suggestion was Life’s End, but no one would vote for it, and I insisted that all the first tenants of the house must agree upon a name. They liked Land’s End, though, when the tenant who suggested it explained that beyond the land was the eternal peace of the eternal deep, though I have not always seen the sea quite that way myself—I never did learn to swim. I did not have a vote, however, and so Land’s End it is.”

“Is this an elderly persons’ home?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

They rode in silence for a short while.

“This is the cause for which you sold your jewels?” he asked.

“It is,” she said.

“You love elderly people?” he asked.

She smiled. “I do. I loved one elderly gentleman very dearly. He had everything he needed for his physical comfort at the end of his long days. Thousands do not.”

“You are a fraud, Duchess,” he said.

“Of course I am not,” she said briskly. “What were all those jewels to me except a reminder that I was loved dearly for ten years? I have enough left to remind me more than sufficiently. Not that I need any reminder at all except my memories.”

They were coming to open country, she could see, a stretch of flat land that she always looked forward to whenever she rode to Land’s End.

His head was turned toward her. She did not return his look. She was not a bleeding heart. She loved those people. She had come here every few days over the past year, before she went to London after Easter, and so had eased her grief. She had come here five days ago after returning. She had come because she wanted to come, because she needed to come, not because she expected applause or adulation. Good heavens, the very idea!

“This particular stretch of the way is tedious if walked across,” she said, “and exhilarating when taken at a gallop. Do you see that tall pine tree in the distance?”

She pointed with her whip.

“The one with the crooked top?” he said.

“I’ll race you to it,” she said and was off before the words were all out of her mouth.

If she had been on Jet’s back, she would have had a fighting chance, even hampered as she was by her side saddle. But of course she was on Clover, who liked a respectable gallop but did not have a competitive bone in her body. They lost the race quite ignominiously.

Constantine was gri

“That will make you think twice before challenging me to another race, Duchess,” he said. “We did not even agree upon a prize before you tried to gain an unfair advantage with the element of surprise. That means, I believe, by international law, that I am able to choose my own prize.”

“Is there such a thing as international law?” she asked, laughing at him. “What would you choose if indeed the law were on your side?”

“Hold still,” he said, “while I think about it.”

And he rode up alongside her until his knee dug into the side of her thigh, leaned across the gap between them, and kissed her on the lips. Jet snorted and sidled away.

It was perhaps the briefest and least satisfactory of all their kisses. But it was the one that informed Ha

She was in love.

Which was very careless and incautious of her. And might well cause some pain at the end of the Season if she had not succeeded in falling out of love by then.

But she could not feel as sorry as she knew she ought. She felt as if eleven years of her life had somehow rolled away and left her young again and happy again—and in love again. Not in love with love this time, though, but with a real man, whom she liked and could actually love if she let herself. Totally committed, all the way through to the soul love, that was.

She would not be that foolish.

But, oh, to have a lover, and to be in love for the whole of a springtime—it made her want to leap from Clover’s back and dance in the meadow beneath the pine tree, her face and her arms lifted to the sun.

How wonderful it was to be young.

“You may smile,” he said. “That was the sorriest prize ever awarded the victor of a horse race, Duchess. Before this day is over, I am going to demand a far more satisfactory kiss than that.”

She gave him her best haughty duchess look.

“You have to catch me first, Mr. Huxtable,” she said. “But look. You can just see Land’s End from here.”

She pointed ahead and they moved off together, side by side, at a walk this time. It was visible through a gap in the trees, a solid, quite unremarkable manor that was in many ways as dear to her as Copeland.

“How did you finance Ainsley?” she asked him.

“I am not poverty stricken,” he said with a shrug. “I was left well provided for.”

“But not well enough, I would be willing to wager,” she said. “I know something of what it costs to finance such a project. Did your brother help? You said the whole thing was his idea.”

She thought he would not answer. He looked dark and brooding again for some time. And then he laughed softly.