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“It was after Vanessa had proposed to me,” he had said, raising his right hand. “I could not allow her to have the final word, now, could I? She said yes before I did.”
Theirs might be a story worth knowing, Constantine had thought.
In going impulsively to Dunbarton House within two hours of his return to town, he had hoped to settle the matter with Ha
It had not struck him that she might refuse to mount his horse with him. And indeed she had not done so.
It had not occurred to him that after she had done so and after he had kissed her quite lasciviously and in public, and she had kissed him back, she might then refuse to marry him.
Not that she had refused.
It was just that he had not asked.
And he had not even realized that until she had pointed it out. Dash it, there was all the difference in the world between asking and telling, and he had told.
Just like a gauche schoolboy.
Why was there not a university degree course in proposing marriage to the woman of one’s choice? Did everyone mess it up as thoroughly as he had done?
And so he had had to spend three days making amends. Or three days procrastinating. It depended upon whether one was being honest with oneself or not.
But once he had started, he had to allow the three days to proceed on their way. He could hardly rush in with his proposal after sending just one rose and the declaration that he lusted after her, could he?
If she intended to refuse him, he really had been making a prize ass of himself during the three days.
But there was no point in thinking about that, he realized as he dressed to make his afternoon call at Dunbarton House on the third day. He could not possibly not go now to see this wretched ordeal to its conclusion either way.
What if she was not at home? There must be a thousand and one reasons for her to be out—picnics, garden parties, excursions to Kew Gardens or Richmond Park, shopping, strolling early in the park, to name but a few of the myriad possibilities. Indeed, he thought as he rapped on the door, it would be surprising if she were at home.
The baser part of his nature hoped she was out.
Except that he could never go through this again.
The butler, as usual, did not know the contents of his own domain. He had to make his way upstairs as if there were no hurry at all to discover if the Duchess of Dunbarton was at home or not.
She was at home. And willing to receive him, it seemed. He was invited to follow the butler upstairs.
Would she have Miss Leavensworth with her?
They passed the doors of the drawing room and climbed another staircase. They stopped outside a single door, and the butler tapped discreetly on it before opening it and a
It was a parlor or sitting room, not a bedchamber. She was alone there.
On a table beside the door were a dozen white roses in a crystal vase. On a low table in the middle of the room were two dozen red roses in a silver urn. Their combined scent hung sweetly on the air.
The duchess sat sideways on a window seat, her legs drawn up before her, her arms crossed over her waist. She looked startlingly, vividly beautiful in scarlet red, which matched the roses almost exactly. Her hair lay smooth and shining over her head and was dressed in soft curls at her neck, with wispy tendrils of ringlets at her temples and ears. Her head was turned into the room, and she regarded him with dreamy blue eyes.
He was reminded of the scene in his own bedchamber the night they became lovers. Except that then she had been wearing only his shirt, and her hair had been loose down her back.
The butler closed the door and went on his way.
“Duchess,” he said.
“Constantine.”
She smiled—also dreamily—when he did not immediately continue.
“I need your protection,” she said. “I have been receiving anonymous notes.”
“Have you?” he said.
“Someone,” she said, “lusts after me.”
“I’ll challenge him to pistols at dawn,” he said.
“He also claims to be in love with me,” she said.
“Easily said,” he told her. “It does not go very deep, does it, that euphoric, romantic feeling?”
“But it is one of the most lovely feelings in the world,” she said. “Perhaps the most lovely. I am quite in love with him in return.”
“Lucky fellow,” he said. “I am definitely going to call him out.”
“He says he loves me,” she said, and her eyes made the almost imperceptible but quite remarkable change from dreamy to luminous.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“Mind to mind,” she said. “Heart to heart. Soul to soul.”
“And body to body?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said, her voice a murmur of sound. “And that too.”
“No barriers,” he said. “No masks or disguises. No fears.”
“None.” She shook her head. “No secrets. Two become one and indivisible.”
“And this,” he said, “is what your anonymous penman is saying to you?”
“In capital letters,” she told him.
“Ostentatious fellow,” he said.
“Absolutely,” she agreed. “Just look at all the roses he has sent me.”
“Ha
“Yes.”
He was still standing just inside the door. He strode toward her, and she held out her right hand. He took it in both his own and raised it to his lips.
“I do love you,” he said. “In capital letters and in every other way I can think of. And in every way I ca
He heard her inhale slowly.
It was time. And he was no longer nervous. He dropped to one knee, her hand still in his. His face was on a level with her own. The color was high in her cheeks, he could see. Her lips were slightly parted. Her eyes were still luminous and very blue—like the sky beyond the window.
“Ha
He had been rehearsing a speech for three long days. He could not remember a word of it.
“Yes,” she said.
He had been convinced that she would tease him, that she would play the part of Duchess of Dunbarton at least for a while before capitulating—if she capitulated at all. He had been so convinced, in fact, that he almost missed her response.
With his ears he almost missed it.
But with his heart?
“Yes,” she had said, and there really was nothing else to say.
They gazed at each other, and he raised her hand to press against his lips again.
“He used to tell me about it,” she said. “About love. And he used to promise me that I would know it for myself one day. I trusted him and believed him for every moment of my life from our first meeting to his final breath, Constantine, but I did not fully believe him in that. I believed that he had loved an extraordinary love for more than fifty years. But I was afraid to believe I ever would. I was wrong to fear, and he was right to be confident for me. I love you.”
“And will for more than fifty years?” he said.
“He used to say it was for eternity,” she said. “I believe him.”
He smiled at her, and she smiled back until he moved his head closer to hers and kissed her.
It had been almost three weeks since they had last made love, and it had seemed to him that he had been hungry for her every moment of every intervening day. Nevertheless, it was not with sexual hunger that they kissed. It was with …
Well, he had only ever kissed with sexual appetite and did not have words for this.
Affection? Far too tame.
Love?
A much overused word.
But whatever it was, they kissed with it.
And then, as their arms closed about each other and he lifted her from the sill and got to his feet with her so that he could turn and sit on the window seat with her on his lap, he knew the word. Or the best one available, anyway.