A Secret Affair

But not immediately.

When they had stepped outside the church, Ha

“Yes,” she said softly as if he had said something.

Her husband. Oh, he was her husband.

And they turned together, as if they had discussed it beforehand, and made their way into the churchyard. They stopped at the foot of one small and simple mound of grass. A headstone bore the five-line inscription, Jonathan Huxtable, Earl of Merton, Died November 8, 1812, Aged Sixteen Years, Rest in Peace.

They stood side by side, looking down at it, their hands clasped tightly.

“Jonathan,” Ha

Constantine’s clasp on her hand was almost painful.

“Jon,” he said, his voice a whisper of sound, “you would be happy today. But you were always happy. Go in peace now, brother. I have kept you too long. I always was selfish. Go in peace.”

A tear dripped from Ha

“I love you, Ha

“I love you too,” she said.

And they turned toward their wedding guests, who were crowded about the path outside the chapel doors, talking and laughing. Children darted about, their voices raised in high-pitched chatter.

Constantine laced his fingers with Ha

And the air rained rose petals.

Epilogue

IT WAS A PERFECT AUTUMN DAY. Not perfect enough for the baby’s nurse, perhaps. But then her anxieties would have denied him any outing at all until he had attained at least his first birthday. She would have made a hothouse plant of him if she had her way—which she had on all sorts of other issues since she had experience at her job and clearly loved the baby with all her grandmotherly heart.

Ha

The day really was perfect. The heat of summer had gone, but the chill of winter had not yet arrived. There was not a sign of a rain cloud, or any other cloud for that matter. And the wind had taken a holiday. So had yesterday’s light breeze. The sky was a riot of color. Not the sky itself, of course, which was a uniform blue, but the tree branches against it. Reds mingled with yellows and oranges and browns of all shades, as well as a few hardy greens. And very few leaves had yet fallen to the ground.

It would have been a lovely day for a ride—for a gallop across country and yet another challenge to a race. Ha

They rode sedately in the carriage—the closed carriage. Nurse might be overridden, but she could not be entirely defied. She had experience and they did not.

It was a journey they usually made with the dogs. A sizable and cozy corner of the stable block had been given over to dogs not long after their wedding when Constantine had the idea that the elderly at Land’s End needed more stimulus than just their own company and that of a few human visitors. And sure enough, the visits of the dogs were the highlight of their days. Sometimes Ha

Cyril and dogs had been made for one another. He fed them and groomed them, exercised and trained them, and loved them—and sometimes sneaked them into his room in the house while all the servants and his master and mistress became inexplicably blind and deaf. They doted upon him and followed him like shadows. They were gentle with him and for him and moped about the stables whenever he was away—under protest—at the village school.

Today it was not the dogs that were being taken to cheer the elderly.

Today it was four-month-old Matthew Huxtable, who in his parents’ admittedly biased estimation was the most beautiful child in the world. He had inherited his father’s dark hair and skin tone and his mother’s blue eyes and bright smile.

And today the elderly residents of Land’s End were indeed marvelously entertained as Matthew was placed in their arms one at a time by his papa and cooed up at them and occasionally, with some coaxing from his father’s finger wiggling over his stomach, favored them with a toothless smile.

Ha

And then the visit was over, and Ha

The baby’s eyelids drooped. He was not in the mood to be amused.

Whoever would have expected, Ha

The devil, tamed.

Except that he had never been a devil. Not even close.

He had been a man full of secrets. A man full of love.

She rested her cheek against his shoulder, and he turned his head to look down at her.

“I have just been trying to picture the Duchess of Dunbarton in my mind,” he said. “But the face of Ha

“The duchess served me well,” she said.

“I am glad,” he said, “you do not need her any longer.”

She sighed with contentment.

“I am glad too,” she said. “Matthew is sleeping. Let me hold him.”

He turned and set the baby in her arms without waking him, and stayed turned to gaze first at his son, and then at his wife.

“Have I told you that I love you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

He smoothed one gentle hand over the baby’s head and sat back in his seat.

“You can tell me again, though,” she said. “In fact, I absolutely insist that you do.”

He laughed softly.