For the Love of a Pirate (19 page)

“One more thing, my lord,” the captain said. “I think it would be better if you tell Lisabeth about your fiancée before you leave. It'll be hard, but you've got the words, and she's inclined to believe everything you say. I'm not. But let there be some truth between you at last.”

“I'd rather you had asked me for that from the very beginning,” Constantine said, pausing, his hand on the door. “Then things may not have turned out as they have done.” The captain's eyes blazed. Constantine didn't see. “But then,” he murmured, as though to himself, “they may have done. She really is unique, I never lied to you about that.”

“Aye, but had I told her she'd not have thrown herself at you, that I grant,” the captain said, deflated. “I trusted you to be a gentleman. But she is what she is, and you're only human. Be that as it may—we all sail the course the winds allow.”

“I'll tell her the truth,” Constantine said, turning to face his host again. “And I'll do it so she never blames herself. The truth is, mine was not a love match. Surely you know that. Now she will too. And then I'll leave as soon as I may, go back to London and put things right.” He bowed, and left the captain's study.

The captain was still frowning. Lord Wylde had said that his first engagement wasn't a love match. But neither did he say that his proposed match to Lisabeth was.

She twirled around her room, dancing with the dust motes she kicked up as they rose to float in the sunbeams coming through her window. Lisabeth had never felt so happy, so content, and so excited, all at once. He loved her! She loved him. The dream that had begun years ago in a musty old portrait had come to exquisite life. Her friends were all already married. She'd turned down local lads, and friends of friends, honest men and scoundrels, waiting for the man of her dreams to come along. He had.

So he wasn't a daring pirate bold, or a highwayman on the high Toby, courageously and dangerously trying to win enough money to rescue back his beloved wife. Constantine was actually a bit prim and very proper, but his lovemaking had been as wild and wonderful as she'd ever dreamed. Once she'd been in his arms, his composure had vanished. He'd been ardent, gentle, thorough, oh, most deliciously thorough.

She sank to a chair and grinned to herself. She was the one who'd been courageous and bold. He hadn't known how frightened she'd been, how unsure and anxious. It was a wild and desperate thing she'd done, but she'd come to realize he was too much of a gentleman to ever make the first move. So she'd steeled herself, and done it. It wasn't as though he weren't interested. He'd signaled his desire a thousand ways. He'd said he was staying for only a brief visit, and had remained at her side for over a month. He gazed at her when he thought she wasn't looking, he watched her every move. She knew he wanted her as much as she'd wanted him.

So, although terrified of making a fool of herself, she'd finally decided to tempt him to the limit. She'd forgotten her fears the moment he'd caught her up in his arms. She'd known what to expect, after all. Hadn't Lovey told her about it a thousand times?

But she'd never guessed how much more wonderful it really was. To be so close to him as to be part of him. To feel his pleasure and know she was the one who provided it for him. To experience all those new sensations, to stroke his naked skin, to hear his breath in her ear, to hold him and wonder at his utter loss of control, because of her. She couldn't wait to do more with him, try more, feel more.

Now, she'd have the rest of her life for that. Would they live in London? Here? He had an estate. Would they go there? She wanted to stay here, and be there, but above all, to be with him always.

Now her only problem lay in what to do next. She hadn't told Lovey yet, only because her old governess was taking an afternoon nap. She giggled, just thinking of Lovey's reaction when she found out. For once, she'd acted on her own. Now, what would Lovey think of that?

She was tired of waiting and too keyed up to sit down. She stood. Should she go downstairs and wait for him? He'd said he was going to speak to Grandy. She sat. Should she wait for a summons? She rose again. She couldn't sit still and she couldn't go anywhere yet. How did one greet a man one had just made love with? Surely not with simpers or uneasiness. And yet surely not with cries of love, or by clinging to him either. He was, with all they'd done, still a reserved man, a gentleman, a fellow who observed the proprieties. She wished she knew what they were in this instance.

She'd cleaned herself up and changed her clothing once again. Her smile grew tender as she remembered how he'd helped her wash in the brook before they'd come home. Now, she'd washed again, dressed in a fine long-sleeved coffee-colored gown, and arranged her hair. She couldn't look better, so now she'd wait. At least another five minutes.

“Miss Lisabeth?” her maid said, appearing at her door. “Lord Wylde's waiting downstairs. He wants to see you.”

Lisabeth stood, walked to her door, and with the greatest restraint, resisted the urge to slide down the long banister, and instead, only flew down the stairs to meet Constantine.

He was waiting in the hall. He looked ill at ease, but so very handsome, she thought. He'd dressed in correct afternoon wear. Not correct for a warm afternoon in the countryside, but for a gentleman paying a call on a lady in London town. He bowed when he saw her. She thought that was quaint, and absurd. Surely they were beyond that by now? Shouldn't he have literally greeted her with open arms, picking her up and twirling around with her in exultation? Saying something like: “You're mine, at last!”?

But that was the stuff of her old daydreams. This was the real Constantine, Lord Wylde, after all. And she supposed he'd put his best foot forward for Grandy.

She bowed to him and then raised her head, and an eyebrow, in inquiry.

“I spoke with the captain,” he said. “He gave me permission to marry you . . . with some reservations.” He saw her frown, and added quickly, “But these are things we can resolve here and now.” He offered her his arm. “Will you come for a walk in the gardens with me?”

She put her hand on his arm, and paced out of the house and into the gardens with him in silence. They walked to a rose arbor with a bench beneath it. He waited until she sat, but didn't sit beside her. Instead, he stood, looking down at her.

She admired the way the sunlight lit his hair, the way it showed the glow of his eyes, the way it outlined the whole cut of the man.

“I haven't been completely honest with you,” he said.

She caught her breath. “I've been completely honest with you,” she replied.

“Have you?” he asked, raising a winged eyebrow.

She lowered her gaze. She'd flung herself into his arms and hadn't told him she'd never done such a thing with any man before. She'd never know if he'd have made love to her had he known that. Or if he'd have volunteered to marry her if she'd given herself to another man before.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the bench she sat on.

She blinked. They'd shared their bodies less than three hours past, and now he was asking permission to sit beside her? “You're married,” she said flatly.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. He sat beside her and turned to look at her. There was a rueful look in his eyes. “I was engaged. Still am, that is, at least, for now. I came here on your grandfather's invitation. He read of my engagement in the newspaper and came to see me in London. He was outraged. He waved a pistol at me and told me I was already promised in wedlock, to his granddaughter. You,” he said unnecessarily.

She gasped; her hand flew to her neck.

“Then he told me about my father and my great-grandfather, all things I'd never known. I came here straightaway to find out more. I met you. And . . .” He paused. “And I was captivated.”

“Now there's a false note,” she said, standing. She felt hot, cold, and empty. They'd been so close, now she'd never felt further away from him. His protestations were warm; his voice was cool and even. “You were seduced, my friend,” she said. “Don't put fine feathers on it.”

“I was captivated,” he said, standing and looking down at her. “As I said. My engagement was not a love match. It was time for me to marry, Miss Winchester was an appropriate match, she found me to be the same, and so we made it a bargain.”

“So coldly?” she asked, searching his eyes.

He nodded. “I knew no other way.” At last, a faint smile made his lips curl, in wonder or in distaste, she couldn't say. “I never kissed her as I kissed you. I've never actually embraced her. That engagement must be unmade now. I want to marry you.”

“And my grandfather's conditions?” she asked.

“That I tell you about my engagement,” he said.

“And nothing else?”

He sighed. “He thinks I've ruined you. He no longer approves of me. He said that if you are not . . . eventually encumbered with the consequences of our actions, he might not allow our marriage.”

“And you?” she asked, and waited.

“And I want to marry you,” he said. “Whatever the consequences.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Consequences?” She considered the word. “A poor reason for wedlock. Even so, how do I know what you say is true?”

“You don't want to marry me?” he asked as answer.

“What I want doesn't matter just now,” she said angrily. “You were engaged. You were seduced. If I am not with child, why should we marry?”

“You make love to all your guests?” he asked softly.

“With none,” she snapped, “as you know. But I won't take charity or sympathy.”

“How can I prove my sincerity to you?”

She looked at him. He stared back at her.

He reached out, took her into his arms, and kissed her. “This way,” he said roughly, when he lifted his head.

“I'll need more convincing,” she said breathlessly.

“Oh, good,” he said.

They walked back to the house slowly, arm in arm and in silence.

“I'll go to London, and end the matter of my engagement,” he said, “and then, after a few weeks, I'll send for you. We can marry there or here, it's your choice. But I want the world to know who you are. There'll be no hole-in-the-corner ceremony for us. You and your grandfather and whoever else you think necessary will come to stay with me, or if you prefer, we can rent a house for you until the banns have been read and the invitations to our wedding sent out. I've cut ties to my uncle, or I'd have you stay at his home, though I don't think you could bear him. One day, he and I will thrash things out—not literally, of course. And then we may be polite acquaintances, if never friends. Our children may find such connections important.”

“Will you lose your friends and your reputation because of this?” she asked.

“I don't think so. It will be done so that Miss Winchester is the one to end the relationship. That is the customary way to do such things. I have only to tell her about my family to accomplish that.”

She stopped and stared. “So she'd have ended it anyway?”

“No,” he said. “If I'd left here promptly and never returned, she'd never know. I didn't want to do that.”

“But you did, once,” she persisted.

“Once upon a time,” he said. “Before the princess's kiss woke me from my sleep.”

“Coming it too strong,” she said.

He laughed.

“You're sure you don't want me to come with you to London?”

“No,” he said. “Let me make arrangements, so you don't have a moment of unease.”

She looked up into his eyes. “All right. But one thing, my lord: be sure, be utterly sure. If you find that when you get back to London and your proper lady, that she
is
the one for you, I'd rather know it sooner than later. I do have other beaux, you know. And here in the countryside we are more liberal, I think.”

“I want to be more liberal, Lisabeth,” he said. “I want you.”

She smiled, and they went slowly back to Sea Mews.

They were met in the hall by a beaming Miss Lovelace. “We have company!” she trilled.

“What?” Lisabeth said. “Who?”

“Two dashing gents,” Lovey burbled. “Top o' the trees! Tulips of the
ton
, or at least one is. He's so fashionable, dust wouldn't dare settle on his boots. The other is manly and athletic, a Corinthian, a sportsman par excellence. I'd bet my breeches on it. Friends of Lord Wylde, they said, coming to inquire as to his welfare and whereabouts, since they hadn't heard from him in a long while. The captain was surprised and then delighted to meet them. Handsome as they can stare, the pair of them. Mannered, mannerly, and charming. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't lose your heart to one of them or both, Lisabeth, as I've already done. Why does age come upon us so quickly?” she asked sorrowfully. “Just when we know all the rigs and roundabouts, we're too old to use them. Ah, me. Oh, well.”

She finally focused on Lisabeth and Constantine. “Why, you two already look fine!” she cried. “Were you expecting them? Fie for not telling me! Come in, and greet them.”

“Their names?” Constantine asked.

“The fascinating dark one is Sir Richard Kendall, the glorious blond is Sir Blaise de Wolf,” Miss Lovelace said dreamily.

Constantine grinned. “Yes, they are good friends. And they came all the way here to be sure I was doing well, they said? Trust me,” he told Lisabeth, “it's gossip they're after, not reassurance. My letters were vague; I stayed longer than I said I would. I'm not known to deviate from my schedule. They must be dying of curiosity as well as worry about my welfare. But either way, you'll find them amusing. And they mean nothing but well.”

She hesitated. Now her experience of his world would begin. Would she fit in? Would she make him proud of her, or embarrass him? She'd been so foolishly sure of herself. She hadn't thought it through, or considered an aftermath, after lovemaking, aside from dreamily imagining clutches of children who looked like him. She'd simply thrown herself at this man, and after a second of surprise, he'd succumbed. And though he'd sworn to wed her, he'd never said he loved her. Only that he wanted her.