Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (32 page)

She wanted him, ached for the security being his wife would provide. He was as solid as he was real and she raked her nails across his back to mark him as her own. What a treacherous woman she'd become. How vile and low she was, to desire his complete manhood.

“I prayed you would come,” she whispered. “You don't know how much I have prayed for it.”

“Perhaps not,” he said, kissing her lips. “But you could spend a lifetime showing me.”

Oh God, she could not stop wanting him if she tried. Her desire threatened to swallow her whole and she was at a loss as to understand why. Because of it, a burst of decency flooded over her. What she was doing went against everything she believed in. She hated lies as much as she hated being lied to. Though she desperately needed to make sure Percy accepted her child, she could not dupe this wonderful man who'd given her more than she'd ever dared to hope for.

“Stop,” she said, wrenching her lips free from his. “There are so many things you do not know, so many things I must tell you.”

He laughed, burrowing his head into her neck like a rooting child. “I know all I need to know.”

“Stop,” she pleaded. “You must listen. We cannot do this. I must tell you — ”

“Tell me what?”

“I'm not who you think I am,” she said.

She focused upon his face in the darkness but his body communicated what he did not say. He pressed his arousal against her, teasing her, moving slowly, heightening her desire for him.

“You're my wife,” he whispered. “That's enough.”

“Yes. Yes, but … ” she could not think of the words to finish her sentence. He'd entered her, slipping inside her with silky smooth grace. Fire engulfed her, and with each thrust, he stirred her to move with him, for him.

“I must tell you … ” She moaned again as he rocked slow, ratcheting up her need, forcing her to relinquish her body, her will, her spirit, giving everything to Percy, her heart, her soul. Nothing existed but his touch, his voice, the musculature of his body molding, grinding, satisfying. She explored his toned flesh with eager hands and moaned, again aching more than ever for the ecstasy he brought her. Together, they were bound by primal elements, man, woman. With each stroke and rhythmic drive of Percy's hips, Constance shot to the stars, higher than she'd ever dreamed possible.

Yes, she thought. This
was
a dream. It had to be. Only a duke was not normally part of her dreams, but a rogue who'd taken her heart and soul by night.

• • •

Dull clanking and scraping interrupted her sleep. Morning light flickered through the drawn curtains, forcing Constance to open her eyes, however much it pained her. A movement caught her attention. Seeing she'd finally awakened, Mrs. Mortimer stood over her, arms crossed, brows arching quizzically.

“You're a lazy one this fine morning. I thought I'd never get you up in time to breakfast with your husband.”

Constance bolted upward. “My husband?”

“Lord Stanton, of course. I mean, His Grace.”

“His Grace?”

Morty covered her mouth. “Oh, dear! You don't remember, do you?”

Eyes blurry, her head beginning to throb as she remembered vaguely the dream that wasn't a dream and the reasons Percy would have risen to his current status. Constance's attention riveted to Mrs. Mortimer. “Percy's father
is
dead.” It was a statement, not a question.

Fluffing up the pillows behind her, Morty answered. “'Tis a sad state of affairs, Constance. Jeffers informed me about His Grace's passing. He also told me the duke returned during the night and wishes for you to join him posthaste.”

“He wishes to see me?” she exclaimed, laughing at the absurdity. He'd done more than see her. He'd spent the entire night exploring her body in this very bed.

“You are the parrot today, my dear. I would think a smile might suggest in some small way you're excited to see the man you married. After all, he's going to be the father of your children,” she emphasized with a smile tugging the corner of her lips.

“Children?” Lord, she was going to be sick. Her morning sickness had subsided somewhat, but guilt, or was it exhaustion, seemed to bring everything up. She went to the sideboard and splashed cold water over her face. Toweling off, she gazed into the mirror, noting the rings framing her eyes. She frowned, disgusted with her image. She wanted to look as beautiful as possible for her husband today. Perhaps then, when she told him about the baby, he would find a way to forgive her.

“You look a fright, Constance. Didn't you get any sleep?”

She prayed Mrs. Mortimer could not read her thoughts but that was always a vain hope. “Why do you ask?”

Morty laid her hands upon Constance's shoulders and Constance turned to face her dearest friend. “The truth is under your eyes, my pet.”

If she only knew the truth. “I must admit, I did not sleep much at all.”

“At least we agree on something this morning,” she noted.

Would it hurt to tell Morty the truth? She would be overjoyed to know that their futures were secure.

“Well,” she clucked, “let's put a cool compress over your eyes.” Morty guided her toward the bed. “Lie back and lay still. I'll see you to rights soon enough. You'll want to impress your husband, not depress him after all he's been through.” She chortled and hummed as she moved about the room.

No. It was better not to burden Morty with the truth. Percy had suffered enough. The death of his father, and his new duties as the Duke of Blendingham, were burdensome in and of themselves. Not to mention strapping to himself a wife on the cusp of scandal.

Constance placed a trembling hand over her heart. Once she had led an irreproachable life. No more. In just a few weeks, she'd become unrecognizable.

Mrs. Mortimer sat down beside her and placed a cool compress over her eyes. “Darling, what has happened?”

Constance stared into the woman's middle-aged eyes, noting a mixture of genuine love, admiration, and curiosity reflected there. “How many years have we known each other, Morty?”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “I'd rather not count,” she said. “But every one of them have been the best years of my life.”

“I think of our first meeting often. You were wearing a gray gown, which completely hardened your eyes and soured your skin.” She couldn't help but giggle.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “The styles I was forced to wear as a widow.” With a wink, she added, “They were not fashionable or flattering, to say the least.”

Constance giggled. “But they enabled me to see you for who you were,” she said.

“A bothersome nosey body?” she asked, slinging her own words back at her.

“No.” She sighed. “Never that.”

Silence drifted between them. Mrs. Mortimer had never really spoken of her husband openly, unless it was to discuss the merits of marriage. She'd never had any children of her own, which had made her a perfect candidate to raise her after her own mother's death. But she had dealt her a firm hand, sparing the rod, lavishing her with love and reassurance when her father had recoiled from life. Throughout every nuance of her life, Morty had been by her side. She was her trusted confidant. She'd been there to calm her when nightmares had awakened her during the night. The woman had been a godsend and she'd been humbled beyond measure when she'd agreed to accompany her to Spain.

Constance hesitated to speak into the great pause that seized the space between them. “The day I met you was a momentous day, Morty. You taught me that no matter what fate places in your path, life goes on. While you mourned your husband, you found the courage to live. You helped me accept the pain of my mother's death and my father's estrangement. You passed onto me a strength that will guide me as I mother my own children.”

Mrs. Mortimer stroked her hair, her eyes brimming with tears. “You were as skittish as a mouse, all ears, unkempt hair, quick to take flight at the slightest provocation. I thought I'd never make a lady out of you.” She laughed. “Of course, I never expected to be with you this long, either. Now look at the two of us. You're married and expecting your first child.” She sniffled. “I couldn't be prouder than if I was your real mother.”

“You are my mother,” she admitted. “I would not be who I am today without you.”

A tear slipped down Morty's cheek and her lip quivered slightly. She rose from the bed in an attempt to regain control of her composure.

“It's been ages since you've been this insufferable, Constance. What are you trying to do? Distract me?” Was she that transparent?

Constance sat up and rose from the bed, suddenly bearing the weight of every woman ever born. She placed her fingertip on the clothing Morty selected and worried her lower lip, before disappearing behind a screen to change.

She had made a horrible mess of her life, deserting her father and running away to Spain only to be captured by cutthroats. Falling in love with her captor and then marrying a wealthy gentleman — one who offered nothing but fealty, trust, and protection — to cover up her pregnancy.

“Dearest,” Mrs. Mortimer cooed. “Do wear the yellow ribbons that match your dress when you break your fast. The color will lighten up your face and buoy your spirits. To be sure, His Grace will be your slave 'ere long.”

“My slave? I cannot imagine Percy being anyone's slave.”
Nor can I imagine he will believe my sudden support of Burton, should I do as the bastard commands.

“Well, slave or free man, he will take one look at you and fall to his knees. Yes,” she said, happy with her choice of words. “It's a grand day, a day to make a new start. And no finer time to begin winning your husband's heart then the present.”

Constance's spirits soared. “Indeed. I have but one goal in mind,” she said honestly. “The happiness of my child.”

• • •

“What has my wife been up to, Jeffers?”

“I prefer not to gossip, Your Grace. That does not suit.”

Percy harrumphed. “Must you adhere to protocol at all times? I do not want to be reminded that I am not worthy to eat your bannocks.”

“Old habits die hard, Your Grace.”

Percy folded the Gazette and placed it near his plate. He had no interest in the news. Jeffers's attempts at humor thwarted his concentration and he grew sour with impatience. He was eager to see Constance. Heaven help him, he couldn't get enough of the woman. What was taking her so long to appear?

Plagued by thoughts of his father's death and his pleasurable night in Constance's bed, he brooded over on her new status as the Duchess of Blendingham and what that would entail. He walked a tight rope where she was concerned, risking a legacy hundreds of years in the making.

“I'm not who you think I am,” she'd said.

Those seven words were ingrained into his mind. But what had she really been trying to tell him? Was she going to admit she was pregnant with a pirate's baby,
his
baby? The idea was ludicrous. Had she been prepared to admit she was an informant? That she was, in fact, in cahoots with Josiah Cane and Frink? Improbable. He doubted there could be any involvement with Frink. He'd been aboard the
Octavia
and witnessed her violent interaction with the captain.

Still, something wasn't quite right.

For nigh onto a week, he'd watched her toss and turn in her sleep. Last night he hadn't meant to wake her, but she'd seen him. His father's death, the heavy weight the duchy placed upon him, and questions about her loyalties had driven him to her side. That he'd needed her more than anything else in this world jolted him. He had never needed anyone like he needed, wanted, Constance. But he had to admit there were burdensome complexities arising from that admission.

He was playing a game that might destroy her.

She had feelings for another man. To add to his dismay, he also had two buffoons seeking their marital demise, Burton and Frink.

His fingers played with the locket in his pocket, tracing the engravings as if he knew each curve by heart. As well he should after spending a week pondering how it had gotten into the wrong hands. Retrieving the silver locket, he glanced down at the polished surface, engraved with the initials OD and caught his reflection. His powdered skin and hawkish eyes condemned him for being false. He was a fool to expect a woman to fall in love with a popinjay. Constance wasn't a fool. She was very much like the sparkling silver between his fingers, a polished embellishment, providing a gentleman distinguished swagger, making him the envy of every other male in town.

Burton wanted her, badly enough to threaten her. Guffald wanted her, but Percy discounted his friend, knowing he would sidestep if Percy demanded it. And there was Thomas Sexton to consider. Making love to his wife was a difficult affair. In her arms, he could neither be a duke by light of day or a pirate by night.

Voices carried down the stairs, alerting him that he would no longer be alone. Setting aside his concerns, he was eager to share Constance's company, to gauge whether or not she still had that same passionate glow in the wake of their lovemaking. He placed the locket back in his banyan.

“Good morning, Jeffers,” her melodic voice sang. Her skirts swished and he could hear the tap, tap, tap, of her slippered feet on the marble floor.

“You'll find a vast array of delicacies to sample this morning, your Ladyship. His Lordship is already seated. Ring if you need me. I shall not be far.”

“Thank you, Jeffers. You're most accommodating.”

Percy closed his eyes as he listened to her gentile words. Within seconds, she rounded the corner with Mrs. Mortimer at her side. The two women who stood before him could not have been more different. Mrs. Mortimer, with unruly graying hair and dour skin, paled beside his lovely wife whose blonde hair had been arranged in looped braids. Dangling curls fit for a Grecian goddess appeared like a halo around her head. And her sunny disposition was a boon to his spirits.