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Lucan exited without fanfare and jumped into his waiting carriage. His driver knew exactly where to carry him, and they rumbled into motion. No, he would show no mercy to all who had participated in Marissa’s ruin. He had already claimed vengeance on two of the men responsible for her demise. And in a very similar manner, Calydon would be the last. Lucan would not be swayed. No matter how tempting it was to pursue a different path with a green-eyed beauty.
…
An hour later, Lucan stood in bleak stillness in Kensal Green Cemetery, immune to the cold gust of wind at his sister’s grave. He stared at the carved letters on the monument: Marissa’s name, her date of birth and death—the sum of her existence. No withered flowers other than his to show anyone thought of her beyond the foul rumors that whispered of her demise.
Even now, years later, he could still unearth the whispers that had tainted her name. Marissa the pure, Marissa the lovely, had slowly become Marissa the mistress, Marissa the abandoned. Misused and abandoned by The Duke of Calydon.
When Lucan had started his hunt, old gossips had surfaced of the duke himself being her murderer and people were sure he had strangled Marissa with his own hands. Lucan heard of how Calydon had fought with Lord Stanhope in his country home over Marissa. Then later when Calydon had been spurned, they said he had killed her. Then the rumors changed, insisting Lady Stanhope had killed herself. Lucan, however, knew the full truth; he had dozens of her letters, which he read over and over again.
“You are tormented by the path you have taken,” the Reverend murmured.
Lucan grunted and placed the flowers on the grave. After saying a quick prayer, he walked off and the Reverend followed beside him silently.
“I had never thought it would be so. Is it because of Lady Constance?”
Lucan glanced at Westbrook, the second man he called friend and his partner in Decadence. Their relationship was very much a paradox. Westbrook was the rector at Lucan’s ducal seat in Suffolk. They were childhood friends who had known hardship and pain together. So when Westbrook had approached Lucan for the post, he had simply appointed Westbrook rector, despite Lucan’s surprise his friend desired such a position in life. He knew Westbrook understood about demons and wanting redemption for past failures, so Lucan never hesitated. Before he could even begin to formulate and express how Constance made him feel, Westbrook spoke.
“Since your return to London I have never seen you so free, so relaxed.”
Lucan grunted, unable to refute Westbrook’s observation.
“Are you still adamant on making Calydon pay?”
“I cannot release him from his debt.”
“No one forced Marissa to do what she did, Lucan,” Westbrook pointed out firmly. It was not the third or fourth time his friend had tried to make him see reason with that argument. But Lucan saw clearly enough. He was without illusions. They all failed her, and Lucan may have been the greatest culprit of them all, for he had not saved her. He had read the unhappiness in her letters, seen the path of destruction she had been on. But he had stayed in India, then sailed to the West seeking his fortune, thinking that was what she needed to be happy. He should have dropped everything and come home for her. Now he had more wealth than he could use in his lifetime, and she was far beyond his help. Nothing he could do would atone for her death, but he could ensure every party suffered.
He ignored the taunting whisper of his conscience proclaiming Constance to be blameless. God, she was beautiful. He did not like how she appealed to him. To court vengeance against Calydon would be to ruin Constance. Something Lucan doubted he could do. As if Marissa heard him from the grave, the yew trees rustled and swayed under a powerful gust, and the wind whistled a long mournful cry into the night. No, he could not turn back. He would not fail her so completely. But he could not bring himself to do what Calydon had done to Marissa. Woo her, bed her, and then abandon her.
Constance was too innocent. Lucan promised himself then and there, no matter the temptation, he would not make love to her. He gritted his teeth even as his body surged in denial. She was so responsive, her kisses so sweet and enticing. He hungered to be inside her more than how he had ever done with any other woman. And he feared he would never feel such a visceral desire for anyone again. But he would leave her untouched by him at least in that regard. He was a blackguard, but he was not that far gone.
He closed his eyes against the ache that bloomed inside his chest. He would have to execute his revenge against Calydon soon. He moved ahead of time, but he had to do so. Constance tempted him too much. He had to act now, or fall into her lures so deeply he would abandon his plans and fail his sister all over again.
Chapter Nine
Constance knew without a doubt Lucan was the man for her. She luxuriated in the thrilling knowledge. He was not exactly how she had dreamed her prince charming would be. She had always imagined someone fairer, closer to her own height, someone with a sweet and amiable disposition. She did not believe Lucan was of a sweet disposition. He was too intense. But he was a gentleman, kind and caring of her sensibilities, and he roused sensations and needs in her she had not thought possible. In short, he was absolutely perfect. She had determined she would not leave tonight’s ball without full knowledge of his intention toward her. A bold undertaking, but she was resolute. Her mother kept pressing her to accept Lord Litchfield’s hand and with the belief only marriage could salvage Constance’s reputation, her mother would soon convince her father and brothers of Litchfield’s suit.
Constance had ensured she would look fetching as she faced Lucan tonight. She wore a brilliant satin burgundy gown. Her hair was bound tightly, with plaits wrapped around her head like a crown, and it glittered with multitudes of golden threads. Her red satin dancing slippers sparkled under the chandeliers as she swept from the stifling heat of Lady Beaumont’s ball. It was a rousing success and the crush was more than Constance could bear. And as she stepped outside, she took a deep breath of the cool night air.
But her true reason for leaving had been seeing Lucan exiting through the side doors. She slipped outside into the gardens knowing she would have only a few moments before being found by her mother or Charlotte. Constance walked with nimble steps down the stone path and then paused. She was so sure the intent look he had given her before he slipped away had meant that she should follow him. She bit her lip, wondering if she was being silly. What if he had gone into the garden to meet with someone else?
She dismissed the thought instantly. He was a gentleman. He would never walk and share such kisses with her if he was interested in someone else. She rounded the bend and stepped into the garden. Its enclosure was intimate and secluded, and she saw no one. She walked a bit further into the garden and as she turned to return inside, she saw him standing at the edge of a bush.
He stepped from the shadows with a look on his face she had never seen on him before. It was intent and piercing. A scowl settled on his face. “Why did you come out here, Constance?”
Her heart sank. She had obviously misread his signals, but it mattered not. She needed to speak with him. She walked deeper into the gardens toward the stone benches. “I thought you meant for us to meet here. I noticed you had not sought me out for any dances. I thought mayhap you wanted to dance under the stars again.” He had not approached anyone else, either, but she thought it unusual given the attention he had been showing her. Even this morning, her mother had remarked upon how often His Grace called upon her for outings. Constance knew she was being forward, but she fancied they had at least become friends, and she needed to know if he wanted more than friendship.
He thrust his hands deep in his trousers and rocked on his heels observing her. “Return to the ball,” he said coldly.
A flicker of uneasiness went through her. Her fingers played nervously with her gloves. Something was dreadfully wrong. He seemed so aloof, so unlike the teasing rogue she had bantered with. “I see. I had wanted to speak with you on an important matter but I will ret
urn inside, Your Grace.” She offered a small smile. “I look forward to our ride tomorrow, Lucan, perhaps we can speak then.”
“No.”
She paused and looked back at him, startled.
His expression closed even more. “There will be no more carriage outings, no more dances or opera visits. I thank you for the gracious time you have shown me thus far, Lady Constance.”
Her heart slammed into her throat. “I do not understand, I thought we—”
“You thought what? That we were courting?” He inquired in a withering tone.
She could hardly breathe from the emotions tightening her throat. Had he heard some rumor? Since their last kiss at the theatre he had ridden out with her on several more occasions, and they had even stopped at a coffee house yesterday, a thing which had scandalized Charlotte. Why would he be so cold now?
He seemed determined to turn Constance away from him, and she would not stay where she was unwanted. With pride holding her tongue, she swept past him and then hesitated. She walked to him, searching his face. “I feel you when you stare at me, you know. I felt you tonight before I even saw you. That has never happened to me before. Is it the same for you, Lucan?”
“It is dangerous for you to be here in the gardens, Constance. A lady would not have followed me out here.”
She stepped closer to him. “Your gaze invited me. I know it, and you know it, Lucan. I am a lady, but I have desires too. And I believe in pursuing what I want. Don’t you?” He must know what she hinted. She held her breath as she waited for his reply.
“Where is your chaperone?” he all but snarled.
“Charlotte can be marvelously tactful whenever she needs to be.”
“You cannot be a lady and a wanton at the same time, Constance. Your eyes beg me to kiss you, to touch you, to take you.”
She stared at him fascinated. “Are you saying a lady does not have passion?”
