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A tick became apparent at his jaw. “A lady’s passion is for her husband. Anything that is given or shown to someone to whom you are not married is the surest path to destruction and ruination.”
She heard the pain and something darker in his tone. She tried to hold his unwavering stare. It was almost as if he warned her away from him, and she did not understand. The undercurrent of pain in his voice tugged at her. “You speak from experience?”
“I do.”
She jerked. “You have ruined someone?”
His mouth was edged with cruelty when he smiled. “No. Someone that I held dear was used, disgraced, and abandoned by someone who claimed to love her.”
“Oh my goodness.” Constance wanted to ask him who was this person he held dear, but knew he would not disclose such confidence. She noted the flash of pain beneath his cold exterior and wished she was able to draw it all from him. Her decision to leave was thwarted by his revelations. She courted a dangerous situation, but she would not remain long. Even though she now realized she dreamed about a man who had hidden depths she might never be able to reach. “Where is she now?”
“Dead.”
He said it so flatly it took her moments for the import of his word to sink in.
Dead? Constance moved closer to him and curled her hand around his arms, hoping to comfort him with her touch. “I am so very sorry, Lucan.” Her heart ached as she sensed the smoldering rage beneath his frozen demeanor. “How did she die, if I may be so bold to ask?”
“She was callously used, beaten, and driven to her death,” he said bluntly.
Constance stared at him incomprehensibly. She had expected something like a carriage accident or illness. Her eyes roved his face searching for some kind of guide to his thoughts. There was none. His emotionless façade scared her. “Beaten? Driven to her death, as in she killed herself?”
He watched Constance with an intensity that had fear rippling over her skin, and for the first time she became aware of how alone they were in Lady Beaumont’s gardens. Constance swallowed, forcing herself not to twitch or shift. She could not explain her sudden unease or the sensations that had her heart jerking. He had always seemed so charming and gentle. “I…”
“Let us not be morbid. This was years ago, Lady Constance.”
She felt him retreat, shutting her out. It mattered not that he remained in the same position, her dress curling around his leg in the most intimate fashion. He was no longer present. The teasing suitor she had known this past week had fled, leaving a cold, aloof man. He smiled, and nothing reached his eyes. What was it?
She wanted to ask him more of this woman. Who was she? What was her name? Constance had heard no whispers of the Duke of Mondvale having anyone close to him who had killed themselves. It seemed so improbable that the gossip mill would not be buzzing with such information. Though she had not heard he had two younger cousins and an aunt living in Hampshire, either, until he had shared it with her.
He walked over to the small fountain with a cherub spouting water from its mouth. Several stone benches were scattered about, and he sat on one.
Constance sat beside him. “If you ever wish to speak, know I would hold your confidence always.”
He stiffened. “Why are you still here, Constance? Why do you behave so recklessly when your reputation already has such a tenuous hold?”
She lifted her chin. “I know you would never hurt me, and no one is paying any attention to me in this crush.”
Everything in his face closed down, and her mouth went dry. She shifted closer to him. “What is it?”
The intensity of his stare had a piercing quality that was frightening. “You need to leave and return to the ball. I am sure Lady Ralston is looking for you as we speak.”
Anger snapped through Constance and she felt thoroughly provoked. “Why do you push me away? And without any explanation? I know you desire me. You disclose things to me I am sure you share with no other lady. Why don’t you speak with my brother about paying addresses to me instead of pushing me away? You must know how I feel about you.”
He raked his fingers through his hair in what looked like abject frustration.
“Constance, go inside. I—”
“I believe I am falling in love with you, Lucan.”
Shock flittered across his face so fast she wondered if she had imagined it. But what she was certain of was the desire and need that flared in his eyes at her declaration. He felt similarly toward her.
He surged to his feet, staring down at her, his face carefully blank. She rose and stepped close to him, so close that the swell of her breast pressed against him. “I am falling in love with you, Lucan. And I know you have affections for me as well. I would—”
He stole the remainder of her words in a kiss unlike any he had given her before. His lips roamed over hers in a hot, hungry surge of possession, sending waves of sensations through her. His kiss felt desperate and needy. He drew her closer to him, and she lifted onto her toes, responding to his kiss with a dizzying sense of freedom. With a muffled groan, he deepened it and stepped with her so her back rested against the fountain’s edge. He pulled his lips from hers, breathing raggedly. He whispered her name rough and gravelly in the dark and she trembled.
“Do not stop kissing me, Lucan,” she whispered.
He whispered something she did not hear and then took her mouth in another powerful kiss. She opened her lips to the thrust of his tongue, and pleasure stabbed to her heart. He had never touched her with such fierceness, such passion, and she sank into his embrace, entwining around him like a vine.
His fingers were not idle as they caressed her cheeks, her neck, and slipped down to the mound of her breast. She trembled at his touch. With a gentleness that belied the intensity of how his mouth ravished her, he pulled the buttons to her dress and unlaced her corset as much as he could. He tugged at her gown and revealed her breast to the cool air.
Shock stilled her body as heat flushed her skin. Never had she been this exposed to a man before—and in Lady Beaumont’s garden! He pulled his lips fr
om Constance’s, his head dipping to allow his tongue to lash at her sensitive nipple. He sucked her deep into his mouth, and her body jerked under the burn of pleasure, eroding all rational thought. Her breath caught on a surge of yearning so abrupt and intense it felt like pain.
He released her breast and traced kisses up her neck, nipping at her lips. “Why did you not stay away from me?” he demanded roughly, then pressed another deep kiss on her lips.
She pulled her lips away, confused. “Lucan, I—”
He swallowed her response, his hands kneading her hips. Her desire heightened as he dragged her dress up the length of her legs, conforming her petticoats to his will. He trailed his fingers up the length of her leg, and over her silken stockings. Then he explored farther, letting his hand drift up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. His long fingers slipped between the juncture of her thighs, parted her drawers, feeling her most intimate spot. It was decadent and wicked.
Oh, God. Constance ripped her mouth from his and pressed her head hard against his shoulder, her face hot with mortification. The clamoring of her heartbeat seemed to drive the air from her lungs, and confusion washed over her, as she tried to assimilate the feelings that throbbed so strangely between her legs.
She swallowed as he slid one long finger slowly into the heart of her, sending a bolt of exquisite sensation through her. Hot, drowning pleasure gripped her as he started a slow glide and retreat. Wetness coated his fingers, and her hips arced into his hands. Moans she could not control ripped from deep inside of her, and Constance bit into his shoulder to prevent herself from crying out, as her stomach tightened in painful need.
“You are so responsive.” The dark velvet rasp of his voice sank into her, promising unimaginable pleasures.
