AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She nodded mutely, trying to regain her composure. She was thrilled by the night’s events, but at the same time, she was at loss to explain why the haute monde thought him a wicked libertine. He was a gentleman through and through. He’d only kissed her at her insistence. He had been concerned for her reputation, not just out for his own pleasure.
“May I have the name of your father, so I might pay my address?” he asked, his regard intense and filled with an emotion she
was unable to identify.
She went giddy with excitement. She had seen the look in his eyes when he’d danced and then kissed her. It was similar to the look she’d seen in Sebastian and Anthony’s gazes when they gazed upon their wives. Constance was not foolish enough to think Mondvale had fallen in love with her, but she realized the expression must be one of desire. He was interested in her. In courting her.
She opened her mouth to answer. And froze.
Oh, lord. She had lied to him. About who she was.
Should she tell him her name was Lady Constance, and not Miss Hastings? It hurt her to think if she revealed her true identity he would be disgusted. She wanted nothing to ruin the memories she would have of him, of this magical night. She couldn’t bear it.
She swallowed down her bitter regret. “I do not think that would be wise, as we have not been formally introduced.”
He tilted his head with a rueful smile. “Of course. Then I will ensure we are properly introduced the next time I see you. Go now, Miss Hastings. Until we meet again.”
Constance forced a smile and walked away from him, hating to have to leave. This was the first time she had felt hope since the facts about her shameful birth had started circulating. Hope that her dreams of love and a family were actually possible. And with a duke, as well! If there was a chance Mondvale would seek an introduction the next time he saw her, she would not return to the country. Instead, she would respond favorably to the few invitations Anthony had secured for her.
She only prayed the duke had seen something in her, enough that he would be willing to pursue her hand even after he learned her true identity—Lady Constance, the Beautiful Bastard.
She closed her eyes, forcing her heart to reason, and her mind to think logically. He was a duke, one that would be in need of a wife to be a companion and to give him heirs. An appropriate wife. While Constance may be “ravishing,” as he had whispered against her lips, and in possession of a sizeable dowry, no man of Mondvale’s social stature would willingly align his name with someone as singularly inappropriate as she.
And so, she ruthlessly killed the burgeoning hope, and regretfully pushed the Duke of Mondvale from her mind, thankful she had not been foolish enough to reveal her true identity. That would have been one more heartache she did not need. One she instinctively knew would be far worse than anything she’d experienced to date.
Chapter Three
Miss Desiree Hastings was exquisite. Lucan’s usually disciplined body had reacted with painful immediacy to her innocent sensuality. He could not remember ever being so strongly affected by a lady. The huskiness of her voice had washed over his skin like a caress, her tentative smile sending a shaft of desire through him, something Lady Shrewsbury’s practiced caresses and suggestive whispers had been unable to do. He should not be surprised, for Miss Hastings was truly stunning. She wore a sapphire blue evening gown, with matching gloves and delicate slippers. Her dress bared the creamy swell of her shoulders, her décolletage, and flattered her exquisite shape. He’d never seen such voluptuous curves on a young society miss before, curves that were sensual and perfect. Some of the more risqué entertainers at his club had such luscious figures, but not as desirable. He’d been struck by the most lurid thought, that her body was made to be ridden hard and deep—lush hips, tiny waist, and more than a handful of bosom.
He’d wondered several times if the chit knew how vulnerable she was, ensconced in the conservatory with him. She had seemed vaguely familiar, and he’d wondered how he could have forgotten such a beauty. Her hair was of a hue he had never seen before, a pale blond that appeared as if it had been burned under the sun. It was those streaks of deeper gold interwoven with every strand that drew his eyes. She was small and sleek, and the raw sensuality she’d moved with as she entered the conservatory had filled him with desire.
Earlier, Lucan had felt her eyes on him throughout the course of the evening. He had watched her watch him, but he had been more discreet. He had wondered at her isolation, and had been tempted to seek an introduction, but had banished the thought immediately. It would never do for him to publicly give attention to a female that was not his quarry. His purpose at these society events was a cold, calculating one, and to be entranced with a ravishing young miss like her was not welcomed. His resolution had wobbled when he had noticed her following him. From her provocative walk to his location in the shadows, he had made the decision to bed her in the conservatory. Lucan had felt a keen sense of disappointment at her arrival. He had not lived twenty nine years on earth, half of his life spent amongst the depraved and the demi monde, to not know refreshing innocence. Her vibrant green eyes, a mixture of jade and emerald, had shone first with weariness, then sparkled with artless hunger, and finally open curiosity.
It was the innocent awareness that had waylaid his plan, or else she would have been beneath him instantly, and he would have been deep inside her.
Such a quandary.
He had arranged a clandestine meeting in the conservatory with one of his only three friends in London. No one else’s presence had been anticipated. But within moments, he’d struggled between getting rid of her or kissing her. When she asked him to dance, he had fleetingly wondered if it was a trap. Her presence with him alone by choice for any another design flummoxed him. But, God, she had enticed him, and he had seen no artifice in Miss Hastings. He had thought an intimate kiss would have sent her running. Instead, she had returned his kiss shyly, and made an achingly sweet, soft sound against his mouth that had traveled right to his cock.
Lucan took pride in the rigid control he had over his passion. But she had made him behave recklessly. At the thought of her seated on his cock, making those sweet sounds, a surge of pure lust had torn through him almost sending him to his knees. It had taken tremendous will power to pull from her. He had almost bedded an innocent. Something he had sworn never to do.
Just who was Miss Desiree Hastings? She didn’t flirt or act coy, as young ladies did in his presence. Instead of being frightened by his crude and crass words meant to drive her off, she had held her ground. Instead of being intimidated by him when he had cupped her chin, she wondered if he had planned to kiss her.
He chuckled. A warm sensation poured through him causing an ache in his chest.
Lucan watched her run lightly up the steps leading to the terrace, her every move embodying innate sensuality. He would find her when his plotted course was over, and possibly court the bewitching beauty. No woman had ever moved him to such thoughts before.
A nightingale trilled its ethereal haunting song in the distance, and he walked toward the sound. He exited the conservatory looking for Lord Justin Bollard, the Earl of Ainsley. Lucan spied him on the upper balcony, or rather, the flash of Ainsley’s purple waistcoat, so Lucan made his way under the cover of the darkness to the upper balcony.
“I thought we were to meet in the conservatory,” he said as he reached his friend.
Mocking hazel eyes met his. “You were occupied,” Ainsley drawled with amusement, and Lucan grunted.
“Which one is the lady?”
A frown marred Ainsley’s face as he shifted his gaze to Lucan. “What do you mean? I thought you had already sprung the trap. I saw you dancing with her.”
Lucan scanned the ballroom from the terrace with impatience. He had danced with three ladies tonight, and as far as he knew they were all married. His quarry was a young chit. “Who, damn it? I have not been introduced to any Lady Constance tonight.”
“But…in the conservatory.”
Lucan froze. The conservatory? His gut tightened and denial surged inside him. Carefully masking his reaction, he focused on Ainsley. “What do you speak of?”
Something in Ainsley’s face tightened, and Lucan recognized it as discomfort.
“I saw you conversing with her in the conservatory, dancing with her, and then kissing her. I assumed you knew her to be Lady Constance Thornton.”
Lucan sucked in an audible breath,
one that caused his friend to arch a brow sharply.
“I take it you did not know. Interesting.”
No, he had not known, had not even dreamed it could be her.
A vision of the lady in question danced before his eyes, her lush lips, and desire-filled eyes. She was enchanting, beautiful, and more tempting than any woman he had ever known—and she was the enemy.
She had bewitched him for a few precious minutes, enough that he had almost forgotten why he was here at Lady Lawrence’s ball.
The little minx. Now he understood her hesitation when he had suggested calling upon her. It mattered not. Her hesitation had saved him from being foolhardy. But to discover the captivating Miss Hastings was his prey…
This was too easy.
A shame. He had thought he would have had to use considerable charm to inveigle her to his side. But she had made it so stunningly simple, he was nonplussed. He did a quick sweep of the ballroom and spied her speaking with a red haired beauty—Lady Phillipa Thornton, if he was not mistaken. Lady Constance stood on the sidelines tapping her foot anxiously, occasionally peeking out toward the darkened terrace.
Looking for him?
He narrowed his eyes as he took in her apprehension. Why had she lied to him? Though, indeed, if he had known the truth, their encounter would have gone very differently. He chuckled mirthlessly. Just his luck the first woman he’d felt interest for in years was the very object of his vengeance. The gods must be laughing at him uproariously.
Worse, he’d actually entertained a random thought that she resembled Marissa, his beloved sister. The reason behind his quest for revenge.
Not in looks. Marissa had been dark-haired, with hazel eyes, tall and willowy. No, it had been the hope that shone from Miss Hastings’—Lady Constance’s—eyes that hinted at their similarity. A hope he was about to savagely crush.
