Regency Society. Ann LethbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
so firmly in his grasp, the deed was not necessary.
Tony stepped from behind the curtain and produced a penknife, then slid it along the space in the desk drawer until he heard a satisfying click. He opened the drawer and found the deed, face up in plain view.
Too easy, really, once one left common sense behind and entered the realm of obsession. He could almost feel sorry for Barton, had the man chosen a different object for his passion.
Tony folded the paper and tucked it into a pocket. He went to the window and was gone.
Music played softly in the background and Constance sipped her champagne and pretended to enjoy herself. Sunday night’s ball at the townhouse of the Earl of Stanton was to have been a night of pure pleasure in the company of friends. She had been looking forward to it for weeks. And now Barton had ruined everything. The music made no impact and the drink held no flavour. All she could think about was the impending doom of Monday morning and the cold look on Tony’s face as he had sent her away.
Her friend, the countess, had hugged her when she had seen the expression on Constance’s face, and enquired after her health.
She had pretended that nothing was wrong, but even the earl had noticed the change in her and remarked on it. And Esme had clasped her hand again and assured her that, whatever the problem might be, she had but to ask, and they would find a way to resolve it. She could treat the Stanton home as her own, if need be. Stay the night or longer, if she wished. And take pleasure in the entertainment at hand, for it was expected to be most fine.
Constance had insisted that she was in no dire need, and that her friend needn’t worry, although the earl’s look at her as she passed through the receiving line was too shrewd and it was clear that he was not fooled.
It had been a mistake to lie at all. For it would look even worse to her hosts when she needed to swallow her pride and beg Esme for refuge at the end of the evening, if it was to be a choice between her house and her honour.
There was some comfort, at least, in knowing that only the best company was invited through these particular doors. She had no reason to fear a run in with Barton before the morning, for such as he would never gain entrance to a ball held by the Stantons.
Which made it all the more surprising to see Anthony Smythe in close conversation with the host. The earl could not possibly know the man’s true occupation, or St John would throw him bodily from the room. And Constance could not very well inform them of what she knew. Certainly not when she had gone to Mr Smythe, requesting the very service she pretended to abhor.
He was across the room from her, and she tried to resist the urge to look in his direction. How utterly mortifying it had been to go to him, practically bare and obviously willing, only to be patted on the head and put from the room. If she had behaved in a similar manner, with any of the other men of her acquaintance…
Then she need not have gone to Mr Smythe at all. Upon seeing how she had costumed herself, and hearing of her willingness to co-operate, they’d have given her any sum she required to clear her debts. The ink would scarcely be dry on the cheque before they’d have taken her up on her offer.
Then why, for the sake of her already-battered spirit, had she gone to the only man unwilling to take her body as payment? Was it because she had known in her heart that he would be too honourable to accept?
Or simply because she wanted a reason, any reason at all, to see him again, tempt him in a way that would make him forget her behaviour in the library, and offer him no resistance when he pulled her close, laid her down, and took from her what she wanted to give him?
It had been so easy to restrain herself through the last year, as the suggestions she’d received had become bolder and bolder. And, on some level, she’d known that if there was no one to offer her marriage, there might be one whose offer was not quite so insulting as the rest. She had no desire to be a mistress. That would be no better than marrying for money.
But if there were a man who valued her, and whose company she enjoyed, and if he was willing to be discreet? She would gladly yield just to feel arms around her again, and lips on her temple, and to sleep secure in the knowledge that someone cared about her, even if it was for only a night.
She glanced into a mirror at the far end of the room, catching a glimpse of the image of Tony Smythe reflected back to her. His dark blue coat fit smoothly over the muscles she felt when he’d held her. His legs, as well, were straight and strong from climbing, and graceful as he walked. She thought she could hear his distant laugh, and could imagine the light in his eyes, and the way his smile curved a little higher on one side than the other.
It was a face not so much beautiful as it was interesting. There was energy in it, and enthusiasm. One could look at it for a lifetime and always see something different. And when he had a passion for something, or someone, his excitement would be impossible to resist.
Constance averted her gaze from the mirror, casting her eyes downward, focusing on the trails of bubbles arising from her champagne. It did no good to watch him now. She might see the one thing she most feared, a look of pity in the eyes for her pathetic behaviour of the night before, and confirmation of his lack of success in getting the thing she needed. How had she expected him to manage in a night what might take days of planning? She was a fool to even ask him.
And she would look an even bigger fool, if he caught her spying on him in public.
‘Would you stand up with me, your Grace?’
She was startled. He was close to her now, standing beside her, and she’d never heard him approach. Her heart was pounding in response to his nearness, and it was not because of fright.
He gestured to the dance floor. There was polite interest on his face now. Neither more nor less than she would expect from any of the other men attending.
‘I would be delighted, Mr Smythe.’ She tried to read his face, but it gave no clue. Did he have news for her? She was dying to ask it, but what was the point in swearing him to secrecy if she blurted out the whole truth in a crowded ballroom?
They took their place in the set and he bowed to her, and the music began.
He was an excellent dancer. His steps were sure and his touch light as he guided her down the row. She tried to relax and enjoy herself, but his steady gaze was both pleasant and unnerving. He wanted to tell her something, she was sure.
And found herself wishing that that was not the reason for the intensity when he looked at her. Robert had not cared much for dancing, and was most relieved when other men had been willing to stand up with her in his place. But none of them would dare gaze at her so, with the duke in the room.
She had watched other young ladies, and watched their beaus watching them. She had thought it sweet and tried not to lament on it. Men had looked at her thus once, very long ago, but so long ago that she could hardly remember how it felt.
They had looked as Anthony Smythe was looking at her now. His hand took hers again and he smiled. When it was their turn to wait at the bottom of the set, he leaned closer to her, and said, ‘You are very lovely tonight.’
‘Thank you.’ She wondered if that was the case.
He must have seen the doubt in her eyes. ‘You were lovely last night, as well.’
‘You did not seem to think it at the time.’
‘On the contrary. You were inordinately tempting. But speed was of the essence, was it not? If I had accepted your offer, we would be there still, on the floor of my parlour, too exhausted to move.’
She stared around her, to make sure no one had heard him speak. And, as always, he had taken care that the other guests would know nothing of his scandalous comments, but her delighted blush might make them stare.
‘I am just as diligent and careful in taking pleasure as I am in doing business,