A Wicked Liaison. Christine Merrill

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      She snapped the box shut again and thrust it back to him. ‘Take it.’

      ‘You do not like it? Because I can get another.’

      ‘I do not want another. I do not want this one.’ She could feel the colour in her face turning to an angry flush as her voice rose. ‘You come here, talking of esteem, and your great fondness for me, then you offer to put me up and pay my expenses?’

      Jeremy stiffened, a picture of offended dignity. ‘Well, someone must, Constance. You cannot go on much longer living on your own. And surely, after twelve years of marriage, and over a year alone, you must miss the affections of a man.’

      ‘Oh, must I?’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘I do not miss them so much that I seek to dishonour myself outside of marriage just to pay my bills. I thought, if you held me in such high esteem…’

      ‘Well…’he swallowed ‘…here’s the rub. Father will be wanting me to guarantee the inheritance. Now it’s a long time before I need to worry about such. But when it comes time for me to marry, I will have to pick someone—’ he searched for the correct words and finished ‘—that my father approves of.’

      ‘And he will not approve of a thirty-year-old childless widow. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it, but you lack the spine to say it out loud? You wish to bounce me between the sheets and parade me around Vauxhall in shiny new clothes. But when it is time for you to marry, you will go to Almack’s for a wide-hipped virgin.’

      Jeremy squirmed in his chair. ‘When you say it that way, it sounds so—’

      ‘Accurate? Candid? Cruel? It sounds cruel because it is, Jeremy. Now take your compliments and your jewellery and your offers of help and get them from my house.’

      Jeremy drew himself up and gathered what righteousness he could. ‘Your house? For how long, Constance? It is apparent to those who know you well that you are in over your head, even if you do not wish to admit it. I only meant to help you in a way that might be advantageous to both of us. And I am sure there are women who will not find what I’m suggesting so repugnant.’

      There was that tone again. She had heard it before, when she’d refused such offers in the past. Reminding her not to be too particular, or to expect more than she deserved, but to settle for what was offered and be glad of it. She glared at him in silence and pointed to the door.

      He rose. ‘Very well. If you change your mind on the subject, send a message to my rooms. I will wait, for a time. But not for long, Constance. Do not think on it overlong. And if you expect a better offer from Barton, then you are sadly mistaken. You’ll find soon enough that his friendship is no truer than mine. Good evening.’

      He strode from the room, then she heard him in the hall calling for his hat and stick, and the adamant snap as the front door closed behind him.

      She sat, staring into the fire, her mind racing. Jeremy was to have been the answer to all her problems. She had been so sure of it. She had been willing to overlook a certain weakness of chin and of character. She had laughed at his boring stories. She had listened to him talk politics, and nodded, even though she could not find it in herself to agree. And she had found him foolish, sober or in mirth. She had been more than willing to marry a buffoon, and smile and nod through the rest of her life, in exchange for a little security and consistent companionship.

      Maybe Jeremy had been a fool, but an honest and good-hearted one, despite his offer. And he had been right when he’d hinted that anything was better than what Lord Barton might suggest, if she allowed him to speak to her again. Jeremy could at least pretend that what he was doing would be best for both of them. There had never been any indication, when she’d looked into Jack Barton’s eyes, that he cared in the slightest about anyone but himself.

      

      ‘Your Grace, can I get you anything?’ It was her maid, Susan, come downstairs to see what was the matter.

      Constance glanced up at the clock. An hour had passed since Jeremy had gone, and she had let it, without moving from the spot. ‘No, I am all right. I think I will put myself to bed this evening, Susan. Rest yourself. I will see you in the morning.’

      The girl looked worried, but left her in peace.

      When Constance went to stand, it felt as if she had to gather strength from deep within for the minor effort of rising from the chair. She climbed the stairs with difficulty, glad that the maid was so easily persuaded. It would be better to crawl up the stairs alone on her hands and knees than to admit how hard a blow Jeremy had struck with his non-proposal.

      Susan knew the trouble she faced. The girl had found her before when she’d come to wake her, still dressed and dozing in a bedroom chair. Constance had been poring over the accounts in the wee hours, finding no way to make the expenses match the meagre allowance she received from her husband’s nephew, Freddy. If only her husband had taken him in hand and taught him what would be expected, Freddy might have made a decent peer.

      But Robert had been so set on the idea that they would have a child. There would be an heir, if not this year, then certainly the next. And if his own son were to inherit the title, he might never need bother with his tiresome nephew.

      And now Robert was gone, and the new duke was heedless of anything but his own pleasure. He knew little of what it took to run his own estates and even less what Robert might have expected of him in regards to the welfare of the dowager.

      Dowager. How she loathed the word. It always brought to mind a particularly unattractive piece of furniture. The sort of thing one put in a seldom-used room, allowing the upholstery to become faded and moth-eaten, until it was totally forgotten.

      An accurate enough description, when one thought of it. Her own upholstery was sadly in need of replacement, but with the butcher’s bill and the greengrocer, and the cost of coal, she dare not spend foolishly.

      Of course, she could always sell the house and move to smaller accommodations, if she had the deed in hand. She had seen it, the day her husband had drawn it up. The house and its contents were clearly in her name, and he had assured her that she would not want, when his time came.

      Then he had locked it in his safe and forgotten it. And now, the new duke could not be troubled to give it to her. When she asked, it was always tomorrow, or soon. She felt her lip quaver and bit it to stop the trembling. She had been a fool not to remove the keys from her husband’s pocket, while his body was barely cold. She could have gone to the safe and got the deed herself and no one need have been the wiser. Now the keys and the safe belonged to Freddy and she must wait upon him to do the right thing.

      Which was easier than waiting upon her suitors to offer something other than their false protection. She had been angry the first time someone had suggested that she solve her financial problems on her back. When it had happened again, anger had faded to dread. And now, it had happened so many times that she wanted nothing more than to hide in her rooms and weep.

      Was this the true measure of her worth? Men admired her face and wanted her body, there was no question of that. And they seemed to enjoy her company. But never so much that they could overlook a barren womb when it came time to wed. They wanted the best of both worlds: a wife at home, great with child, and an infertile mistress tucked away for entertainment so that they could remain conveniently bastardless.

      Damn Jeremy and his empty promises. She had been so sure that his hints about the future were honourable.

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