Deception in Regency Society: A Wicked Liaison / Lady Folbroke's Delicious Deception

She looked as though she would rather cut out her tongue than have an opinion. Endsted was glaring at her, waiting for her to agree.

‘He is rather fast,’ she managed. She flashed a brief, hopeless look in Tony’s direction, before looking to Endsted for approval.

Endsted nodded. ‘His works are not fit for a lady.’

Which showed how little the man knew of ladies or of poetry, Tony suspected. ‘I do not know, sir. I find his skill with words to be an excellent tribute for certain ladies.’

Constance pretended to ignore the compliment, but he could see a faint flush at the neck of her gown.

‘But not something one might wish to speak of in a lending library.’

Tony chose to ignore the man’s disapproval and answered innocently, ‘For myself, I should think there would be no better place to discuss books.’

‘I suppose it is a way to pass the time for one who has nothing better to do than read poetry.’ He said the last words as if reading were one step from taking opium with Lord Byron himself. ‘And now, sir, if you will excuse us.’ He took Constance by the arm and led her past.

She did not look back, although the Endsted sisters cast a backward glance in his direction, giggling again.

Tony debated calling the man back to argue poetry, morality and general manners, or planting him a facer and reading works by the scandalous Lord Byron over his prone body, then thought the better of it. He doubted demonstrating Endsted’s ignorance would win him points in the eyes of Constance, and might endear him further to the man’s sisters, which was a fate to be avoided.

And he had no evidence that there was any behaviour that might find favour with Constance. At least, in the light of day. There was no question that she responded to him in the dark. And she did so in a way that made it very hard for him to wish to remove himself totally from her company.

But it appeared likely that, should he continue to meet with her, he would spend evenings losing all reason in her passionate embrace, only to be replaced at the breakfast table by a viscount and his giggling sisters. And really, if she wanted to marry another peer, then who was he to stand in her way? She had her own future to attend to, and, if he loved her, he must accept the fact that it was not in her best interest to associate with him.

All in all, his life had been much easier before he’d climbed in her window. His nights had been lonely and his passion had been hopeless. But he had made peace with that years ago. Now, the only hope he had of a return to peace was to put all thoughts of Constance Townley aside, and spend evenings in quiet communion with his lockpicks and his new safe.

He set the book back on a nearby shelf, and yielded the field to the better man.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_67cce0ac-012e-5e10-a2ab-aa5645ca4449)

‘Lemon?’ Constance arranged the tea things, for the hundredth time, trying to ignore Endsted’s growing irritation with her.

‘No, thank you.’ Looking at the sour expression on the viscount’s face, she suspected he had no need of any additional bitterness. She offered the sugar, instead.

She offered each, in turn, to his two sisters, and they helped themselves, casting sidelong glances at her last, uninvited tea guest.

When there was no one else to serve, she turned to him, and repeated her offer in a tone that she hoped would tell him to take his tea and go to the devil.

‘Thank you.’ Jack Barton smiled as though there was nothing unusual in her voice, took the lemon she offered, and set it at the side of his saucer.

She felt his fingers brush hers, and silently cursed. She had been too slow to move, and he had managed to arrange the accidental touch.

And Endsted had noticed. He was an annoyingly observant man. He was also upright, noble and extremely respectable, if a bit of a prig. But he was the first man whose company she had shared who was clear in his willingness to introduce her to his family. His intentions were honourable, or he’d never have allowed her to meet his sisters.

And she had managed to disappoint him, first with Mr Smythe, now with Barton, who had been waiting in her sitting room when they’d returned from the library, uninvited and unmoving.

And Susan had made her day even more of a disaster, by whispering that, while Lord Barton had taken up residence despite her encouragement that waiting would not be welcome or convenient, Mr Smythe had been most co-operative and departed after enquiring of her whereabouts.

So Smythe had been hoping to see her when they’d met in the library. She had feared as much. From a distance, he’d appeared to be the poised and confident man that she’d seen at the ball the previous evening.

But as she’d approached him, she’d seen an eagerness in his manner that she had not seen in a man in…How long had it been? Since she’d had suitors, well before Robert. Long ago, when those who sought her affections had had hopes of success and fears of disappointment. There had been none of the sly looks and innuendos that accompanied all interactions with men now that she was a widow.

Tony Smythe had looked at her as though the years had meant nothing, and she was a fresh young girl with more future than responsibilities. And she had crushed him by her indifference.

She had feared, last night, that there would be nothing to speak of, should she see him in daylight. But today she had found him reading Byron.

She adored Byron.

She looked across the table at Endsted, and remembered that he found Byron most unsuitable. If she succeeded with him, there would be no more poetry in her life. She could spend her evenings reading educational and enlightening tracts to Endsted’s rather foolish sisters.

She looked to her other side, at Lord Barton. Surely a boring life with Endsted would be preferable to some fates.

Of course, Mr Smythe would read Byron to her. In bed, if she asked him to. Or would have done, had she not set him down in public to secure her position with Endsted. She doubted she would be seeing him again.

And why was she thinking of him at all, when she needed to keep her mind on her guests? She dragged her attention back to managing the men in front of her. Silence between them was long and cold on Endsted’s side. It appeared he had heard the rumours of Barton’s character and was only suffering contact with him out of straining courtesy to Constance.

Barton did not seem to mind the frigid reception. He ignored Endsted and smiled at the ladies. ‘Might I remark, Lord Endsted, on the attractiveness of your sisters.’

Endsted glared and the girls giggled.

‘I cannot remember a day when I have been so fortunate as to find myself in the company of so many charming young ladies.’ He focused his gaze for more than a little too long on the eldest, Catherine, until she coloured and looked away.

‘Are you a friend of Constance’s?’ the girl asked timidly.

‘Oh, a most particular friend,’ Barton answered.

Constance could not very well deny it while the man was in her parlour, sipping her tea. She dare not explain, in front of her other guests, that she allowed him there only because of the things he might say to them about her, should she try to have him removed.

‘Yes,’ Barton repeated, ‘I am a friend of her Grace, and would like to be your friend as well, should your brother allow it. Might I have permission to call upon you tomorrow?’

‘Most certainly not.’ Endsted’s composure snapped, and he rose from the table. ‘Catherine, Susanne. We are leaving.’

The girls did not like the command, but they responded quickly, and rose as well. He shepherded them towards the door, and turned back to Barton and Constance. ‘I know your measure, sir, as does the rest of decent society. And I’ll thank you to give my family a wide berth in the future. If I catch you dangling after my sisters again, we will settle this on the field of honour and not in a drawing room.’

And then he turned to Constance, and there was disappointment, mingling with his anger. ‘I cannot know what you were thinking, to allow him here. If you will not be careful of your guests, Constance, at least have a care for yourself.’ And with a final warning glance, he left the room.

She turned back to the tea table, where Barton had returned to his seat, and his cup. She stood above him, hands planted on hips, and he had not even the courtesy to rise for her. The insults and the threats from Endsted had had no effect on his composure, either. He had the same serene smile as when she’d returned home to find him waiting.

‘There,’ Constance snapped. ‘Endsted has gone, and I doubt he will return. I hope you are satisfied.’

Barton looked at her, and his gaze was so possessive and familiar that she wished she could strike him. He stared as if he could see through her clothes. ‘Not totally. But I expect I soon will be.’

‘If that was some pitiful attempt at a double entendre, you needn’t bother.’

‘Oh, really, it is no bother. In fact, I quite enjoy it.’

She shuddered in revulsion. ‘You horrible, horrible man. I do not care how you feel about it. I do not enjoy it. I find it offensive. It is vile. I cannot make it any plainer than that. I do not want you, or your rude comments. If you persist in your pursuit of me, my response will be the same as it was the last time: I do not want you. I will not want you. I never want to see you again. Now get out of my house.’ By the time she was finished, she was shouting.

‘Your house?’ He smiled and his tone never wavered.