Deception in Regency Society: A Wicked Liaison / Lady Folbroke's Delicious Deception. Christine Merrill
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in appreciation.
When his eyes rose to Constance, he saw fresh alarm there at the young ladies’ reaction. He was not suitable for them, either. Once he had gone, she would have to warn them off.
‘Mr Smythe.’ There was a slight emphasis on the mister, and the Viscount took a step forward to head off the interested sisters and gripped his hand.
His handshake was firm to an almost painful degree. Tony considered, for a moment, the advantage to responding in kind, then discarded it as infantile.
As the viscount sensed him yield, he released his grip as well. Endsted glanced at the book in Tony’s hand. ‘Byron?’
‘Yes. I find it—’ How did he find it? He did not wish to give the wrong answer and further jeopardise his position with Constance. ‘Most edifying.’
Endsted’s sisters giggled, and Endsted glared at them. ‘The man’s scandalous. I do not hold with him. Not in the least.’
‘I have no real opinion of the man,’ Tony responded, ‘for I have never met him. But his poetry is in no way morally exceptionable.’ He glanced to Constance.
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.
‘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