He spun on his heel and intended to put an end to this conversation. Not only was it unsettling, but it was highly irritating. The thought of losing Constance to a man like Brooks was not something he would ever be easy accepting. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d been sent to that island because he’d done something as heinous as murder. He’d merely been a naïve fool to think that he had been able to trust someone like Sir Isaacson. It was only through the pleading of Devin’s mistress that he’d been spared death, although later he realized he would have preferred it.
No. His fists tightened at his sides. He wasn’t about to relive those dark days because they were over. The five years of hell he’d endured were done and he wasn’t about to give that place even more power to disturb his dreams. He’d suffered long enough.
He’d returned to London determined to keep the past behind him, and that was when he’d stumbled upon an angel.
And he would do everything he could to hold on to that blessing for as long as he could.
His sanity demanded it.
Constance returned home sometime after two in the morning. She had never been the type to request servants to wait up for her when she was capable of managing on her own. She removed the key from her reticule and inserted into the lock, latching it behind her, and then quietly made her way up the stairs and to her chamber.
She wanted to ignore Mr. Blackmore’s door when she passed, intent on reaching her room without even the briefest glance, but when she caught the light glow shining underneath, she paused, but then forced herself to continue on. She told herself he’d fallen asleep and had forgotten to turn down the lamp. Either way, the idea of checking on him this late was certainly not a wise idea.
Constance entered her room and was glad to see that there was a small fire burning in the grate. Even though it was summer, the nights could gain a bit of a chill. But perhaps the shiver that danced up her spine now was merely the thought of her terrace visitor—and the dark, seductive mystery that had pulsed off of him, luring her into his web of pleasure with a mere glance from those dark, mysterious eyes that held more secrets than she did…
She couldn’t imagine why he was there or had even taken such a huge risk when Granelli was still out there, lying in wait to finish the job he’d started. But she’d be telling untruths if she said their encounter hadn’t thrilled her. If the baronet hadn’t chosen such an unwelcome moment to intercede, she might have known what it was like to feel Devin’s lips upon hers.
Standing in the middle of the room, Constance felt a light pressure upon her mouth and realized that she’d raised her finger to her lips. She shook her head and told herself that nothing good could come of an affair between her and Devin. She didn’t require a lover to be happy. She could be quite content on her own and she intended to prove it to herself—to Madame Corressa.
Just the thought of her inner courtesan made some of her passion fade. For years Constance had tried to break free from the hold she’d held over her, the idea that she had to have a man to feel… worthy. It had been a shackle she’d fought since she was little more than a child and would likely forever resist against.
Constance kicked off her shoes and took the pins out of her hair, relieved when the heavy tresses fell down her back. She removed her gown and sleeve supports next and hung it over the back of a nearby chair. Most of her petticoats and light bustle followed, but when she was left in her stockings, chemise, and corset, she realized that while she’d never had trouble loosening the laces any other time, tonight was the exception. After several tries, she realized that something was amiss.
She walked over and picked up her hand mirror and, using the larger mirror on her dressing table as a guide, she was aggrieved to see that she had managed to get the laces tied into a knot.
What a conundrum.
With a frustrated sigh, she set her hands on her hips. She supposed she could do one of two things. She could walk down the hall to Mr. House’s room and ask for his assistance, but she’d noticed that there was no light shining beneath his door, which meant he was asleep and she would hate to wake him from a sound slumber.
That meant she would have to sleep in the cursed item until her ladies’ maid awoke the next morning and removed the thing. It wasn’t a very pleasant thought, but the only alternative was—
Not happening.
Madame Corressa would have been more than happy to stroll down the hall and ask Mr. Blackmore for his kind assistance before they tumbled beneath the sheets, but Constance wasn’t going to fall for those tempting ploys anymore. She had more will power than to—
She started at the sudden knock at her door. It wasn’t loud or even brisque, just a slight inclination, but enough to cause her heart to pound ruthlessly in her chest all the same.
Grabbing her robe from the end of the bed, she shoved her arms in the sleeves and belted it tightly across her midsection before she calmly walked over to the door and opened it slightly.
She nearly gasped when she saw Mr. Blackmore standing there. With the glow of her lamp illuminating his chiseled face, she was quite spellbound. She also didn’t fail to notice that his shirt was partly open, giving her an enticing view of his chest. His midnight hair was disheveled, as if he’d just woken, or perhaps been running his hands through the thick mane.
Either way, her inner courtesan had taken particular notice and was urging her to invite him inside. Constance gripped the edge of the door tightly and remained where she was. “It’s late, Mr. Blackmore. Unless it’s an emergency, perhaps it might wait until morning.”
His mouth quirked upward in a mocking smile. “I would imagine that two o’clock counts as morning, don’t you?”
He easily pushed the door out of her shocked grasp and made his way inside. Once the initial intrusion had worn off, she said, “I didn’t give you leave to enter my chamber and you certainly don’t have the right to barge in here like this.”
He quirked a brow at her and strolled about the room as if she hadn’t just spoken. She was about to utter a demand that he leave, when he paused by the mantel and picked up a trinket she kept there. “Interesting,” he murmured. “I never took you for a collector of nautical items.”
“It’s a Burghley Nef.”
His brows drew together. “A what?”
She reluctantly walked over to where he stood holding the gilt ship. “It’s a salt cellar. It’s normally placed on the dining table to mark the place of an honored guest.”
“Then why don’t you put it there?”
She swallowed. “It was a gift from a special friend, so I suppose I treasured the memory more than the original meaning. Besides,” she shrugged. “It’s not as if I plan to entertain a lot of dignitaries or royalty.”
