future awaited her.
But now, she must forgo romance and throw herself on the mercy of the thief, or she would be spending her immediate future in the company of Lord John Barton. Nothing was lost, she reminded herself. Neither path led to a likelihood of slow seduction by Anthony Smythe, but one was infinitely more pleasant, once she got over the initial distaste of being so forward as to make the first move.
And if she was to move, there was no time to waste. She hurried up the stairs to her room and called for her maid. ‘Susan?’
‘Yes, your Grace.’
‘I am going out. The gold dress, I think.’ It was attractive on her, she thought. And she wished to look her best. Susan helped her into the gown and Constance appraised herself in the pier glass.
She had always thought this her most lovely gown, but now she was not so sure. It was grand, certainly. The gold threads caught the candlelight, and tiny beads glittered in the poufs of white satin that trimmed it, and weighted the skirt. But it seemed too stiff and formal for what she had in mind this particular evening.
She wanted to be beautiful for him. A prize worthy of any risk he might take to achieve it. But she did not want to seem unapproachable. How best to make the point clear? She took a deep breath to steady herself, and then she said, ‘Susan, help me out of these stays.’
Her maid’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘You are not going to see Lord Barton again, are you, your Grace?’
‘I should think not, Susan. I know someone who might be willing to help on that account, if I ask him nicely.’ And with no stays, she would not have to ask aloud.
The maid nodded. ‘Very good, ma’am.’ Susan removed the dress, helped her out of her corset and tossed the dress back over her head.
The effect was startling. While the fabric was not sheer, it clung to her body, heavy with the weight of the beads. She could almost see the outline of her breasts inside the dress.
And if she could see them, so could he.
She swallowed. Very well. At least there would be no misunderstanding. It needed but one thing to complete the effect. She closed her eyes in embarrassment. ‘Susan? How does one damp one’s skirts?’
‘Your Grace?’ Her maid gave an incredulous giggle.
‘I’ve heard of it’s being done, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen it…’
The evening found her shivering inside her cloak, waiting for Mr Smythe to enter his study. Constance had discovered the reason, firsthand, why the practice of dampened petticoats had never caught on. She had thought it was the extreme immodesty that prevented popularity. But now that she had tried it, she suspected it had as much to do with the discomfort involved. The fabric was cold and wet against her body, and she thought she was as likely to catch her death as catch a man because of it.
But the image presented when she saw herself in the mirror might be most effective, if the object of the evening was seduction. The thin fabric of the skirt clung to her legs and outlined her hips and belly. Without the troublesome stays, her breasts rested soft and full in the bodice of her dress, and tightened in response to the chill of the skirts. The rouge on her cheeks and lips was subtle, but made her mouth look kissable in the candlelight. There was no trace left of the aloof duchess to obscure the vulnerable and desirable woman she saw there.
When she’d arrived at Smythe’s rooms, she’d almost lost her nerve, and had clung to the cloak as her last line of protection when the servant had offered to take it. It would be hard enough to shed, once the object of her mission was in sight, and she meant to keep it as long as she could.
At last, Smythe stepped into the room, and she turned to greet him.
He smiled politely. ‘Your Grace? To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’
She let the cloak slip from her shoulders and drop to the floor around her.
There was a long pause, as he took in her appearance. And then, he said, ‘Oh.’ And his face went blank.
She waited, but no response was forthcoming. He stood, rooted to the spot, silent and staring at her as though he did not quite understand what he was seeing.
Dear God, what had she done? She had assumed that she recognised his interest. And he had kissed her. Twice. But perhaps he was thus with all women when he was alone with them.
It had been the servant who had given her the direction to this place, not Mr Smythe. She had not thought, before coming here, to question whether he wished to entertain her in his home. He had certainly never invited her to it. After the afternoon in the library, he might not wish to see her at all, much less see her nearly naked in his study.
He might have other plans for the evening. He might not be alone. Worse yet, he might be married, although there was nothing about the rooms to indicate the fact. And she had blundered forward, dressed like a courtesan and expecting a warm greeting.
She stared down at the cloak on the floor, willing it to jump back into place around her shoulders, and then she looked back at Mr Smythe.
He was still staring at her, taking in every detail. He forgot himself and sat down. And then sprang from his chair, and motioned to her. ‘Please, sit. May I offer you a drink? Tea?’
She sank gratefully on to a nearby settee. ‘Sherry?’
‘Of course.’ She noted the speed with which he summoned a servant, and the eagerness of his voice. He did not let his man come fully into the room, blocking the entrance with his body and taking the tray from him at the door. Then he returned to her, busying himself with the pouring of wine as though he did not know what to do with his hands.
Did this mean he was still interested in her? Or had she embarrassed him in some way? Until he spoke, it was difficult to tell. But whatever he felt, it wasn’t anger, for he showed no sign of turning her out, and he’d have done it by now, surely.
He offered her a glass, but still said nothing. She took her sherry and sipped, crossing her legs, and watching as he watched the movement of her skirt and swallowed some of his own wine.
At last she could stand the silence no longer. All the witty conversational gambits she’d imagined had involved two people who were capable of speech. There would be no clever sparring around the truth, or coy avoidance if she could not get Tony to respond beyond a monosyllable. Finally she gave up and went directly to the reason for her visit, without preamble. ‘I need your help.’
‘Anything,’ he breathed. And then he remembered to look into her eyes. He cleared his throat, and his face went blank again, as he pretended that he had not just been trying to stare through her clothes. When he spoke, his voice had returned to its normal tone. ‘How may I assist you? I am at your service.’
Very well. He wished to pretend that there was nothing unusual about her appearance? Then so would she. She stared unflinchingly into his eyes. ‘I need something taken. Stolen, from another person.’ Her nerve began to falter. ‘It was mine to begin with, so in a sense, it is not stealing at all.’
His voice hardened, as
