It was as much a relief as a disappointment, Hannah found. Not that she was particularly hungry. Or in need of wine. And she had certainly been wanting him very badly all evening. She had hardly concentrated at all upon the play, one of her favorites. And desire had all but boiled over in the carriage, especially after he had lifted her onto his lap.

How deliciously strong he was to be able to do that without heaving and hauling her and panting with the exertion. She weighed a mite more than a feather, after all.

She was glad desire had not quite boiled over. Which was a strange thought. She was doing all this purely out of lust, was she not? This spring she was free to take a lover, she had deliberately chosen to take one, and she had very carefully selected Constantine Huxtable.

Only to discover that lust was not quite sufficient in itself.

How very provoking!

One really ought to be able to fix one’s mind upon a certain goal—especially when one had chosen it and worked toward it with deliberate care—and move inexorably forward until it was achieved.

Her goal was to enjoy the person of Constantine Huxtable until summer drove her off to Kent and him to wherever in Gloucestershire he had his home.

What was the big secret about that place, she wondered, that he would tell her nothing?

And now she was discovering that perhaps his person—gorgeous and perfect as it was—was not enough.

Maybe she was just tired. Oh, but she was still feeling lusty too. She was glad, though, that there was to be some supper first—even if she did not eat anything.

He drew her cloak off her shoulders, standing behind her as he did so. His hands barely touched her.

“Duchess?” he said, indicating the chair on which she had sat last week. “Will you have a seat?”

He poured the wine as she seated herself. She placed a little of everything on her plate.

“Did you enjoy the performance?” she asked.

“I was somewhat distracted through much of it,” he said. “But I believe it was entertaining.”

“Barbara was ecstatic,” she said. “She views the London scene, of course, through eyes that have not become jaded.”

“She has never been here before?” he asked.

“She has,” she said. “While I was married I occasionally prevailed upon her to spend a couple of weeks or so with me, though most of those visits were in the country rather than in town. And she would never stay long. She was terrified of the duke.”

“Did she have reason to be?” he asked.

“He was a duke,” she said. “He had been since the age of twelve. He had been a duke for longer than sixty years when I married him. Of course she had reason to be terrified even though he always went out of his way to be courteous to her. She is a vicar’s daughter, Constantine.”

“But you were not terrified of him?” he asked.

“I adored him,” she said, picking up her glass and twirling the stem in her fingers.

“How did you meet him?” he asked.

How had the conversation swung in this direction? That was the trouble with conversations.

“He had a family which he liked to describe as ‘prodigious large and tedious,’” she said. “He ignored them when he could, which was most of the time. But he had a sense of duty too. He attended the wedding of one relative, who was fourteenth in line to his title. He always felt an obligation to anyone who was higher than twentieth in line, he told me. I was at the wedding celebrations too. We met there.”

“And married soon after,” he said. “It must have been love at first sight.”

“If I had not noted the hint of irony in your voice, Constantine,” she said, “I would tell you not to be ridiculous.”

He gazed at her silently for a few moments.

“Your youth and beauty and his rank and wealth?” he said.

“The reason behind a thousand marriages,” she said, biting off a piece of cheese. “You make the duke and me sound quite ordinary, Constantine.”

“I am quite sure, Duchess,” he said, “you do not need my assurance that you were in fact a quite extraordinary couple, but I will give it anyway.”

“He was quite splendid, was he not?” she said. “Courtly and stately and oh-so-aristocratic to the end. And with a presence that drew all eyes but not many persons. Most people dared not approach him. Oh, he must have been a sight to behold when he was a young man. I do believe I would have fallen hopelessly in love with him if I had known him then.”

“Hopelessly?” he said.

“Yes.” She sighed. “It would have been quite, quite hopeless. He would not have spared me a glance.”

“Hard to believe, Duchess,” he said. “But I do believe you were a little in love with him anyway.”

“I loved him,” she said. “And he loved me. Would not the ton be amazed if they knew that we had a happy marriage? But no, not amazed. They would be incredulous. People believe what they choose to believe—just as you do.”

“You proved me colossally wrong on one recent occasion,” he said.

“You called me vain tonight,” she said, “when in reality I am simply honest.”

“It would be rather foolish,” he said, “if you went about calling yourself ugly.”

“And massively untruthful,” she said.

She drained her glass as he gazed across the table at her.

“And you have called me greedy tonight,” she said.

His eyebrows arched upward.

“I hope, Duchess,” he said, “I am too much the gentleman to accuse anyone of greed, least of all the lady who is my lover.”

“But you have implied it,” she said. “At the theater you chose to view my jewels and hear about them with amusement. And here at this table you have presumed to know my motive for marrying the duke.”

“And I am wrong?” he asked.

She spread her hands on the table on either side of her plate. She had removed all her jewels at home and returned them to their respective safes. But she had put on other rings. She always felt a little strange without them, truth to tell. They sparkled up at her from every finger except her thumbs.

She drew them off one at a time and set them in the center of the table, beside the candlestick.

“What is their total worth?” she asked when they were all there. “Just the stones.”

He looked at the rings, at her, and at the rings again. He reached out a hand and picked up the largest. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and turned it so that it caught the light.

Oh, goodness, Hannah thought, there was something unexpectedly erotic about seeing one of her rings in his dark-skinned, long-fingered hand.

He set the ring down and picked up another.

He spread them apart with the tip of a finger so that they were not all clustered together.

And then he named a sum that showed he knew a thing or two about diamonds.

“No,” she said.

He doubled the estimate.

“Not even close,” she said.

He shrugged. “I give in.”

“One hundred pounds,” she said.

He sat back in his chair and held her eyes with his.

“Fake?” he said. “Paste?”

“These, yes,” she said. “Some are real—the ones I received for the most precious occasions. All the jewels I wore to the theater this evening were real. About two-thirds of those I own are paste.”

“Dunbarton was not as generous as he appeared to be?” he asked.

“He was generosity itself,” she told him. “He would have showered me with half his fortune and probably did, though of course most of it was entailed. I had only to admire something and it was mine. I had only not to admire it and it was mine.”

He had nothing to say this time. He regarded her steadily.

“They were real when they were given to me,” she said. “I had the diamonds replaced with paste imitations. They are very good imitations. In fact, I probably underestimated the value of those rings on the table. They are probably worth two hundred pounds. Perhaps even a little more. I did it with the duke’s knowledge. His consent was reluctantly given, but how could he refuse? He had taught me to be independent, to think for myself, to decide what I wanted and refuse to take no for an answer. I believe he was proud of me.”