Constance felt the thrum of the music deep in her soul. She cradled the violin reverently, caressing the bow against the strings, her heart aching as the beautiful notes spilled into the drawing room. Music had always soothed her, comforted her, and brought untold joy to her life. Of late, the music she produced had been mournful, the notes always too poignant, bringing tears to her eyes. She no longer seduced her strings to play jaunty jigs and warm music. Only powerful songs were played now, the ones that evoked the ache in her, leaving her satisfied, if only for a moment. The last of the notes died away, and she finally relaxed her spine.
“Your new wardrobe has arrived,” Charlotte said.
Constance had momentarily forgotten Charlotte was in the room. Staring out the window into the gardens, Constance was unable to dredge up any excitement in this season’s fashionable apparel, something that had previously brought her happiness. She had been numb as she traveled with her mother, and sometimes Jocelyn and Phillipa, to the different shops on Bond Street, ordering dresses, hats, slippers, and so many other fripperies without any real interest. What use would they be?
In anger Constance had ordered daring colors—dark blue, gold, chartreuse, colors very unusual for a young debutante like herself. Her mother had not objected once. But now that they were here, Constance had nowhere to go. No friends to walk with, to picnic with, to attend the opera and theatre with. She winced. That wasn’t quite true. Charlotte was her friend. She was really Lady Ralston, a widow whose husband had died two years past. Constance had initially rebelled when her mother had suggested hiring her a lady’s companion, someone from a genteel family who needed employment. It had stung, to accept that they had to hire someone to speak with her. But Charlotte had become her staunchest ally and closest friend.
She laid the violin on the music stand with tender care and sighed. She stood and went over to sit beside her friend on the sofa by the pianoforte. Charlotte handed her a glass of lemonade and Constance pressed the cool glass to her cheeks. The sunlight pouring in through the open windows made the room feel unusually warm.
“Would you like to take a walk in the gardens? Today is so sunny and glorious. It would be lovely,” Charlotte asked, realizing no doubt that Constance did not want to speak of the multitude of gowns she had ordered.
She took a sip of her lemonade. “In a bit. I would look at the parcels. I’ve decided to attend Lady Beaumont’s ball. I do have the most perfect Venetian evening gown for it.” The only reason she now felt some excitement in attending was because she would see Mondvale. Though she felt in her heart nothing good could ever come from placing herself in his path again.
Charlotte smiled at her in approval, and Constance realized she needed to make a greater effort to not seem so morose.
After a soft knock, the door opened and the butler, Mr. Harris, strode in.
“You have a visitor, Lady Constance,” he announced without preamble.
“A visitor?” she asked, sure she’d misunderstood him. No one had called on her in over six months.
His kind brown eyes smiled along with his whole face. “Indeed,” he said and handed the card to her with a flourish.
She took it from him and stared at the calling card in shock.
“Who is it from, Connie?” Charlotte asked, shifting in her seat to see.
Constance reread the name several times until she was certain she had not misread the name printed on the thick cardstock. His Grace, Lucan Devlin Wynwood, Duke of Mondvale waited for her in the parlor.
She looked at Mr. Harris in somewhat of a daze. “Did you make it known that Mother is not home?”
“Yes, milady. I was informed he was here to call on you, Lady Constance.”
She gave a weak nod. Mondvale knew who she was? How had he found out? Since her return home from last night’s ball she had been conflicted. She had written to him over a dozen times, only to discard the rumpled notes. Each one had started with an apology for lying to him before revealing her name. Each time her nerves had attacked her, and she had started over. She had then resolved to attend Lady Beaumont’s midnight ball, and if she saw him, she would be truthful about her identity—and then hope he would not condemn her for lying. But how had he found out that Miss Desiree Hastings and Lady Constance were one and the same?
She dismissed the question instantly. She had felt his eyes on her last night after she had returned inside. That same awareness, hot and almost uncomfortable, had simmered through her. Since he had been watching her, it was very probable he had asked someone about her. Drat.
Constance wondered if he had called on her to express his disgust. She suddenly felt ridiculously vulnerable. She gave Mr. Harris a half smile. “Please tell Mrs. Pritchard to have tea and cakes in the parlor, and inform His Grace I will be with him shortly.”