Constance assessed his curiosity, wondering how much she should reveal. From his slight smile she knew he sensed her hesitation. If he did not know how much society had shunned her, she did not want it brought to his attention. But she did not want to lie to him either. If he was considering courting her, she did not want to get her hopes up and then have him reject her weeks later for something he had not known. No, she would hide no longer. She wanted honesty between them. “I did not want to venture out and face another day of malice and whispers.”
Discomfort flashed across his face so fast she wondered if she had imagined it.
“It is because of these rumors you have not been out much?”
She bobbed her head in confirmation. “You do not sound as if you approve of my tactics.”
“I doubt I will ever understand changing one’s actions to conform to the irrelevant views of a hypocritical society.”
She had thought the same thing at one point, but how could he understand? They were all she had known since birth. “I do not think you can understand, Your Grace. The title has only been recently conferred on you. I have been a part of this society my whole life. You cannot imagine what it feels like to be torn from all that you have ever known, to bare such hardship.”
“Can I not?”
An undercurrent ran beneath his tone, and she suddenly felt foolish at her assessment. She had lived a privileged life. One of the rumors that circulated about him was that he had lived and worked in the rookeries of St. Giles District, the poorest part of London. If that rumor was indeed true, he knew more of hardship than she could ever comprehend. “Forgive me for even thinking to compare our experiences, Lucan.”
He adjusted his spectacles, though they needed no fixing. A sign of discomfort? “Hardship is hardship, Constance, and I can see yours affects you deeply. There is nothing to forgive.”
His tone was regretful, and it made her curious.
“Thank you.”
“Are you without friends completely?”
She laughed lightly. “Charlotte—Lady Ralston—has become my dearest friend. She is three years older than I am, but we get along famously.”
“Are there no others?”
She shrugged. “I have been shunned by those who called me friend months ago. My friends from last season and those I have known most of my life have been forbidden to contact me as I may corrupt them with my wickedness. It never occurred to me that bastardy was so contagious. Lady Annabelle, who had been my dearest friend, now speaks to me with little or no civility,” she ended with a forced laugh. It was still a painful topic to discuss, and she resented it had such sway over her emotions.
“Is it important to you?”
She analyzed his serious mien. “What?”
“The haute monde, their opinion. Do you want to be enfolded back into their bosom?” he asked, his gaze never leaving her face.
She nibbled on a piece of cold ham, trying to appear indifferent to his question. Yes! Her pained heart screamed. “It is nothing of consequence. I do not yearn for it. My mother may dream of it, but I know it will never happen. My brother is the Duke of Calydon, and I am still shunned weeks after the rumors started. There are times I feel as if someone who hates me is feeding the grist deliberately. I am not the only bastard in high society, you know. It is hardly such an unusual revelation.”
A notable tension shifted through his frame. He tried to hide it, but she saw it. What had she said? Mayhap he found it distasteful for her to speak so casually of her circumstance. The silence was fraught with an unknown disquiet that unsettled her. They ate for a few moments in silence, and on more than one occasion he caught her looking at him. Constance very much wanted to be in his arms, feeling his lips on hers again. She lowered her lashes, lest he see the wanton need in her eyes. What was wrong with her? She knew because of her circumstances she would not be deemed a suitable choice for his duchess, yet she was having such shameful thoughts about him.
“Are you regretful Calydon was not your sire?”
She jerked her eyes to his in surprise. No one had ever asked her that question. Not even Charlotte. Constance frowned. The man she had thought her father had been unloving and cruel, yet she had grieved for him. Grieved for what they could have had, and grieved that he had not been happier in life. He had rarely smiled. Only Sebastian had made him happy, only Sebastian had met his exacting standards of comportment, and only to Sebastian had he shown love. Of course now she understood why she and Anthony never received a morsel of the old duke’s affections. Their mother had cuckolded him.
Constance buried the flare of unease she felt at Lucan’s question, and tried to shrug it away. “I had been invisible to him for years, more of an annoyance than a cherished daughter. I am not sure if I am devastated he was not my sire. I am more hurt because for years I never knew Lord Radcliffe was my true father. ”