The Seduction Of Lady Constance (Returning Grooms #1)

Chapter 1

The scandal of Lady Constance Rivers’ broken engagement spread like wildfire, fueling whispers in every drawing room, club, and tea parlor in London. Within days, her name was on the lips of society’s most ruthless gossips, their hushed tones only heightening the cruelty of the speculation. Though she had not set foot outside her family’s townhouse since that night, her disgrace reverberated through every corner of the city. It seemed that no one could speak of anything else.

Seated by the window in her bedchamber, Constance watched as the autumn rain drizzled against the glass, blurring the street below into a haze of gray and amber. The world seemed muted, as though it had been drained of color and life. Her once-sparkling days were now marked by the endless tick of the clock and the cloying solitude that pressed in from all sides. She had ignored every social invitation that arrived on a silver salver, turning away friends whose concern only reminded her of her ruined state. What use was there in trying to pretend? There could be no restoration of her reputation—Sylvester had seen to that.

Even her mother’s anxious pleas fell on deaf ears. Lady Rivers had insisted that Constance attend a dinner here or a musicale there, urging her to show a brave face to the ton and defy the rumors. But Constance knew it was a futile endeavor. The polite world had already passed its judgment, and she had no intention of parading herself for their scrutiny or pity. Better to be hidden away than to endure the smug, pitying looks of women who had once envied her, and the knowing smirks of men who whispered about her as if she were a fallen woman.

The newspapers, ever hungry for scandal, had been merciless. Each morning brought a fresh wave of speculative articles about the “ruined beauty” and her fate. Would Lady Constance Rivers retire from society altogether? Was there any gentleman fool enough to seek her hand now, or had she indeed become spoiled goods, fit only for a man of lesser standing—or no man at all? One particularly vicious column even questioned whether, in her despair, she might contemplate a tragic end to her troubles. The very idea of her considering such an act was appalling and infuriating, but Constance found she had no energy to summon outrage. It was easier to simply close the paper and push it aside.

For weeks, the darkness outside seemed to mirror the desolation within her. At first, she had tried to carry on with her daily routines, hoping to find solace in the familiar comforts of reading, needlework, or playing the pianoforte. But even those small pleasures felt hollow and unfulfilling. Letters from friends, which had arrived regularly at the start, now dwindled in frequency. When she failed to respond, the invitations stopped altogether. She found herself increasingly alone, her world shrinking to the confines of her room. It was as if the very walls were closing in around her, the loneliness growing thicker with each passing day.

Constance could not help but reflect on the brutal contrast between her life before Sylvester Sinclair and after. Just weeks ago, she had been the belle of every ball, a beloved figure in London society. Now, she was a cautionary tale—a story for mothers to tell their daughters about the dangers of trusting too easily, of letting one’s heart outpace one’s reason.

But even as she withdrew from the world, a small flame of defiance remained. She could not—and would not—allow Sylvester’s betrayal to define her forever. Her life could not be measured solely by the whims of a cruel man and the judgments of those who feasted on her downfall. Yet, how to forge a new path when the very future seemed lost to her?

The question haunted her, echoing in the silence that enveloped the house. As the days stretched on, Constance grew weary of merely existing within the safe, stifling confines of her room. Perhaps there was a way to reclaim some semblance of her former self, to defy the ton and their vicious gossip. But the thought of stepping back into society filled her with a dread she could not yet conquer.

She would not take her life, as some vile columnist had so cruelly suggested. But she also could not pretend to be the same woman she had been before. For now, she would continue to avoid the ton, bide her time, and decide on her own terms what to do next. If there was to be a reckoning, it would not be on their schedule. She would find her way back, but only when she was ready. And when she did, she would ensure that Sylvester Sinclair, and all of London, would not forget it.

As the rain continued to patter against the window, a faint determination began to stir within her. It was only a flicker of resolve, but it was there—enough to spark the smallest glimmer of hope in the darkness that surrounded her. And though Constance did not know what her future would hold, she knew one thing: she would not fade quietly into obscurity.