The Seduction Of Lady Constance (Returning Grooms #1)

Chapter 4

It was an evening touched by a hint of magic, the kind of dusk that softened the world’s hard edges. The sky was awash with warm hues of gold and rose, fading into twilight, while the scent of autumn lingered in the cool air. Lord Summers and Lady Constance strolled along the garden path at Riverston House, their steps unhurried, their words kept to idle topics as they traversed the manicured grounds.

Vincent had suggested the walk after dinner, an offer Constance had accepted with an ease that surprised even her. She had become accustomed to their exchanges—polite, measured, always careful to maintain a certain distance. She was not sure why she had come to enjoy these small interactions with him, but there was something about his presence that allowed her to forget, if only for a moment, the pressure of expectations that weighed upon her.

She glanced at him as they walked, noting the quiet confidence in his stride, the calmness in his gaze. He was a man of practicality, a man who spoke plainly and demanded the same in return. There were no grand romantic gestures, no whispered words of devotion. And yet… there was a certain steadiness in him that she could not deny.

“Are you often silent, my lord?” she asked, a faint smile touching her lips. “Or is it only when in my company?”

Vincent cast her a sidelong glance, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “I speak when there is something worth saying, my lady. And I find I prefer listening to the sound of your voice.”

Constance’s smile faded slightly, not from displeasure, but from a sense of wariness. Compliments did not come easily from him, and when they did, they seemed to carry more weight. She had to remind herself that his attentions, no matter how flattering, did not mean she could allow herself to trust him. He was a means to an end, a way to secure her future and her family’s fortune, nothing more.

And yet, as they reached the end of the garden path, she felt a curious tension settle in the air between them—a tension that had nothing to do with practicality or arrangement. She looked up at him, her brows arching in question as he stopped walking and turned to face her fully.

“There is something I wish to discuss with you, Lady Constance,” he began, his tone uncharacteristically hesitant.

She tilted her head slightly, a flicker of curiosity sparking in her eyes. “Indeed, my lord? And what might that be?”

He took a step closer, and for the first time since she had known him, there was a softness in his gaze that unsettled her. “Constance,” he said, his voice lower now, “I had planned to make this proposal in a more formal setting, but the moment feels… right.”

She felt her breath catch. “Proposal?” she echoed, not because she did not understand, but because the notion of him making such an offer in a setting so unexpected, so intimate, seemed entirely out of character.

“Yes,” Vincent replied, and the faintest smile touched his lips, as though he too recognized the departure from his usual practicality. “I have come to realize that I do not wish to enter into this arrangement as one of mere necessity. I want to marry you, Constance, not because I need a wife to fulfill a role, but because I find that I want you.”

Constance felt a rush of confusion and something else she could not quite name. She had been prepared to accept a proposal, but not like this—not with a hint of sentiment that threatened to shake the walls she had so carefully built around her heart. “My lord,” she began, her voice faltering slightly, “you need not embellish your intentions with romantic notions. I understand quite well what this marriage means, and I—”

“This is no embellishment,” Vincent interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. He reached out and took her hand, his grip steady and warm. “I know you see our union as a transaction. I would be a fool not to realize that. But I am asking you to consider that it could be more than that. I am asking you to take a chance on the possibility that we could build something worth having together.”

The sincerity in his voice pierced through her defenses, and she felt herself falter. She had not expected this—had not expected a proposal that carried the weight of possibility, a suggestion that perhaps she might not be entering a cold agreement, but a marriage where a spark of something more could be kindled. But she could not allow herself to be swayed by hope. One man had already betrayed her with his promises; who was to say another would not do the same?

She withdrew her hand slowly, her gaze steady on his. “Lord Summers,” she said, her voice quiet but resolved, “you must understand that I cannot allow myself to believe in such… possibilities. My experience has taught me that romantic sentiments are often fleeting, and I have no desire to be made a fool of again.”

Vincent’s expression did not change, though she thought she detected a flicker of something like disappointment in his eyes. “I am not asking you to believe in grand romantic gestures or fairy tales, Constance,” he said gently. “I am simply asking you to believe in the idea that we could build something real, given time and effort.”

She hesitated, torn between the desire to protect herself and the dangerous allure of hope. Her parents wanted this match desperately, and she knew it would secure her family’s future. And yet, Vincent was offering something more than a mere arrangement—he was offering her the choice to see where this path might lead.

Slowly, she inclined her head, her voice steady as she spoke. “Very well, my lord. I will accept your proposal,” she said, “but only with the understanding that I am treating this marriage as a business arrangement. If it happens to become something else, that will be… incidental.”

He studied her for a moment, then inclined his head in return. “Agreed,” he said. “I will accept those terms, with the hope that in time, you might be willing to revisit them.”

They stood there in the garden, the last light of day slipping beneath the horizon, sealing the agreement between them. As he escorted her back inside, Constance vowed to herself that she would keep her heart firmly guarded. She had been bruised once, and she would not allow herself to be bruised again.

And yet, as they walked together in the deepening twilight, a small part of her wondered if she had just made a promise she might one day find difficult to keep. For though she intended to keep their marriage firmly rooted in practicality, something about the way Vincent looked at her—like she was more than just a convenient choice—made her wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to him than met the eye. And if there might be more to herself than she had allowed herself to believe.