The Seduction Of Lady Constance (Returning Grooms #1)

Chapter 8

The weeks that followed their wedding seemed like a whirlwind, each day unfolding with new luxuries, indulgences, and unexpected delights that Constance had scarcely dared to dream of. Vincent kept true to his word—lavishing her with a life she had never known, a life where pleasure was not just a fleeting moment but a constant companion. The world he opened to her was one of opulence, a shimmering facade of gowns and jewels, horses and carriages, nights at the opera, and glittering ballroom soirees. Yet beneath the extravagance, there was something else—a steady rhythm of seduction that threaded through their every interaction.

The first time he gifted her the trousseau, Constance had stared at the finely embroidered silks and exquisite lace with a breathless astonishment. She was not used to such finery, having made do with gowns that were repaired and altered to stay in fashion as long as possible. Yet now, her wardrobe was filled with the latest designs—clothes that flattered her in ways she had never experienced, draped in colors that made her skin glow. When she turned to Vincent with a mixture of wonder and gratitude, he merely smiled and kissed her wrist, murmuring, "A countess should be dressed in nothing but the finest."

The same indulgence extended to the house he had given her—more than just a gift, it was a statement. Located on the outskirts of London, it was a lovely Georgian manor with a grand stone facade, its gardens expansive and elegant. Constance felt a curious mix of delight and guilt upon seeing it, knowing that her parents could never have afforded such a property. Yet Vincent had thought of them as well, arranging for a generous allowance that raised Lord and Lady Riverston’s status considerably. Invitations began to arrive at their door—ones that had once been withheld, as though the past scandal had finally been washed away by the sheer power of Vincent’s wealth and influence.

He made sure that their days were filled with adventure, never leaving her to idleness. They attended the opera, where the music seemed to sweep through her like a current, setting her senses alight. They walked in Hyde Park together, his arm always tucked firmly around hers, guiding her through the fashionable crowds with a possessive grace that made it clear to everyone that Lady Southdale was cherished. Balls became regular events, and while Constance had always felt out of place amidst the pomp of the ton, now she found herself enjoying the waltzes, her laughter spilling forth as Vincent spun her across the dance floor, his touch always steady, always reassuring.

And in return, she gave him her body. It was not a calculated exchange, nor was it a matter of mere gratitude. It was something more complex, more intimate than she had anticipated. In those quiet moments when they were alone—when he looked at her with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the layers of silk and lace, past the polite words and the trappings of title—she felt herself unravel. There, in the privacy of their bedchamber, she found herself yielding to him over and over again, not out of duty or even desire for the luxuries he had given her, but because he made her feel like the only woman in the world.

Their nights were always passionate, marked by the unspoken language of touch, of whispered promises and soft gasps. He seduced her anew every evening, as though they were still in the first bloom of courtship. Sometimes, his lovemaking was slow and languid, his hands tracing every curve of her body with a patience that left her trembling with anticipation. Other times, there was a fierceness in him, a raw need that made her heart race, his kisses urgent and possessive as he claimed her again and again. She met his hunger with her own, unable to deny the pleasure she found in his embrace. In those moments, when her body arched beneath his, when her voice broke on a cry of ecstasy, she felt something dangerously close to surrender.

And yet, she kept her heart shielded. She would not allow herself to believe that all of this—the lavish gifts, the shared laughter, the unrelenting passion—meant more than it seemed. After all, hadn't she already learned that desire and promises could be as fleeting as summer rain? It was safer to keep her feelings in check, to return his kindnesses in the form of the pleasures they shared, without hoping for something as fragile and unpredictable as love.

Vincent seemed content to accept her reciprocation, though there were moments when she saw something in his gaze—a flicker of longing, as if he wished for more than just the carnal gratification they found in each other’s arms. One evening, as they lay tangled in the sheets, the warmth of their coupling still lingering in the air, he reached out and touched her face with a tenderness that startled her. "You needn’t thank me for the gifts or the life I’ve given you, Constance," he said, his thumb brushing across her cheek. "I want you to have them because you deserve nothing less."

She turned her face slightly, kissing his palm before pulling away just enough to meet his gaze. "And what if I feel that I must?" she whispered, her voice laced with a bittersweet honesty. "What if I do not know how else to show my gratitude?"

A shadow passed over his features, a brief glimpse of frustration that he quickly masked. "There is no debt between us, my lady," he murmured, pulling her closer. "All I ask is that you be mine, in whatever way you are willing to give."

And so, she continued to give, night after night, each time hoping that the passion they shared would be enough to bridge the gap she kept between them. She found herself looking forward to their nights together, craving the way he made her feel alive, cherished, desired. Yet there remained a quiet ache within her—an unspoken fear that perhaps it was not enough, that Vincent sought something deeper from her than she was prepared to offer.

The days flowed on in a seamless blend of elegance and indulgence, but as the seasons began to change, Constance found herself wondering how long she could keep her heart guarded against the man who seemed determined to win it. For even as she tried to convince herself that she was merely repaying his generosity with the pleasures of the flesh, there were moments—fleeting, undeniable moments—when she felt the stirrings of something more, something that frightened her as much as it tempted her.

And if Vincent sensed her inner turmoil, he said nothing. He simply continued to lavish her with the life she had never had, seducing her not only with his touch but with the kindness he showed in a hundred little ways, the quiet, unspoken promises that lay just beneath the surface.

Each night, as they surrendered to the passion that burned between them, she felt herself drawn ever closer to the edge of a precipice, where one step forward could either send her plummeting into despair or soaring into the arms of something far more dangerous than lust—something that felt perilously like love.