by Darcy Burke
MacNair stepped toward Constantine, his gaze darting behind him and toward the stair hall. “Ah, Aldington, you may want to continue this in a more private location,” he said quietly.
Constantine turned his head and muttered a curse. A small group of guests had gathered to watch him hit his brother. This would be the talk of the evening, far worse than a dearth of ice or a loose kitten running amok.
If the ball had been a disaster before, it was now a catastrophe.
Cassandra and Prudence had looked at Sabrina in question after Constantine had gone back into the house. After muttering something nonsensical and which she couldn’t even remember a few minutes later, Sabrina had rushed inside and ducked up the backstairs to find a moment’s peace.
She felt terrible about how Constantine had learned the truth. He’d looked so utterly shocked. Beyond that, however, she didn’t know what he’d felt. Was he angry? Hurt? Disappointed?
She felt as if the world was squeezing in around her. No, she would not collapse. Taking long, deep breaths, she stood on the first floor landing and willed herself to remain calm. She just had to make it through the rest of the evening. And then she could face Constantine.
That did nothing to ease her mind or her anxiety.
Though she didn’t feel much better, she couldn’t disappear from the ball. She’d already done that earlier with Constantine when they’d shared that wonderful interlude in her dressing room. Had that been tonight instead of some long ago dream?
She stepped out of the stairwell and moved toward the drawing room. The rest of the evening would move swiftly and without incident. It had to. What more could go wrong?
Her mother walked from the drawing room and intercepted her. “There you are, Sabrina.” She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “This ball is an absolute tragedy. I fear you won’t be able to hold your head up in Society.”
Tragedy. Much to Sabrina’s chagrin, she flinched.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself? Or your husband?”
Why would she include Constantine? “I realize you’re quite used to denigrating me, but I won’t allow you to insult my husband, especially not here in his home.” His home. As if it weren’t hers too.
“I wasn’t insulting him. He’s the one who created a scene by hitting his own brother.”
What on earth had happened? Before the question even finished in her mind, she knew. Constantine was angry with him about the tutoring stratagem. And he had every right to be angry—with her too.
Except, shouldn’t she be angry as well? He was the one who’d betrayed her with another woman. Another woman who was her. Sabrina’s head began to throb. She massaged her fingertips against her temple. “Please excuse me, Mother.”
Sabrina began to turn and felt her mother’s hand on her arm.
“I wasn’t finished speaking, Sabrina.” The viscountess dropped her hand to her side.
“Well, I am finished listening,” Sabrina hissed back at her. She’d managed to keep herself together all night, and she simply couldn’t do it any longer. Stepping closer to her mother, she let anger and hurt meld into a vitriol she’d never felt before. “Not just tonight but forever. I don’t wish to hear anything more you have to say about me, my behavior, or my husband. And I definitely don’t want to hear anymore snide comments about my lack of a child or my failure as a countess. You’ve never understood me or even wanted to.” Heart pounding and hands shaking, Sabrina moved past her toward the drawing room—she wasn’t going to let her mother distract her from her duty.
Somehow, Sabrina made it through the rest of the ball without retreating to her room, suffering an attack of nerves, or seeing her husband for more than a fleeting moment. Whether Fate had decided to keep them apart for the remainder of the evening or Constantine had just been particularly adept at avoiding her, it wasn’t until nearly three o’clock after the last guests had departed that she found him in their sitting room.
He sat near the hearth, his hand clutching a glass of something that wasn’t wine. She would have guessed gin, given the lack of color, but she’d never known him to drink that. And why would she? A week or so of togetherness did not mean they were close.
“Have you been waiting for me?” she asked, clutching the gloves she’d removed as she’d climbed the stairs.
“Shouldn’t I have been? You indicated that you had some explaining to do.”
“I do, and I will.” She moved toward him. “I heard about what happened with Lucien.”
“All of London has heard by now.” His lip curled before he took a sip of his drink. “There will be a hundred stories as to why.” He looked up at her, his gaze inscrutable. “None of them will come close to the truth, however.”
“I can’t imagine they would.” Sabrina slowly lowered herself into the chair facing his in front of the hearth. The usual twitter of anxiety rattled inside her. She clasped her hands together in case they started to quiver.
“It’s a rather unusual situation.” His voice carried an air of detachment. Sabrina couldn’t tell at all how he was feeling. “My father has ended your sponsorship of Cassandra.”
Though she wasn’t surprised, Sabrina was still disappointed. “Because the ball was such a mess?”
He tipped his head in a slight nod. “And because I didn’t hold up my end of a bargain we made.” Before she could ask him about that, he asked, “Was the tutor stratagem your idea or Lucien’s?”
Sabrina licked her suddenly very dry lips. “Lucien’s. And Evie’s. She suggested it to me.”
Constantine’s nostrils flared. “They worked together then.”
“Yes.”
He speared her with a dark stare. “With you.”
“Yes. You were also involved,” she added quietly, her gaze drifting to her lap.
“Of course I was involved—I was the mark.”
She snapped her head up. “You weren’t a mark.”
“Wasn’t I? You were all in on the ruse while I was the dupe.” He wasn’t wrong, and it was the aspect that had tortured the back of Sabrina’s mind, even while they’d reaped the benefits of the deception.
“You weren’t a dupe. At least, I never thought of you as such. I thought this would help matters, and it did, didn’t it?”
He took another sip. “But I also thought it would help matters. Whether it did or not, perhaps you’ll agree it wasn’t the best idea.” Now, she could see the emotion simmering just beneath the surface of his calm veneer.
“No, it was not. Still, it brought us here, didn’t it?”
“To a place where secrets and lies are revealed and not because we shared them. We seem to suffer a lack of honesty and forthrightness. For myself, I have tried very hard—perhaps too hard—to protect you, to keep you from being overset. I resolve not to do that any longer. And you are going to have to find a way to speak your mind. I know you can do it, as evidenced from the very first night you arrived in London.” The last part carried a hint of derision.
She understood what he meant. She’d had the courage and nerve to demand he bed her every night to have a child, but she hadn’t been able to set aside her apprehension to facilitate that. Not until she’d become the tutor. Thinking about it from his perspective made her understand how he would feel—hurt, upset, perhaps even that she was afraid of him.
“I’m sorry for that,” she said softly. “It took me a long time to gather the courage to come here, to…change, to be the countess I need to be.” And so far, she’d utterly failed—from the ball tonight to sponsoring Cassandra, to being a wife.
Lines furrowed around his eyes, and suddenly he looked sad. “I’m sorry you saw me as such a fearsome person that you had to work so hard to approach me. I should have done more when we were first married to put you at ease. Perhaps we are not well suited after all. I am a focused…dispassionate person. You are easily upset, anxious.” He finished his gin and stood, the empty glass dangling from his fingertips. “Let us hope you are with child by now
so that we can put this unpleasantness behind us.”
She stared up at him, words freezing on her tongue before she could utter them.
“I apologize for ruining your ball by hitting Lucien.”
A humorless laugh spilled from her lips. “It was ruined before then. I’m sorry it all went so badly. I hope it won’t reflect poorly on you.”
“It will likely reflect poorly on both of us. It’s a good thing neither one of us really cares for the social whirl.” The emptiness in his eyes made her shiver. Was this the same man who’d run to her defense earlier? Who’d seduced her in her dressing chamber? Who’d shown her that love wasn’t only real but that it was possible for her to feel?
He strode past her to the cabinet, swept up a bottle on the way to his chamber, and closed the door firmly behind him. She heard the lock catch.
Did he mean for them to go their separate ways? He’d certainly implied that by saying he hoped she was already with child. She smoothed her hand over her belly.
It was very late, and she was exhausted. There would be time for them to talk, to move past this…unpleasantness. Did he really think of it like that? The past days had been the happiest of her life, far surpassing pleasant.
She had to think they could find their way back to that. Unless he was right, that they weren’t truly suited for one another.
Pressing her hand to her midsection, she thought, at least I got what I came for. Probably.
Only that was no longer enough.
Chapter 20
In the past, White’s had served Constantine as both a refuge and an opportunity, a place where he could relax and conduct business. It was not where he came to gamble or carouse, as most of the members did. Tonight, those activities seemed especially noisome as he sought out Horace Brightly.
After a fruitless search, during which far too many members queried him about his altercation with Lucien the night before, Constantine relegated himself to a table where he could see the door and hopefully catch Brightly as soon as he arrived. A footman delivered a glass of port, which Constantine accepted with gratitude, despite having over-imbibed the night before.
Thoughts of his wife crept into his brain, but he didn’t want to think about the mess of their marriage. He didn’t blame her for taking such drastic measures to ease the strife between them—he’d done the same bloody thing. That they’d both felt they had to betray and deceive in order to break down the walls between them made him distinctly uncomfortable. In fact, he preferred not to dwell on it. What had happened was in the past now, and he would continue on as he always had.
Taking a long drink of port, he refocused his mind on Brightly. They’d only briefly spoken about the passing of the Importation Act at the ball last night, and Constantine wanted to continue their conversation.
Perhaps, given their defeat yesterday, Brightly preferred to spend the evening at Brooks’s. Or even the Phoenix Club.
Thinking of that establishment drove Constantine to drink more port. He’d actually thought his relationship with Lucien had improved due to the support he’d offered. All the while, his brother had deceived him as surely as Sabrina had. It was unconscionable. Constantine was glad he hadn’t accepted the invitation to the Phoenix Club. He didn’t want to be anywhere his brother was.
Another of their colleagues from the Commons walked by Constantine’s table. He waved his hand toward the man. “Wilson, have you seen Brightly this evening?”
Wilson came to the table and took a chair, his expression intense. “Haven’t you heard?” he asked in a low tone, as if he were about to impart a secret. Which begged the question, if it was secret, why would Constantine have heard about it?
“No.” Constantine despised this sort of gossip nonsense.
“Brightly’s been expelled. You won’t find him here tonight. Or ever.” He arched his brows, inhaling so that his chest puffed. He looked quite proud of himself for delivering the awful news.
“When did this happen?” Constantine lifted his glass for another much needed drink, thinking he was going to need a refill in a moment.
“Just today, I believe. I’m surprised you don’t know. Rumor has it your father was behind the expulsion.”
It hadn’t been an empty threat. Or perhaps Constantine had provoked him to act by reneging on their agreement.
Fury spiraled through him. He hastily set his glass back on the table lest he break the stem and cut his hand open again. No, he would not think of that night when Sabrina had sauntered into town and changed everything.
He wanted his routine and his comfort back.
Wilson leaned toward Constantine, his eyes slightly narrowed as if he were hunting prey. “Is it true you may call Lord Lucien out?”
“No!” Constantine unleashed the word with an excess of contempt that he immediately regretted. He was angry with his brother, but dueling with him? “You really need to step away from the gossip, Wilson.” Rising, he bid Wilson good night and left the club.
Outside, he looked in the direction of the Phoenix Club, situated so close that he could be there in a few short minutes. There was an assembly tonight, and though it was early yet, Sabrina would be there. Constantine could go, accept his membership on the spot, and whisk his wife upstairs where he’d blindfold her and show her what it felt like to be in the dark.
Scrubbing his hand over his face, he slammed on his hat and strode toward home. He hated that he felt like such a fool. He knew Sabrina, Lucien, and Mrs. Renshaw hadn’t been laughing at him. They’d concocted the ridiculous stratagem to help him and Sabrina. That was what Lucien did—he helped people. Still, in this case, Constantine thought there had to have been another way to bring him and Sabrina together.
But was there?
She’d been so afraid, so nervous. Which had made him nervous. And uncertain. Perhaps there hadn’t been another solution, and did it matter when what they’d done had ended up working in their favor?
It had led him to court her, to behave as he should have done when they’d first married. Only, he’d thought she’d loathed him. He made a low, frustrated sound in his throat. This was all too damned complicated. He did want his orderly life back. It was easy and simple.
And completely…dispassionate.
“Lord Aldington! Lord Aldington!”
Constantine paused and slowly turned. A footman, running from White’s, came to an abrupt stop just in front of him. “An urgent message was just delivered for you, my lord.” He handed Constantine a folded piece of parchment.
Opening the note, Constantine quickly scanned the contents. His father was demanding he attend him immediately. Not tomorrow but tonight. This couldn’t be good, but Constantine didn’t care. He was furious with the duke about Brightly and eager to tell him so.
After thanking the footman, Constantine caught a hack. Anticipation thrummed in his veins. He could hardly wait to tell his father exactly what he thought.
Five minutes after arriving at the Phoenix Club assembly, Sabrina was ready to leave. She never should have come, though she’d wanted to show the ton that she was not cowed after her calamitous ball. Still, she was exhausted from last night. She’d barely slept after her conversation with Constantine. She should have said more, but once again her anxiety had gotten the better of her.
She should have fought. For him, for their marriage. To keep what they’d found.
And what was that exactly? She hadn’t even told him she loved him, hadn’t tried to find out if he might love her too.
“Sabrina, you look so pensive.” Evie had approached her, and Sabrina hadn’t even noticed.
Blinking, Sabrina recalled that she was in the Phoenix Club standing near the wide entry to the ballroom. “I think it was a mistake to come tonight. I’m still recovering from last night.”
“I hope you aren’t feeling bad about it. Didn’t you see the evening paper? Lady Pickering declared your ball to be the Success of the Season.”
That was almost enough to make Sa
brina smile, but not quite. “I did not see that.” She’d studiously avoided all the newspapers today.
“There were several other quotes from attendees. They all made the same point: that in spite of the challenges you suffered as a debut hostess, you are no longer the Wallflower Countess. They’re calling you the Renaissance Countess.”
Now Sabrina did smile. “You suggested that nickname to Lady Pickering.”
Evie arched a brow, eyes sparkling. “I will neither confirm nor deny that. You are a rousing success and nothing else matters.”
“I can’t agree. I’m a complete and total failure.” Just as her mother had said.
Evie’s gaze darkened with distress as she stepped closer to Sabrina. “What’s happened?”
“Constantine discovered I was his tutor. It was the perfume. When you and I left my chamber before the ball the other night, Cassandra and Miss Lancaster remained. They found the scent and applied it to themselves.”
Deep lines splintered Evie’s brow. “Aldington smelled it on them.”
“I saw the moment he recognized the scent. He commented on it, and Cassandra revealed it was mine.”
“I’m so sorry. Let us go up to my office.” Evie ushered Sabrina through the retiring room to the backstairs that would take them up to the first floor where her office sat in the corner, just above the retiring room.
Sabrina had been to the office when she’d visited the club after the musicale. The space was as tastefully and beautifully appointed as Evie’s house. Evie went directly to a cabinet and poured two glasses of hock.
“I take it Aldington is terribly angry,” Evie said, handing Sabrina a glass before perching on the settee.
Sabrina didn’t sit. There was too much energy coursing through her. “No, he isn’t terribly angry.” She thought of how he’d seemed after the ball—he’d reverted to his demeanor of detachment. Was that his true self? Not the passionate, caring man she’d come to recently know?
