Page 2 of Impassioned
He supposed she’d probably come sometime this month. Last year, she’d arrived in mid-March. Really, he should write to her and ask. Perhaps he’d do that tomorrow.
“Well, when she’s in town, you must come for dinner,” Brightly said. “Mrs. Brightly thoroughly enjoys her company.”
“I’m sure Lady Aldington would be delighted.” Because she would. During the few dinners they’d shared with the Brightlys last Season, Sabrina had been at her most animated. Most Society events seemed to terrify her.
“Excellent, we’ll look forward to it then.” Brightly finished his port. “And I won’t harass you about the tariff until next week.” He winked, then rose and took himself off.
Constantine smiled faintly into his port before sipping. Then he promptly drank the liquid down the wrong side of his throat as his father walked into his line of sight.
Coughing, Constantine set his glass down with a bit too much force. Or perhaps, in his agitation, he gripped the stem too tightly. Whatever the reason, the stem snapped, and the glass fell over onto the tablecloth, spilling what remained of his port. The jagged edge of the broken glass tore into Constantine’s palm. Blood welled on his flesh, and he turned his hand over to keep it from spilling onto the tablecloth.
“Good Christ,” the duke muttered before waving for a footman who hurried to the table. “Bring his lordship a cloth for his hand and tidy this mess.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman rushed to carry out the older man’s bidding.
Constantine looked up at his father, into the familiar dark eyes that seemed to detect everything in Constantine’s mind and soul. He hoped his father hadn’t seen that Brightly had just been sitting here.
That was, however, far too much to hope for.
The duke’s cool gaze flicked to the chair Brightly had vacated. “Why were you speaking with that upstart? I really should ensure he’s cast out. He has no business here and should keep to his kind at Brooks’s.”
His kind.Constantine winced as he pulled the glass from his palm. He set it on the tablecloth, staining the fabric with his blood. “Because he has Whig tendencies.”
“Because heisa bloody Whig.” The duke spoke in a low but irritated tone.
The footman returned to the table, accompanied by another. The first one handed Constantine a small towel while the other gathered up the tablecloth and broken glass. The latter hurried away, and the former spread a fresh, clean cloth over the table.
“Can I fetch anything else for you, my lord?” he asked Constantine.
“No, thank you.” Constantine gave him a reassuring nod, knowing how intimidating his father could be and understanding the footman was likely anxious.
“A glass of claret,” the duke barked before sitting in a chair that hadn’t been occupied by Brightly. Which put him directly to Constantine’s right. The footman quickly departed, and the duke glowered after him. “I do think I’ll see what I can do about having Brightly expelled. He doesn’t belong here.”
“Why not? His father was a member.” Besides, nearly everyone liked Brightly. He was an enjoyable verbal sparring partner, regardless of whether you agreed with him.
The duke’s eyes glittered with annoyance. “His father is deceased and can no longer recommend him.”
Constantine held the towel to his wound, pressing hard to staunch the flow of blood. “Do you plan to have Lucien expelled too?” His brother also had “Whig tendencies.” Frankly, so did Constantine. “Or is he exempt from such action because he’syourson?”
“Don’t be clever.” The duke glowered at Constantine before lifting his gaze to the footman who arrived with the claret. “Thank you.” His brief show of gratitude eased some of the tension in Constantine’s shoulders. His father was in quite a mood this evening. He wasn’t a genial sort at any time, but he wasn’t always this surly either.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go home and bandage this.” Constantine’s palm stung and was still oozing blood. But more importantly, he wasn’t of a mind to suffer his father’s interrogation about Brightly, which was surely coming.
“Yes, you should. I hope that doesn’t affect your racing grip.” He said that because he liked to wager on Constantine’s coach races. That Constantine had formed a racing club with a group of gentlemen a few years ago was a point of pride for the duke.
“Good night, Father.”
“Good night.” He inclined his head before sipping his claret.
Before leaving, Constantine gave the stained cloth to a footman. A few moments later, Constantine stepped into a hack, which he directed to his house on Curzon Street. His hand was still bleeding a little, so he removed his cravat and wrapped it around his palm.
By the time he arrived home, he was exhausted, aggrieved in a myriad of ways, and he realized his wounded right hand wouldn’t allow him to ease at least a part of his frustration. Smiling at the absurdity, he greeted his butler, Haddock, at the door. “You’re up late. Did one of the footmen take ill?”
“Good evening, my lord.” Haddock’s wide brow furrowed beneath his severely combed gray-black hair. Constantine knew right away that something was amiss.
The tension he’d just managed to push away in the hack returned, shooting a pain down his spine. “What’s the matter?”
Haddock’s pale blue gaze dropped to Constantine’s wrapped hand. “Did you injure yourself, my lord?”
