Page 49 of Impassioned
That single word—belong—drove an ache into Constantine’s chest. He ignored it.
“I’ll do my best, Con. I promise.” Lucien retrieved his gloves. “You have not mentioned how the tutoring session went last night. I admit I’ve been dying to know.”
“It’s none of your bloody business.” Honestly, it had left him feeling uncertain about his ability to seduce Sabrina. Could he set aside his preconceptions about her, when she’d only ever been petrified of him, to improve things between them?
“That doesn’t sound as if it went well.”
“I’d like for you to arrange for her to meet me tonight.” The request tumbled from Constantine’s lips before he realized what he meant to say.
Surprise dashed across Lucien’s features. “It’s rather late notice.”
Constantine almost took it back. But he didn’t. If he planned to visit his wife tonight, he needed to know he could do what he must. He could practice with the tutor, just pretend… “I’m sure you’ll do your best,” Con said evenly, using his brother’s words.
Lucien snorted. “Always for you. I’ll send word as soon as I can confirm the appointment. Where will you be?”
“At White’s.” Constantine left, bidding good evening to Reynolds, and went out to his coach. A few minutes later, he stepped into White’s and waited for the familiar air to settle him.
It did not.
In fact, he bristled as Trowley came toward him with single-minded intent. “Aldington, there is a wager in the book about your dear sister, I’m afraid.” His features folded into what was likely meant to have been an expression of concern but in reality made the man look as if he’d stepped in horse manure.
“I pay no attention to the betting book,” Constantine said with his haughtiest tone. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“The wager is that she will remain unwed at the end of the Season. A travesty, to be sure, but—” Trowley clamped his thick lips together and glanced about. Lowering his voice, he started once more, “But no one wants to court her for fear your father will eviscerate them. I, however, am not such a weak-minded sop, and as you know, I have been widowed these past three years. My children need—”
“Excuse me, Trowley.” Constantine had located Brightly on the other side of the room and immediately took off through the throng.
Brightly saw him coming and waved him over, taking a seat at a small empty table. “Ho there, Aldington. You’re a sight for a beleaguered gentleman. I was just about to pick up and head to Brooks’s where there are kinder waters. Too many sharks here.” He glanced about, then winked at Constantine.
Thiswas better. The company of a friend. It was as if Constantine was seeing Brightly for the first time. Yes, they were friends, not just colleagues.
A footman came to the table with a tray offering port or claret. They both chose the latter and Brightly proposed a toast. “To defeating the Importation Act.”
Constantine drank to the sentiment even while he was fairly certain defeat was impossible. Brightly would not be deterred, however. He never gave up on a fight.
“Your cause is rather outnumbered, Brightly.” Constantine set his glass down, but kept his fingers curled around the stem.
“There is still time before the vote. I could use help in convincing others to join us.”
“I haven’t said how I will cast my vote. Is it wrong to want to prevent foreign imports from undercutting good English grain?”
Brightly sat forward, engaging potential debate with his entire body. “Not in theory. However, in practicality, it won’t help the lower classes. Prices are too high, and their wages have not increased. We need to provide relief, such as lower rents.”
“As you’ve done on your estate.”
Brightly’s estate in northern Essex was one of the most profitable in England, producing a great supply of barley and wheat.
“Precisely.”
Brightly made a good argument. He’d lowered his rents a few years ago and had managed to increase his profits.
“I promise I’ll come to a decision—my own—soon,” Constantine said evenly.
Brightly offered a single nod. “I want you to know that no matter what you decide, I still support regulating the apothecaries.”
“Thank you.” Constantine wished he could offer the same assertion to Brightly about the importation law. That the other man pledged his support to Constantine’s cause without demanding something in return was a rarity among those at Westminster.
Brightly grinned. “You’ll come through on the Importation Act, even if it pricks your father’s ire.”
