Page 89 of Impassioned
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. Hedidwant 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 buttonight. 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.
