Chapter Three #2
“No,” Griz said, though she was frowning. “At least, I don’t think so. But perhaps I have, for I don’t seem to be surprised. Why do you ask?”
“Caterina is dead,” Solomon said, to the clear shock of their hosts. “She died suddenly last night, of a longstanding heart problem. I expect it will be in the morning’s newspapers.”
“But you are investigating her death?” Griz said shrewdly.
“What sort of heart problem?” Dragan asked.
“Irregular heartbeat. Her physician was treating her with digitalis.”
Dragan nodded.
“I don’t suppose you know the physician in question?” Solomon asked. “A Dr. Sorenson?”
“No, but I know the name. His patients are largely among the rich of Mayfair and Belgravia. He has a sound reputation.” Dragan rose, as though just remembering his manners, and poured four glasses of brandy from a fine crystal decanter.
Constance suspected it had been a wedding present. Probably, so was the brandy.
She turned the subject to their hosts’ lives, which were generally fascinating. They were enjoying a lively and most amusing conversation when Solomon chose to spoil it.
The conversation had broadened from the personal to the more general, to the apparent blindness of the powerful to the plights of those beneath them, and from there to inequalities in general, and the difficulties of changing that.
After her experience in Venice, Constance was looking forward to Dragan’s insights into radicalism and revolution, when Solomon suddenly leaned forward.
“A case in point. Theoretically, would you accept Constance’s invitation to our house?”
“Of course,” Griz said at once.
Constance, who rarely blushed, felt her face flame. How dare Solomon put her or Griz in this position? Though amongst the furious churnings, there might have been a gratitude she hated almost as much.
“And would you allow that?” Solomon threw at Dragan.
Dragan smiled. “There is so much wrong with that question. Firstly, I have never been able to stop Griz doing as she wished. Secondly, I would never try, unless she was putting herself in danger. She would do the same for me, and I trust her. But thirdly, I don’t believe I have the right.
And fourthly—what kind of egalitarian would I be if I turned up my nose at the birth of another? ”
“He’s not talking about birth,” Constance snapped, “but about me. He has the thoroughly ridiculous idea of inviting respectable people to our house, with me as hostess. His question to you—and he already guessed what your courteous answer would be—is all about persuading me to agree. To an event that would be disastrous for all of us.” She grasped her hands tightly together in her lap to hide their shaking.
She had never been so angry with Solomon.
“You two are the exception, not the rule. And I know you are kind enough to come to my house.”
“I would have already, only I know you are always out,” Griz said.
“And you would be welcome,” Constance said. “But would your sister and her husband come? Would your parents, the duke and duchess? I don’t think so.”
“You were at the Trenches’ house,” Dragan said.
“For a particular purpose. I don’t need to remind you who else was there.
” Constance felt as if she were speaking through her teeth and strove to lighten her face and her tone.
How dare Solomon do this to her? To the Tizsas?
“Forgive us for bringing our silly disagreements to your house. How is young Master Tizsa?”
Fortunately, the blatant change of subject to their young son Alexander worked. Although Constance’s anger did not subside, she was able to hide it beneath the social manners she had taught herself from an early age. But for the first time ever, she could not bring herself to speak to Solomon.
She felt betrayed by his dragging the Tizsas into the matter, as though he had put all her secret insecurities and vulnerabilities on display to strangers.
Just to achieve his own ends, which, to her, were foolish in themselves.
Worse, she had never been disappointed in him before, and now she was.
God, she was. And so enraged she wanted to walk home.
By the time they reached their house, she wished she had stayed at the establishment.
She even thought about instructing the coachman to turn back to Mayfair.
Instead, tight-lipped, she stepped down from the carriage without help, walked silently into the house, and climbed the stairs to her bedchamber.
There, she lit the lamp, threw her hat and cloak onto a chair, and strode back and forth across the room, too wrapped up in anger even to hear him enter the room. She only saw him when she spun around from the window and pulled up short.
He stood in the middle of the room, watching her, looking his usual calm, elegant, damnably handsome self. He had always been adept at hiding his feelings. But he had to know she was more furious with him than she had ever been. She wanted to lash out, to hurt.
Tearing her gaze free, she stalked past him to the door.
Or, at least, she tried to, but at the last moment, he caught her hand and pulled her back to face him.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
That soft, deep voice had always turned her insides to liquid.
“Don’t what?” she demanded. “Go where I like in my own home? Choose whom to have in my house? Dare to disagree with the people you line up to fight your battles for you? Unworthy, Solomon. Unforgivable.”
She tugged her hand sharply to free it, but he held on.
“No,” he said.
“Again, we differ.” Her voice shook. She wanted to cry. “Let me go.”
“Where? To storm around the house? To sleep in another room to stoke your anger?”
It was an effort not to give another futile wrench of her hand. Instead, she glared at him. “Dragan would say it is my right. Since you value his opinion so much—”
“Stop,” he said. “I asked a theoretical question because I wanted us to hear other opinions. If you think I’m wrong, then let us talk about it. Now.”
Her throat tightened. “I can’t talk now, Solomon. I am too furious, too betrayed…”
Again she pulled away, and again he would not allow it. Instead, he took her in his arms, drawing her rigid body against him from breast to thigh.
“There is no betrayal,” he said. “Only love.”
She wouldn’t, wouldn’t be softened by that word. She thrust her hand against his chest. “Oh, no. You were pushing your point, quite the ruthless businessman.”
“No.” He bent his head until his forehead leaned lightly on hers. His touch, his scent, seeped into her anger, threatening it, threatening her. “I don’t want you to look down on yourself, Constance.”
“I don’t. But other people do.”
“Some people look down on me because my blood is mixed. Some people will never change. But I believe we have enough friends to lead the life we choose.”
“That you choose,” she corrected him at once. But her traitorous body was remembering pleasure. Desire was relaxing the stiffness of her shoulders. Her trembling was no longer due to anger alone.
His lips brushed the corner of her eye, her cheek, her ear. “I would never push anything or anyone onto you. We can choose our guests, agree on them. Or agree to none. But we have to talk and listen to agree.”
He stroked her nape, and her breath caught. If she was to resist, she had to break free. Only, his mouth hovered over hers, and…
“You’re not talking,” she said desperately.
“I am,” he whispered. “And so are you.”
His mouth took hers, and with it, emotion surged in a massive, chaotic tangle.
He seduced her, blatantly, with kisses and increasingly intimate caresses, with every movement of his lean, ravishing body.
With a gasp that was half sob, she seized him and fought back in a fierce, sensual duel where losing was impossible and the eventual, blinding satisfaction overwhelming.
Afterward, they lay in each other’s arms, and she listened to the slowing beat of his heart against her ear.
He said, “I didn’t mean it to hurt you.”
“I react badly when I’m afraid.”
It was an admission she hadn’t intended to make. It might have surprised him too, for his arm tightened around her.
“It was you who taught me not to be afraid to grow. But whatever we do—or don’t do—it has to be together. We can agree on that much.”
“We can.” She kissed his chest.
He moved, looming over her. “It is not a condition of love, Constance. That is forever.”
This time she let the tears come. “We agree on that, too,” she whispered, and pressed her damp cheek to his.