Eighteen #3
Constance didn’t care. Her pride was up. If Holburn was anything like his uncles, she was ready to face public scandal and have her baby alone.
The dowager seized on the opportunity to escape. “Yes, I believe we should.” She linked her arm in Constance’s.
Phillip, Charlotte, and the others started to follow them, but Constance waved them back.
If Holburn was as rude as the uncles, Phillip appeared ready to call him out.
She could not let that happen. “This is a moment when I can acquaint myself better with the dowager, if you please?” She sent a silent plea to her sister.
The twins weren’t the only siblings who could communicate without words.
And, fortunately, Charlotte understood. With a nod, she directed her husband to see about refreshments.
Once they were alone, the duchess confided, “My husband’s brothers are greedy, greedy, greedy.
And so disapproving. Can you imagine how difficult my life is with those dour-faced bastions of propriety lurking at my door?
Don’t worry. Holburn doesn’t like them one whit.
You won’t have to deal with them often.”
“Why are they so disapproving?” Constance asked.
“Because they worry that Holburn is going to spend all their money,” the dowager replied breezily.
“They fear if he dies, there will be nothing to inherit. As if Holburn cares about their wishes any more than he does mine. I will warn you, he can seem callous. He doesn’t consider how his demise would affect my income. ”
Constance had given up searching for logic in the duchess’s thinking. The card room was set up in the parlor. There were four tables with five to eight players at each. Almost everyone in the room was gathered around the table farthest from the door.
“Oh, dear, what is he doing now?” the duchess worried, and shouldered her petite self through the crowd.
Constance followed and had her first look at the man she would marry.
The duke was tall and lean. One would have thought him athletic except for the unnatural pallor of his skin beneath dark hair and the way his hand shook as he reached for a card to turn over. He was a handsome, elegant, dissolute man.
He realized his mother was there almost immediately. He looked up at her, his lids low over lazy eyes. “Mother,” he said, deliberately pronouncing each syllable. “Have you come to watch me win money off of Gibbons?”
“Dominic, what are you doing?” his mother asked.
“Flipping a card,” he answered easily. “High card wins two thousand pounds. That is Gibbons’s jack on the table.”
“Dom?” his mother said, but he shushed her.
“’Tis only money, Mother.” He flipped his card and then his brows pulled together. “Pity. A king. I’m sorry, Gibbons. I had meant to give you money, not take it.”
Gibbons rose from the table. “You’ll accept my marker?” he said stiffly. He was a young man, and there was sweat on his forehead, as if the outcome of the cards had mattered a great deal.
“Of course,” Holburn said negligently. “Does anyone else wish to play?” In spite of the early hour of the evening, he was obviously well into his cups. Constance’s father had been a drinker, and she recognized the signs. It did not endear this man to her.
“Holburn,” the duchess said, “there is someone here you need to meet.”
Almost as one, everyone turned to Constance and she could feel her face flame. Well, everyone turned save the duke. He kept his head low, his concentration on the cards his hands shuffled.
“Holburn,” his mother chastised while the group gathered around him sent Constance sly, superior smiles.
Constance had seen enough. She turned on her heel and left the room. This man was not worthy of her.
She went out into the ballroom, searching for Charlotte, wanting to go home. If anything, Holburn had made her realize how deeply she missed Gordon—
Her steps came to an abrupt halt when she caught a glimpse of a familiar face coming toward her.
It was Fiona. And she was wearing the muslin and lace dress Constance had been in the night she was kidnapped.
The gown had been carefully mended and washed so that only the most critical eye could see signs of wear.
Her rich mahogany hair was styled high on her head.
She wore no jewelry or adornment other than a fan she carried.
She didn’t need the fripperies. She appeared absolutely exquisite, a fresh, wholesome beauty in a sea of jaded appetites.
Coming to Constance’s side, Fiona flipped open the fan to provide them a moment of private conversation. “I am so fortunate to have caught you alone. Come with me,” she whispered before Constance could speak.
“Where are we going?” Constance wondered.
“To Gordon.”
Constance couldn’t move. “He’s alive?” she said, almost afraid to dare to hope.
“Yes,” Fiona said, bringing her head close to Constance’s and giving her arm a squeeze. “Except that he must leave England as soon as possible. There are people who would have smuggled him out of the country by now, but he won’t leave until he sees you again.”
“Where is he?”
“First, is this true that you have promised yourself to another? It’s all everyone is talking about this evening. They keep mentioning your name with the Duke of Holburn’s.”
“No, it’s not true,” Constance said. “Most particularly not now. Please, Fiona, take me to Gordon. I have so much to tell him. Or is he here?” she asked, struck by the even more amazing thought that he might be in that very room. She began searching the crowd with her eyes.
“He’s not in these rooms,” Fiona said.
“Then where is he?”
“There is a park across the road from this house—”