Eighteen #4
She talked to air. All Constance needed was a direction. Fiona hurried to keep up with her.
They had wound their way through the growing crush of guests and were halfway to the door, when Fiona’s hand reached out and stopped Constance. “Don’t take another step.”
“Why?” Constance asked, alarmed by Fiona’s sudden paleness. It was as if all color had drained from her face and she’d gone as white as the dress she wore.
Fiona flipped open her fan, using it to whisper, “That officer over there…” She nodded in the direction by the door. “He’s the man who led the attack on our camp.”
Constance looked in the direction and was surprised to see Captain Jonathon Ardmore, the officer who had been at Madame Lavaliere’s dance. His uniform was all brass and braid, and he sported a sling over one shoulder, the injured hand wrapped in bandages.
He saw Constance, his brows rising in recognition, and began moving toward her.
“Please,” Fiona said. “I can’t be near that man. His arm is injured because Tad bit him. Our brave dog almost tore his arm off.”
She didn’t need to say more. Constance turned around, ready to head in the opposite direction, and almost walked right into the Dowager Duchess of Holburn.
Worse, she had her son at her side. “His Grace wishes a formal introduction,” the dowager said. “Miss Constance Cameron, this is my son, His Grace, the Duke of Holburn.” Her words came out in a rush, as if she feared he’d bolt before she was done.
His sullenness did not endear him to Constance any more than his previous indifference. He bobbed the quickest greeting imaginable.
“What a pleasure to meet you,” she shot back. “Now, if you will excuse me—”
Holburn blocked her way. “I would have preferred this one with the darker hair, Mother,” the duke continued in a lazy, sensual voice, “over the one you’ve chosen.” He referred to Constance. “I don’t like blondes.”
Before Constance could gather her wits to answer, Fiona stepped in.
“And I don’t appreciate arrogance,” she replied, her refined Scots’ accent giving the reprimand punch.
“Moreover, if all you desire in your future bride, Your Grace, is hair color, let me inform you that Constance Cameron is not the wife for you. You lack the spirit.”
“Who are you?” Holburn asked, sounding more intrigued than insulted.
“Yes, who are you?” his mother echoed, definitely insulted.
“Someone who doesn’t have time for you,” Fiona said, taking Constance’s hand and pulling her toward the garden door.
Constance glanced back and saw Holburn watching them leave, a speculative look in his eye.
He completely ignored the dowager, who was so upset, presumably over Fiona’s rudeness, that the feathers in her hair shook with her indignation. He started to follow.
“This way,” Constance said, pulling Fiona’s hand and ducking through a garden door.
The crowd in the ballroom had spilled out onto a wide terrace. Fiona and Constance navigated their way toward some stairs leading down into the garden. The ground was damp, so none of the other guests wanted to venture this far lest they damage their footwear.
“There must be a gate here someplace,” Constance said as they moved deeper into the garden’s shadows.
Fiona said, “That was the man your sister wanted you to marry?”
“He’s a duke. Charlotte has a softness for one of us marrying a duke.” But it wasn’t going to happen. Not now that she knew Gordon was alive.
“That was my first London party,” Fiona murmured.
A wistfulness in her voice caught Constance’s attention. “Was it all you thought it would be?” she asked. “I personally have never been impressed.”
Fiona shook her head. “Whether it is or isn’t no longer matters. It’s lost to me.”
Constance pulled up short. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t belong there any longer, Constance. I’m damaged goods.”
“Not through any fault of your own,” Constance replied with fierce protectiveness. “Do you hear me? Please, Fiona, reach inside of yourself and be proud of who you are. Let that sustain you instead of some nonsense about being untouched. The man who loves you will not care.”
“How little you know of men,” Fiona said.
The garden was much larger than Constance had suspected. They were walking in the silver moonlight toward the garden wall. A line of trees and shrubs provided privacy as well as foreboding shadows.
Constance stopped near the wall, protected from the sight of those on the terrace by a sheltering of evergreens. “I know enough to believe that any man worthy of your love will respect you for the person you are.”
“If that was the case, courtesans would be wives,” Fiona said.
Constance took her by the arms. “Please, Fiona, never give up hope. Never lose faith in love. Life makes no sense without it. And as soon as I find the garden gate, I’m going to your brother and I will never leave him again—”
A shadow against the shrubberies moved. Hands grabbed her shoulders, effectively cutting off anything else she was going say. Before Constance could make a sound, Gordon whirled her around and planted a kiss on her lips.