Impassioned

by Darcy Burke

  Lucien gaped at him. “First you roll your eyes—I can’t remember the last time you did that. I think I was ten and you were twelve? Then you refer to the membership committee with that tawdry nickname? Since when did you become so enmeshed in the bon ton and their comical obsession with how members are selected for the Phoenix Club?”

  Swiping his hand through the air, Constantine scoffed. “Don’t try to avoid the issue.”

  “Fine, I am on the membership committee, but it might surprise you to learn I am not a king—I do not have the final say as to who receives an invitation. We are a democratic group.”

  Constantine snorted. “You could have submitted my name for consideration, but to your knowledge, you have not.”

  “No, I have not.” Lucien threw up his hands. “I didn’t think you would accept, nor did I imagine you would even want the courtesy of receiving an invitation knowing it was only a formality because you would, in fact, decline.”

  “How do you know I would decline?” The truth was he would have. And why did he want so badly to become a member now? Because of some ancient custom that said a wife must share all things with her husband? It certainly didn’t work the other way. If he wanted to invite Sabrina to White’s, he’d be laughed at. Then probably expelled.

  “Because I know you.” Lucien fixed him with an unflinching stare. “You can try to deny it, but I think I know you better than anyone. Which is unfortunate. That should be your wife’s job.”

  “I’m bloody working on that.” Constantine paced to the window in a fit of agitation. “Can you get me an invitation?”

  “Is it that important to you?”

  Turning back to face his brother, Constantine gave a slight nod. “Apparently.”

  “I’ll do my best. As I said, it’s not entirely up to me.” He cocked his head to the side and smiled. “You do rather fit our profile.”

  “There’s a profile?”

  “Don’t all clubs have one? It’s not as if Brooks’s or White’s will invite just anyone. Nor can everyone get a voucher to Almack’s. Where’s the importance if there’s no exclusivity?”

  “Except your club doesn’t seem to follow the same rules. How many dukes do you count in your membership?”

  Lucien’s gaze flicked toward the ceiling as he thought for a moment. “None, I believe.” He grinned. “They don’t need our club, and we don’t need them.”

  “Does any club need anyone?”

  “Certainly, if they wish to be relevant and provide a place for one to belong.”

  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.

  This was 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.”

  “It will do more than prick it,” Constantine said darkly. “He’ll be livid. I hope you’re prepared for the effects of his wrath.”

  Brightly looked surprised. “How will that affect me?”

  The duke’s threat to have Brightly expelled from White’s rose in Constantine’s mind, though he doubted his father would actually follow through. He’d been trying to bend Constantine to his will.

  Constantine quickly surveyed the large room for the familiar form of the duke but didn’t see him. If he was sitting, he likely couldn’t be seen. Constantine would hope he wasn’t here. “Trust me, he will not forget that you not only championed the opposition of the act, but that you worked to obtain my support.”

  “You’re concerned he’ll seek revenge against me for winning you over?” Brightly laughed as he swept up his glass. “I appreciate
you looking out for me, but I am not frightened of the Duke of Evesham.” He sipped his claret and gave Constantine a devilish look over the rim of his glass.

  Constantine admired the man’s courage. It made Constantine wonder if he was afraid of the duke. Not afraid, but cautious. He’d had to be, lest he end up the subject of his disdain like Lucien, and sometimes Cassandra. Thinking of that only stirred the chaos swirling inside him. He took a long drink of claret.

  “I understand Lady Aldington has come to town. Mrs. Brightly and I would be delighted if you would come to dinner next week. Would Wednesday suit you?”

  Constantine hesitated. Should he make plans for her? What if she’d already committed to something else? He didn’t want to reveal their uncoordinated relationship, so he responded the only way he could. “That would be brilliant. I know Lady Aldington will look forward to it.”

  Uncoordinated? What a woeful understatement to describe the status of their marriage.

  “Mrs. Brightly will be thrilled. Cheers!” Brightly held up his glass and finished his wine. “Now, I must be off to Brooks’s. Still work to be done this eve.” He grinned heartily, his blue eyes twinkling. “I’m glad I saw you this evening—always a high point. Night!” He stood and took himself off.

  Constantine smiled in spite of how his evening had started. Brightly possessed an uncanny ability to spread good will wherever he went. It was a wonder he wasn’t able to convince the entire House of Commons to vote with him.

  Nursing his claret, Constantine chatted briefly with a gentleman who stopped to wish him good evening. As soon as he left, the duke sat down at the table, a frown creasing his entire face.

  “Good evening, Father.” Constantine gripped his wineglass.

  “Why were you talking to that miscreant again? I thought we had an arrangement.”

  “You hinted at one, but yes, we do have an accord. I am going to vote in favor of the Importation Act, and you are going to appoint my wife as Cassandra’s sponsor. Starting tomorrow.”

  The duke clutched a glass of port and lifted it to his lips. “I’ll do it after the vote.”

  Fed up with his father’s demands, Constantine leaned forward and spoke quietly but firmly. “That won’t be for a fortnight at least. You’ll make the change now, or I’ll vote with Brightly.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Do you want to find out? Don’t forget who raised me. I will not be manipulated.” But he had been—his marriage was the prime example. “Not anymore.”

  The duke studied him a moment, his eyes glinting with something that might have been admiration, but Constantine couldn’t be sure. “I see. I will speak with my sister tomorrow. You may inform Lady Aldington that her sponsorship will begin on Monday. She should come to confer with Cassandra as to her calendar.”

  “I’ll make sure that she does.” Victory sang in his blood as he sipped his claret.

  A footman arrived at the table and handed Constantine a letter. “Lord Aldington, this was just delivered for you.”

  Anticipation gripped Constantine as he opened the parchment.

  “Who is sending you notes here?” the duke demanded.

  Constantine scanned the words. Lucien had set the appointment for one o’clock. That was still so many hours from now.

  “No one of import.” Constantine refolded the paper and tucked it into his coat. He glanced toward the center of the room and wondered if he could endure an entire evening here. Or perhaps he should follow Brightly to Brooks’s.

  Returning his attention to his father, he made the decision. He certainly didn’t want to spend the evening with the duke. Not that his father would want to either. He would likely go home soon.

  Constantine finished his claret. “If you’ll excuse me, Father, I have another appointment.”

  The duke glanced toward Constantine’s coat. “To do with that note?”

  “Not directly, no.” Constantine stood. “It’s of no concern to you, in any case. You are not privy to my entire life, nor will you be. Good evening.”

  He turned and left without allowing the duke to respond. His father was likely seething—he hated not having the last word, and Constantine rarely spoke to him like that. When he did, uncertainty and regret often took hold. He didn’t hate his father, and he actually understood why the man treated him with exacting expectation. He only wanted Constantine to be the best. He also demanded the same of Lucien and Cassandra, except they apparently fell short in the duke’s eyes. That bothered Constantine.

  Walking to Brooks’s, Constantine felt the note’s presence in his coat, searing him as if it were heated. Or perhaps that was just his blood as he contemplated another meeting with the anonymous tutor. Who was she? And why was he looking forward to seeing her so much?

  He realized he’d enjoyed their conversation. Some of it had been uncomfortable, but it had been necessary. He had to think of Sabrina differently, had to treat her differently.

  That her anxiety and shyness had been so crippling for her was distressing. Along with the fact that her parents hadn’t seemed to care. Why force a Season on a young woman who wasn’t prepared? Let alone a marriage? Not even his father was that cruel. When Cassandra had asked to delay her Season, he’d allowed it. And she wasn’t plagued by a paralyzing fear of people.

  The fact that he was looking forward to his time with the tutor later picked at Constantine’s mind. He shouldn’t be anticipating it, and he wouldn’t allow what had happened last night—they would only talk. Now that he knew Sabrina didn’t actually loathe him, he could, perhaps, seduce her.

  Hopefully the tutor could help him formulate a plan. Her purpose was to educate, and he was ready to learn.

  Chapter 12

  The moment Sabrina stepped inside the Phoenix Club, she felt an overwhelming sense of lightness. There was joy here—sparkling candlelight, laughter, warm and genial employees who greeted her and offered to take care of any need.

  It was quite different than her previous visit the night before when she’d been secreted into a side door, ushered up the backstairs to Evie’s office, and then taken through a hidden doorway to the gentlemen’s side of the second floor.

  She looked up at the massive painting of Circe with her nymphs as they seduced Odysseus’s men. Some of them already sported snouts and hooves.

  “Isn’t that a magnificent piece?” Evie met her in the foyer.

  “Quite.”

  “Lucien had it commissioned. It has a brother over on the men’s side—Pan hosting a bacchanalia.”

  “How decadent.”

  Evie laughed softly. “That describes Lucien, actually. Or at least, the image he projects.”

  Sabrina thought of her brother-in-law’s unassuming residence and wasn’t sure she agreed with that assessment. “He strikes me as a rather economical person.”

  “To do with himself, yes. But when it comes to the club or others, he will spare no effort and no expense. He’s an incredibly generous person.”

  He did seem that. She wondered how the Duke of Evesham had managed to rear such a child. But then she thought of all the ways in which Constantine had been generous—from ensuring she had a beautiful, comfortable residence to allowing her to claim it entirely and make it her own. The red-covered book detailing the plans for the renovation of the parkland was another instance of his generosity, as well as his thoughtfulness. While he may not say the things she wanted to hear, he’d certainly acted in ways that let her know he cared.

  And what, exactly, did she hope he would say?

  Thankfully, she wasn’t able to chase that intrusive thought because a footman approached with a missive for Evie. “Lord Lucien bade me give this to you. I’m to wait to see if you have a response.”

  “Thank you, Dexter.” Evie opened the parchment and read, her lips curling into her heart-stopping smile. “Aldington has requested a meeting with the tutor. Shall we say one o’clock so you have ample time to enjoy the ball?”

  Constantine wanted
to meet with her—rather, the tutor—again? He’d said he wouldn’t. “I—” Her mind arrested, wondering what had provoked his request.

  “I need to give Lucien a response,” Evie urged.

  “Yes, one o’clock is fine.” Her mind swam. She’d had to prepare herself extensively for their last meeting. There would be no such luxury this time. Perhaps she would drink an extra glass—or ten—of champagne.

  Evie gave their verbal response to the footman, who then departed toward the gentlemen’s side of the club. She offered her arm to Sabrina. “Don’t be nervous.”

  “How can you tell I’m nervous?”

  “Because though our friendship is young, I believe I’ve come to know you well. You require time to think about things and to muster your courage, particularly when it is a new or intimidating experience.”

  A lump rose in Sabrina’s throat. “You do know me well. No one has ever understood that about me.” She whispered the last, feeling as if she’d received the greatest gift.

  Evie patted her forearm. “Thank you for sharing your true self with me. I hope you’ll do the same with your husband.”

  Sabrina had, at least a little, that evening when she’d told him about her anxiety. There was so much she should have revealed about herself, things that could have helped their marriage be more successful.

  “I wasn’t ready to do that before,” Sabrina said quietly. “But I am now.” Her parents had pushed her into this union, and it had taken her this long to get to where she could feel a modicum of comfort.

  “Marvelous,” Evie said brightly. “Now, let us go into the assembly. You look stunning in this new ball gown, by the way. The blue-green suits you well.”

  Sabrina murmured her thanks as they moved past the cloakroom into the ballroom. The large space was really two spaces—each club had a ballroom—with doors that separated them. Locked at every other time, they were thrown open during assemblies to make one large ballroom. Gleaming chandeliers cast a glow over the brightly clothed ladies and the dashingly garbed gentlemen as they moved over the polished parquet floor.