“Just woolgathering,” she hedged. Constance rose to her feet and realized that she needed to distance herself from him. “I’ll send Mr. House back in for the evening. I have an early morning appointment that I’m expected to attend and should be getting to bed.” She headed for the door, but when she opened it, she paused. Even she had to admit that she was leaving rather abruptly. To soften her departure, she looked back over her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re with us once again, Mr. Blackmore.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement, and she left the room.
Mr. House hadn’t gone far. He was in the hallway leaning against the wall, but he straightened when she appeared. “I gave him some paper and a pen in which to communicate until he feels able to speak again. I’m sure that by this time tomorrow he will be conversing as usual.”
“Aye. I think ye’re right. But then, Devin was always a strong one.”
As they parted ways and Constance returned to her chamber, she leaned against the door and shut her eyes. For some odd reason, a tear slid down her cheek. She ignored it, as she had no idea why she might be feeling the need to cry. Mr. Blackmore was going to live. She had ensured that he hadn’t succumbed to a vengeful man’s hatred, and in spite of that, she was glad. If she had the chance to rid the world of someone like Granelli, she just might do it—if Madame Corressa was still in control of her life.
But Constance Freewater wanted a better life for herself. She wished to leave the sordid memories of her past behind, and although she was still a “miss,” having never been married, or even engaged after almost forty years of life, she had enjoyed bed sport for many years. In such, she had adopted a faux widowed status, so that she could enjoy the freedoms that social status implied. While many would likely not believe that Mr. Blackmore was her “cousin,” since she had changed her title to “Mrs.” no one really cared. The only problem she might encounter were men like Sir Isaacson who imagined that she would be easy prey when it came to the bedchamber.
She gave a heavy sigh and removed her wrapper, and then climbed beneath the covers. After she blew out the lamp beside the bed, she closed her eyes and demanded sleep to claim her.
Constance sat in the middle of the coffee shop the next morning and sipped the dark brew from her cup with a sigh. She’d been proud of herself for leaving the house without stopping to check in on Mr. Blackmore first. After she’d gone to bed feeling somewhat… unsettled, she had needed this time to bring her thoughts back to where they belonged.
She’d dressed in a deep orange gown around dawn and waited for the maid to add the finishing touches to her hair. She had been hesitant to hire one, but Lady Blessington said it was necessary to be a proper lady of society. But other than a full-time ladies’ maid, as Constance had learned to dress herself quite aptly over the years, she’d hired Abigail as a house maid with a few extra duties. With the cook, a housekeeper, and two footmen in attendance, Constance decided that the need for more was unnecessary, and if she entertained a caller, it would be enough to placate those stubborn sensibilities.
But now, as the sun had fully risen and she had lingered as long as she was comfortable doing so, Constance paid for her indulgence and started walking back toward the house where she would inevitably have to see Mr. Blackmore again. Last night she’d begun to wonder if she’d made a terrible mistake, had gone back and forth with her conscience, but in the end, she’d decided that she had simply done what anyone with a caring heart might do.
At least, that was what she was trying to convince herself.
She had nearly made it to the steps of her leased home when her name was called. She turned to see Sir Isaacson jogging toward her. She offered a tight smile that she hoped appeared less grim than she was feeling.
He glanced toward the two-story brick structure and said, “I didn’t know you lived in the same area.” He looked back at her, his blue eyes shining as bright as his hair in the sun when he removed his hat. “I thought you were staying in Mayfair with Lady Blessington.”
Constance almost groaned. “Indeed, I was, but a sick cousin needed my attention, and I didn’t want to be a burden should she wish to entertain.”
“I’m sure you could never be a burden to anyone, Mrs. Hartford.”
He smiled in a charming manner, and she was sure that his flirtations would not be wasted on a fresh debutante, but she was sadly unmoved. “That’s kind of you to say,” she murmured, “But I fear my cousin needed some solitude in which to recover.”
He put a hand over his heart. “I offer my sincerest wish that she is the epitome of health very soon.”
“He is doing much better,” she corrected. “And I thank you for your concern.” She didn’t miss the flash of disapproval in his gaze. “Now if you will excuse me?”
She started to go, but he said, “Perhaps I might call upon you both when your cousin is feeling up to guests.”
Constance gritted her teeth, but she inclined her head regardless. “Of course. We should be delighted.”
She picked up her skirts and nearly rushed into the house, lest he decided he wanted to delay her any longer. She didn’t know what it was, but something about him quite unnerved her, and not in a way that made her afraid. It was the kind that made her yearn to see what he might look like with a black eye—where she was the one to offer it.
She made her way upstairs and saw Mr. House departing Mr. Blackmore’s room, an empty tray in his hands. “Why didn’t you call for one of the footmen to take that downstairs for you?”
“Th’ day I can’t wait o’ myself is th’ day I go in th’ ground.”
That was all he offered by way of an explanation as he took the items away. She noticed that most of it was gone, so she hoped that meant their patient had regained his appetite. If so, that would mean his strength would soon follow.
The door to his room was left slightly ajar, so she pushed it open. She had expected to see him lying in bed when she entered, but when there was movement by the window, she gasped. “What are you doing out of bed?”
His dark eyes narrowed slightly where he stood by the open curtain. He allowed it to fall back into place, and for an instant, she was struck by his silhouette. Tall and lean with narrow hips, wearing trousers and nothing else, even his bare feet looked attractive. “Why are you entertaining a man like Sir Brooks Isaacson?” he countered.
She noted that his voice was fully recovered and it was just as dark and delicious as before. However, she didn’t care for his query. It sounded entirely too controlling. “He’s a baronet and quite favored in society. I don’t see the harm in it. Besides, I don’t recall having to explain my actions to you.” She lifted a brow. “Now, tell me why you are up when you should be doing everything you can to fully recuperate.”
He eyed her for a moment, and then he began to slowly make his way back toward the bed. She noticed that he also held his bandage with his right arm as he did so. He might be trying to fool himself that he was doing better, but it had only been a week since he’d been injured and on the cusp of death.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I was feeling restless,” he admitted. “I’m not used to being so… immobile.”
She crossed her arms. “Should I bring you something to read?”
