In the Arms of a Marquess(91)

“I must be returning to work.” St. John offered Alethea his arm.

“Octavia, we will continue our conversation later,” Alethea said, then nodded to Constance and departed with her husband. Tavy led Constance to a seat, but the duke’s daughter only perched agitatedly upon the edge.

“They are quite good,” she said upon a slight quaver. “Quite good to leave you to me.”

“You are clearly distressed, Constance. How may I help you?”

Tears tumbled over the rims of her azure eyes onto her cheeks. She thrust her palms over her face.

“Oh, Octavia,” she uttered, her shoulders slumping. “I have made such a horrid mistake.”

“Dear me, I cannot believe it of you.”

“But you should. I am a wretchedly selfish person and I often act first and think later. And this time I acted quite, quite unthinkingly.”

Tavy tucked a handkerchief into her fingers but Constance seemed content with silent tears dribbling from her palms and soaking the lacy hem of her sleeve.

“You have not shown any wretched selfishness with me,” she comforted, “only kindness since the moment we met.”

“That is because I like you. But, you see. I have betrayed your friendship horridly, and you will never forgive me for it. And oh, Octavia, I must tell him, but I am afraid to.”

Tavy blinked several times.

“Tell who?”

Constance lifted guilty eyes. “Ben. He persuaded me to it, of course, but this will change everything. He will be furious with me, yet I cannot do anything about it now. I should have thought of the consequences. He should have.” Constance dissolved into tears anew, one hand covering her trembling lips, the other curving over her belly.

Tavy stared at her friend’s fingers clutching her abdomen and her breaths thinned.

The consequences.

“I cannot imagine him being furious with you for anything,” she said without revealing a hint of the panic rising in her.

“I acted without caution, because I wanted him to—” She broke off, her eyes full of misery. “I cannot even say it. Not to you, of all people. I thought I could, but I cannot.”

Tavy did not want to go where her thoughts rushed, and part of her could not believe it of him. But the other part—the part that had spent two nights in his bed without a promise of any sort whatsoever from him—told her she was still quite as foolish as she had always been when it came to Benjirou Doreé.

“Then do not say it to me.” Her blood ran fast and jittery but her voice remained smooth. “Say it to him.”

Constance’s eyes flicked wide. “You are right. I must. But how can I?”

Tavy stood and drew her to her feet.

“I will take you, so you will not need the courage to make yourself go.”

Fresh tears stained Constance’s face. She resisted Tavy’s attempts to draw her away from the couch. “I do not deserve your kindness, especially in this.”

“Don’t be silly. I suspect you would do the same were our positions reversed.” It actually hurt to say the words. But Constance’s gaze softened.

“No. I am not honest like you, Octavia. Or brave.”

“If you knew how wretchedly dishonest I have been these past several weeks you would not be looking so admiringly at me.” She would, however, award herself points for bravery at the moment. She tugged, and this time Constance came along.

She gave Constance’s coachman their intended direction. They sat in the closed carriage in silence that grew thicker as the minutes passed and Tavy’s heart thundered harder with each turn of the wheels. In front of Ben’s house, a footman let down the steps and handed them out. Tavy guided Constance before her into the colonnaded foyer.

The butler bowed. “Good day, my lady, miss.”

Constance did not speak. Her cheeks were pale, her full lips a bare breath of pinkish white. But at least she had ceased weeping. Tavy took her arm.

“Is your master at home?”

“Yes, miss. The footman has just—”

“Where is he? In his study?”

“Why, yes, but—”

Tavy pulled Constance along the corridor. Samuel passed them a moment before Ben appeared in the doorway of his study. His brows were drawn, his mouth hard. A sob broke from Constance and she pushed past him into the chamber.

Tavy stood paralyzed. Ben’s gaze consumed her, but rather less like a lover than a prosecutor before an accused.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hm. Not precisely what I hoped or frankly expected to hear from you given that twelve hours ago you told me very definitely to stay.”

“Yet you did not. Did you arrive in Constance’s carriage?”

“Yes.”

He released an audible breath. “Then you must depart in it now.” He stepped into the corridor and grasped her arm to turn her around. Her throat tightened. She pulled free of his hold.

“But she wishes to speak with you. Or, she does not particularly wish it, but I think she must.”

“She may remain. But you must go.”

Tavy stared, jaw slack, and her heart began to splinter.

“I had not planned on remaining.”

“Your usual approach, it seems.”

“You are criticizing me for leaving at the same moment you are telling me to go?”