“The Prince Regent gave you permission to come home for my birthday?” she asked, her eyes widening.
“I have been wondering all morning what you were going to do in the rain,” he said. “I thought I would trot over to see you as soon as I had changed and see if I could help you drum up some ideas. What are you going to do, Con? And what are you doing here?”
“Oh,” she said. “Jonathan has very kindly offered Esdale for my party, Sidney. We are to have the treasure hunt here—it is all set up, and tea and dinner and the dancing in the drawing room. It is very kind of him, is it not? I think he believed you were not coming home and has been trying to take my mind off my disappointment.”
She smiled at Lord Whitley. That was all it had been, she told herself—kindness. But now he would realize that he need no longer dance attendance on her. But his kiss? Had that too been kindness?
And what about those feelings she had had when he kissed her and the realization that had been dawning on her gradually over the past three weeks? And the feelings she still had, looking at him now while her arm was linked through Sidney’s?
But Sidney had come home, and everything could still proceed according to plan for the rest of her birthday. It could still be a very special day.
She was, Constance realized, feeling utterly confused.
“I was about to send Constance home,” Lord Whitley said, smiling and looking quite in command of the situation—surely he would not be looking so if that kiss had meant anything beyond what he had said it meant. It had been a birthday kiss. “She has to dress for the party and be back here in time to greet the first of her guests.”
“And I need a bath,” Sidney said, wrinkling his nose and looking down at himself. “You can’t imagine the inn where I was forced to put up last night, Jon. I’ll come over and fetch you in an hour’s time or so, Con, shall I? I can pay my respects to your mother and father at the same time.”
Oh, yes, there was that too, Constance thought. Oh, goodness, she had waited for it and longed for it all over an endless winter and spring, and now the day had come upon her before she felt at all ready for it.
“You go on up, then, Sid,” the viscount said, “and I’ll see to getting Constance on her way. I have sent for the carriage already.”
Constance stood in the doorway a few minutes later, the viscount at her side, watching the carriage draw up, ready to take her home. And she felt a disturbing chill of depression. They had said nothing to each other since Sidney had gone upstairs. And the gaiety of the morning and the comfort she had felt in Jonathan’s presence had gone.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice stilted, “for your kindness and time.” And she looked up at him anxiously, waiting for him to say something to indicate that there had been more than kindness in his actions, more than a birthday greeting in his kiss. And hoping that there was no more. And reminding herself that Sidney was at Esdale at last and that they were to be betrothed that day. And that she was happy about it. And feeling utterly confused again.
He smiled at her, and she could see nothing but kindness in his smile. “Now,” he said, “you can have the birthday you dreamed of after all, Constance. You will have your treasure hunt and Sidney at home too. I am happy for you.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I knew he would come. I almost doubted—in fact this morning I did. But he has come and my day is complete.”
He lifted one hand and touched two knuckles to her cheek. “Happy birthday, Constance,” he said. “I shall hand you into the carriage. If you run down the steps, you will not get too wet. And here comes Tessa.”
Constance ran and took his firm, strong hand, and ducked inside the carriage. Tessa came rushing after her. And they were on their way home to get ready for the party, Tessa talking excitedly about the strange phenomenon of two cooks in the same kitchen—Sir Howard’s and his lordship’s—eyeing each other suspiciously, just like two duelists.
Constance sat back against the comfortable cushions and told herself how delighted she was that Sidney was at home. She was delighted. He was her dearest friend and she had a million things she wanted to tell him. And she was excited too. He was going to talk to Papa, and that evening they were going to announce their betrothal.
She tried to tell herself that that other feeling—the one she was trying to ignore—was not mortal depression. He had been kindness itself. He had made possible a wonderful birthday party for her despite the rain, even to the extent of opening his own home to her. It was not his fault that she was still a child at heart and still gave in far too easily to hero-worship.
It was not his fault that she had thought that perhaps that kiss had been a different kind of kiss.
He was going to be her brother-in-law, she told herself firmly.
“So you came after all.” Lord Whitley was leaning back against the door of his brother’s dressing room. “Brighton was dull?”
Sidney, sitting waist-deep in soapy water, was rubbing more soap into his hair. “Quite the opposite,” he said. “But I kept feeling guilty, Jon. I kept thinking of Connie alone and dull in the country here and disappointed about her birthday.”
“Did you?” the viscount said. “So guilt drove you home?”
“Did you tell her that story about Prinny?” Sidney asked. “I did go to the Pavilion, Jon—twice. But it is kept like a hothouse. I was glad to get outside again both times. Did you tell her?”
“Something similar,” his brother said. “So you are going to do the honorable thing, Sid, and marry her?”
Sidney, with soap in his eyes, felt for the jug beside the bathtub and poured a jugful of water over his head. “She is expecting it,” he said. “We talked about it all last summer and wrote about it all last winter. I suppose it is the honorable thing to do, is it not?”
“Honor but not inclination,” the viscount said. “Is that it? Is it fair to her, Sid?”
Sidney sputtered as another jugful of water cascaded over his face. “To Connie?” he said. “I’m devilish fond of her, Jon. Devilish. And you were the one to mention honor when we were still in town. I have not been able to dislodge the thought. And if a fellow must marry, he could do a great deal worse than marry Connie, you know.”
“Does she not deserve to be married for love as well as for honor and devilish fondness?” Lord Whitley asked as his brother reached for a towel and stood up.
