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We’re hosting an intimate soirée. The details are below. I do so hope you will be able to come. I’ve invited our closest friends. It will be a long overdue reunion. Even Trinity and Mrs. Shepherd plan to be there.
~Mrs. Joy Morrisette, in a letter to Faith Roth
Still in the passageway
Of the reactions Faith might’ve had to the unpleasant confession, Constantine had not expected her to burst into uncontrolled laughter. Not a dainty feminine titter either. No, bent over in glee, she held her ribs and tears of hilarity trickled down her cheeks. She sucked in great gulps of air between irrepressible chortles.
“Me?” she gasped, incredulous, her voice pitched to the twelve-foot decorative plasterwork ceiling.
Hysterical laughter interrupted her, and several more seconds passed as she struggled to contain her hilarity.
“Your mistress? That’s utterly, completely, categorically preposterous.”
Something that might’ve been disappointment if Constantine permitted himself to examine the emotion tunneled around his middle. If he had any remaining doubts about whether Faith regarded him with anything other than thinly concealed disdain and dislike, she’d succinctly dispelled that notion.
Nevertheless, no one appreciated being dismissed as inadequate.
He’d never seen her unfettered laughter before, and despite the graveness of the moment, a grin strained to curve his mouth upward. At once, he checked the impulse because, by thunder, despite his scrivener’s current jovial state, this was not a laughing matter.
Shaking her head, Faith removed her spectacles and swiped at the moisture pooled in her eyes.
“Someone is making a May game of you, my lord.”
Wide doe eyes fringed with thick, sooty lashes and twinkling with merriment gazed into his. She had lovely eyes. Quite stunning, in truth. Soft and warm with flecks of amber and a gold ring around her iris.
Why had Constantine never noticed how beautiful they were before?
It must be the spectacles. They detracted from Faith’s pretty eyes.
As she slid the eyeglasses back into place, another round of laughter consumed her.
Eyebrow cocked, he waited for her amusement to subside.
At last, Faith reined her humor under control, and a silly grin bending her mouth, composed herself. “Surely, you’re not serious? We don’t even like each other.”
That last bit stung, and it oughtn’t to have done, for it was the truth.
They rubbed along as well as vinegar and salt.
“I wish I were not”—fervently wished, truth be told—“for both our sakes. Regardless, I regret I am wholly serious. Now we must undo the damage post-haste.”
At his poor choice of words, he winced inwardly.
She planted her hands on her hips, drawing his attention to her trim waist. She wore the calico again today. The colorful fabric did something almost wondrous to her hair and skin. That glorious hair would draw many of the male guests’ appreciation.
A weird stabbing twisted Constantine’s heart, which might’ve been jealousy if he wasn’t wholly immune to the troublesome emotion. He forced his attention elsewhere.
“Please correct me if I misunderstood, my lord, but it sounded as if you just said we must undo the damage? What damage? Until this moment, we haven’t spoken to one another since I arrived. And I hardly think your kept mistress would sleep in your sister’s bedroom.”
Exactly.
No telltale maidenly blush bloomed on her cheeks at the taboo subject's mention.
Faith—when had Constantine begun to think of her thus?—shoved a stray lock of strawberry blonde hair off her porcelain cheek.
“I suggest we ignore the tattle, my lord. It will die down soon enough. I shall need a different place to sleep, of course. Given the difference in our stations, I cannot remain in your sister’s bedchamber. I’m not particular, however. A pallet on the floor would suffice.”
No, by Juniper, it would not.
