Page 37
An appalling thought struck him mute and stalled his heart for a beat.
Fiend seize it.
Wasn’t that exactly what he was doing?
Lying about his betrothal to protect Charlotte, Edyth, and the rest of the family?
“An excellent notion.” Mother beamed with approval, a conspiratorial sheen in her eyes. Likely, she thought he and Faith were doing their part to make the charade believable.
“What?”
His thoughts elsewhere, Constantine stared at her blankly for a moment before she veered her gaze to the veranda in a pointed message.
The merest titter escaped Faith before she wrestled it under control and schooled her features. Nevertheless, hilarity twinkled in her big brown eyes.
The little wretch. Finding amusement at his expense.
Nonetheless, his lips trembled in response to her merriment.
“Just the thing,” Mother said, giving him a look that suggested he was as simple-minded as a cabbage. “Seek a bit of privacy from the crowd outdoors.”
Oh, yes, the walk.
Another muffled giggle echoed from Faith, and a slow, speculative smile wreathed Mother’s face.
“We’re not…” Constantine checked his objection as Martin slithered close.
“Aunt Mabel, I vow you look younger every time I see you. You must share your beauty secrets with Tabitha and Ramona. They could use the advice.”
His oily smile was as insincere as the sycophantic compliment. His focus shifted to Faith, and he did not attempt to hide the male interest darkening his gray eyes to charcoal.
The rotten blighter.
Daring to ogle another man’s—his cousin’s—fiancé.
Had his impudence no limits?
Constantine curled his free hand into a fist, or else he’d wipe the smug expression from his cousin’s face with his knuckles. Normally, he reserved fisticuffs for the ring, but in Martin’s case, he could make an exception.
However, instead of pummeling Martin to next Christmastide, Constantine speared him with a murderous glare that held a promise.
Leave off now, or you’ll regret it, you sodding reprobate.
Anything but stupid, Martin smirked but heeded the unspoken threat by shifting his focus back to Mother.
Constantine hadn’t had a chance to warn Faith about Martin. He would do so as soon as they set foot outdoors. Martin was a notorious libertine. A rakehell and rabble-rouser. No woman, from fresh-from-the-schoolroom innocent to experienced demimonde, was immune to his lascivious pursuit.
“With our mother gone these many years, my sisters have no one to teach them about such things,” Martin said while eyeing Miss Breadalbane, who simpered coyly under his regard.
Pure rubbish.
Uncle Hayward doted on his daughters. Nothing was too good, expensive, or impractical for Tabitha and Ramona. Which partially explained why Uncle lived on credit these past few years if the rumors were true.
Fourteen years his junior, Martin had not welcomed his twin sisters with open arms. Until their unexpected arrival, he’d been a spoiled and cosseted only child. One and forty when she delivered the twins and weakened by their birth, Aunt Nora had died a month before their first birthday.
Martin had never forgiven his sisters for their mother’s death—he’d been Aunt Nora’s favorite—or for the attention Uncle Hayward bestowed upon the twins, who he clearly favored over his irascible son.
Martin’s jealousy continued to this day, and not just toward his sisters.
