detached from one another.
Not like Nora Langley. Dispassionate could never be a word applied to her. He’d been in her company only a few occasions, and he felt as though they had many more encounters between them. That was probably a result of uncovering her deceit. Once someone was revealed to be a devious fraud, were there really any barriers left?
“Do you know who stands to inherit following you? If you do not bring forth issue? Do you?” Birchwood demanded, his eyes looking a little wild. “Who is next in line after you?”
Con shook his head, alarmed at the directness of Birchwood’s questioning, to say nothing of his agitation. Such forthrightness was so very uncharacteristic, so very unaristocratic of him, and Birchwood was every inch the blue-blooded noble.
“My solicitors are not definite, but they believe they tracked the next in line to Argentina. They’ve sent an agent to ferret out some distant relation who settled in Buenos Aires over fifty years ago to see if he’s still alive or has any issue on the off chance you should not come up to scratch. Can you imagine?” he sputtered. “I did my duty and now my legacy is left in such doubt.”
Constantine cleared his throat uneasily, feeling the burden of responsibility so keenly. He did not know they had sent an agent to Argentina. “You may rest easy, Your Grace. There is no doubt,” he promised. “I’ll do my duty.”
Birchwood peered at him long and hard before reaching for his arm and giving it another squeeze. “Don’t fail me, lad. I’ve had too much disappointment in my life. Far too much. I don’t need to see all of this”—his gaze lifted to the ceiling and surrounding room—“go to a stranger.” He released a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping a bit. “And unless I want to endure my dear wife’s disappointment tonight, I’d best get dressed for dinner.”
“Quite so.” Con nodded, glad for the end to the awkward conversation.
Together they departed the office and made their way to their separate rooms.
Chapter 11
Nora had to admit it. Bea knew what she was about when it came to dressing a lady.
Nora’s hair had never looked so fine as it did now, piled atop her head in loose waves with two fat ringlets falling to drape over her bare shoulder. No wonder Bea had been so distressed to find herself Nora’s maid. She’d been idle under Nora. It was a waste of her many talents.
She’d never worn the peach gown before so had not thought to protest when Bea chose to pack it—or chose to lay it out for this evening.
Now she knew she should have protested.
In fact, she should have better surveyed all the gowns Bea had selected for the trip. Naturally, she had pulled from the new wardrobe Nora acquired upon Marian marrying Warrington. They were all gorgeous clothes, much more fashionable than anything she ever wore. Nora ignored most of them, preferring her old familiar dresses.
Bea had packed none of those. Of course.
Staring at her reflection, she tugged at the bodice cutting into the swells of her breasts. “Is it possible that I’ve . . . grown since last fitted for this dress?”
Bea straightened from where she bent over, Nora’s day dress in her arms. “Most definitely. That was well over a year ago.”
Nora turned the scowl from her own reflection to Bea.
Bea pointed at each of her swelling breasts. “Those have definitely grown.”
She shook her head. “I can’t wear this!”
“You’ve nothing else to wear and it’s perfectly appropriate. Fashions are a little more daring in Town. You’re not going to raise any eyebrows.”
She gripped her bodice with two hands and fought to tug the neckline higher, jumping lightly on the balls of her feet.
Bea swatted her hands away. “Stop that. You’ll tear the fabric.”
She worried if she bent over in the slightest she might burst free. “This is unendurable,” she muttered, trying to stuff the swelling flesh deeper inside her gown.
“Leave them alone and hurry now. You don’t want to be late.” Bea started tidying up the bedchamber. “Walk straight. No hunkering over.”
Nora doubted she could manage that, but she would try. She was usually a confident individual who walked with her shoulders pulled back and her chest thrust out, her stride purposeful because she always knew her direction and what she was about.
But walking with her chest thrust out simply felt too dangerous. To do so, she risked exposing herself, and she was already a little out of her depth