The duchess clapped her hands once and held them together as though that settled the matter. She waited then, watching Nora expectantly.
“I . . . um . . .” Her gaze drifted to the duke. After their exchange last night, she did not feel welcome here. He had made it clear he thought her inferior. She had been a harmless diversion in the duke’s household until she went against him. She knew that now.
He stared back at her in silence, his lips pressed into an unforgiving line. He read her discomfort and he, of course, understood the reason for it. One word of encouragement from him would go a long way in appeasing her and making her feel welcome here again, and yet he held silent, locked in his aristocratic privilege. The man had likely never issued anything remotely resembling an apology in his life. He would not start now. She knew better than to expect that.
“I agree with the duchess. You must stay. I insist,” Constantine spoke up, interrupting the staring spell between Nora and the Duke of Birchwood. “Her Grace has planned this dinner in your honor. You cannot disappoint her.”
Nora considered him carefully, wondering if he was agreeing for himself or for the sake of the Duchess of Birchwood. Did he want her to remain for Her Grace? Or perhaps he wanted her to stay at Birchwood House, in small part, for himself?
It felt like a dangerous thought and something she should not even be wondering. There was no purpose in it. There was no hope or possibility of anything romantic between them. Last night had simply been a consequence of a difficult situation. The tonic was the reason behind their tryst and she needed to keep that at the front of her mind.
The duke frowned, the heavy lines of his face deepening. This time, however, his ire seemed focused on Sinclair. He did not even glance at Nora. It was as though she was invisible.
Sinclair looked back at the older man, his expression mild, unaffected.
“Indeed, Nora.” The duchess nodded cheerfully and pressed the point. “You cannot disappoint me.”
“Come now,” Constantine coaxed. “You should have already left if you wished to catch the morning train.”
A fair point. She had lingered in the duchess’s chamber longer than she intended.
Constantine’s lips twisted wryly and she wondered what he truly thought of her staying here longer. After she rejected his most insulting proposal last night—if one could even call it a proposal—she had assumed he was ready to see the last of her. No doubt even eager for it. Then he could get back to his life and courtship of the lovely Lady Elise.
Nora looked back and forth between them with a rueful smile. “How am I to deny such expert cajolers?”
“Brilliant.” The duchess motioned to the tea that had undoubtedly gone cold on her bedside table. “We have much to do today in preparation.”
“You should rest today so that you are in good form for tomorrow,” the duke interjected.
“Hm,” his wife replied noncommittally with a vague wave of her hand. “Where is Mrs. Blankenship? If I am to stay in this infernal bed, then I must see her to go over all the arrangements.”
“Would you like me to locate her for you?” Nora offered.
“Oh, would you? Thank you, my dear.”
Nora was only too happy to leave the chamber. Perhaps on her own, alone, away from them all, away from Sinclair, she could comprehend why she had agreed to stay here longer in this place where she did not belong.
Chapter 23
Constantine waited a moment after Nora departed the room and then gave a mental curse. Excusing himself, he followed her as though an invisible string connected him to her.
“Nora,” he called, attempting to catch up with her in the corridor.
She visibly stiffened, but continued walking as though she had not heard him. In fact, her strides seemed to quicken.
She intends to ignore me now?
Was this because of what they did in his bedchamber . . . or because of his colossal fumbling muddle of a marriage proposal? Perhaps it was both things. All the things. That seemed likely.
He had mismanaged every bloody bit of it.
His offer of marriage had felt the honorable thing to do at the time—but then he had not been thinking rationally. Not been feeling himself at all. He had been lost to the euphoric aftermath of his release.
Never had he experienced such a climax. It had to be the tonic. Certainly his reaction was not particular