like a bug, you’ll be sleeping alone tonight.”
“No, I won’t,” he said with a smile. “You like me too much for that.”
“Not at this moment I don’t.”
“Fine, then you like what I do to your body too much for that,” he teased, his gaze heating.
She arched a brow.
“Here,” he finally said as the song wrapped up. “We’re being reposted here. In a couple weeks we’ll be in the same bed every night.” He raised his hand to her cheek. “We’ll be back to burning breakfasts and racing each other for the shower.”
A grin spread across her beautiful face, and his chest tightened. Just like that, she turned an absolute shit day into something truly exceptional.
“I was asked to train to be a teller,” she admitted quietly, as if someone could hear them. Joy flashed across her eyes. “It could mean I’d make Section Leader before the year is out.”
“I’m proud of you.” Now he was the one grinning.
“And I’m proud of you. Aren’t we the pair?” She rose and brushed her mouth over his. “Now what were you saying about what you could do to my body?”
He had her upstairs before the next song started.
…
Scarlett stumbled into the kitchen the next morning to find Jameson at the stove, frying up breakfast. Her stomach flipped at the smell, then somersaulted.
“You okay?” Constance asked from the corner, where she was opening a jar of jam.
Right, they were supposed to talk about training this morning. She’d forgotten, which added another reason to be annoyed at herself.
“Fine,” Scarlett lied, trying to swallow the nausea. “I didn’t see you there. I’m so sorry I completely abandoned you last night.”
Constance smiled, glancing between Scarlett and Jameson. “No need to explain. Just happy it all worked out.” The light flickered from her eyes as she brought the jam to the table.
“What can I do to help?” Scarlett asked, putting her hand between Jameson’s shoulder blades.
“Nothing, honey—” His brow lowered. “You look a little green.”
“I’m fine,” she said slowly, hoping they’d leave it be. Had she hoped the nerves would settle now that Jameson was due to be reposted here? Yes. Apparently her body hadn’t gotten the memo.
Constance studied her carefully. “Do you want to chat later?”
“Of course not. I’m glad you’re here.”
Constance nodded, but there was an odd, firm set to her mouth. She looked…somehow older this morning.
Jameson brought the fried sausages and potatoes to the table while Scarlett sliced a loaf of bread. They tucked in, and Scarlett nearly sighed with relief as her stomach settled.
“Would you two like some privacy?” Jameson asked from his side of the square table, his gaze bouncing between the sisters.
“No,” Constance answered, setting her fork on a half-empty plate. It wasn’t like her to leave half her breakfast, but she hadn’t exactly been normal the last two months. “You should hear this, too.”
“What is it?” A weight settled on Scarlett’s chest. Whatever her sister was about to say, it wasn’t good.
“It would be a waste for me to take the teller training,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be allowed to keep my commission.”
Scarlett paled. There were very few reasons a woman would be forced to resign her commission. “What? Why?”
Constance fumbled her hands in her lap for a moment, then lifted her left hand to reveal a sparkling emerald ring. “Because I’ll be married.”
Scarlett’s fork fell from her hand, clattering against the plate.
Jameson, to his credit, didn’t move a muscle.
“Married?” Scarlett ignored the ring and locked eyes with her sister.
“Yes,” Constance said, as though Scarlett had asked if she wanted more coffee. “Married. And my fiancé isn’t exactly supportive of my role here, so I doubt I’ll be encouraged to keep it once we’re wed.” There was no emotion in her voice. No excitement. Nothing.
Scarlett’s mouth opened and shut twice. “I don’t understand.”
“I knew you wouldn’t,” Constance said softly.
“You have the same expression you wore the day our parents forbade you from marrying Edward until after the war.” Dutiful—that was it. She looked resigned and dutiful. The nausea returned with a vehemence as that foreboding feeling slipped from Scarlett’s chest to her belly. “Who are you marrying?”
“Henry Wadsworth.” Constance lifted her chin.
No.
Silence filled the kitchen, sharper than any words could have been.
No. No. No. Scarlett reached for Jameson’s hand under the table, needing an anchor.
“It’s not up to you,” Constance argued.
Scarlett blinked, realizing she’d spoken out loud. “You cannot. He’s a monster. He’ll ruin you.”
Constance shrugged. “Then he ruins me.”
If it dies, it dies.