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The footman returned to the table, accompanied by another. The first one handed Constantine a small towel while the other gathered up the tablecloth and broken glass. The latter hurried away, and the former spread a fresh, clean cloth over the table.

“Can I fetch anything else for you, my lord?” he asked Constantine.

“No, thank you.” Constantine gave him a reassuring nod, knowing how intimidating his father could be and understanding the footman was likely anxious.

“A glass of claret,” the duke barked before sitting in a chair that hadn’t been occupied by Brightly.

Which put him directly to Constantine’s right.

The footman quickly departed, and the duke glowered after him.

“I do think I’ll see what I can do about having Brightly expelled. He doesn’t belong here.”

“Why not? His father was a member.” Besides, nearly everyone liked Brightly. He was an enjoyable verbal sparring partner, regardless of whether you agreed with him.

The duke’s eyes glittered with annoyance. “His father is deceased and can no longer recommend him.”

Constantine held the towel to his wound, pressing hard to staunch the flow of blood. “Do you plan to have Lucien expelled too?” His brother also had “Whig tendencies.” Frankly, so did Constantine. “Or is he exempt from such action because he’s your son?”

“Don’t be clever.” The duke glowered at Constantine before lifting his gaze to the footman who arrived with the claret.

“Thank you.” His brief show of gratitude eased some of the tension in Constantine’s shoulders.

His father was in quite a mood this evening.

He wasn’t a genial sort at any time, but he wasn’t always this surly either.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go home and bandage this.” Constantine’s palm stung and was still oozing blood. But more importantly, he wasn’t of a mind to suffer his father’s interrogation about Brightly, which was surely coming.

“Yes, you should. I hope that doesn’t affect your racing grip.” He said that because he liked to wager on Constantine’s coach races. That Constantine had formed a racing club with a group of gentlemen a few years ago was a point of pride for the duke.

“Good night, Father.”

“Good night.” He inclined his head before sipping his claret.

Before leaving, Constantine gave the stained cloth to a footman. A few moments later, Constantine stepped into a hack, which he directed to his house on Curzon Street. His hand was still bleeding a little, so he removed his cravat and wrapped it around his palm.

By the time he arrived home, he was exhausted, aggrieved in a myriad of ways, and he realized his wounded right hand wouldn’t allow him to ease at least a part of his frustration.

Smiling at the absurdity, he greeted his butler, Haddock, at the door.

“You’re up late. Did one of the footmen take ill? ”

“Good evening, my lord.” Haddock’s wide brow furrowed beneath his severely combed gray-black hair. Constantine knew right away that something was amiss.

The tension he’d just managed to push away in the hack returned, shooting a pain down his spine. “What’s the matter?”

Haddock’s pale blue gaze dropped to Constantine’s wrapped hand. “Did you injure yourself, my lord?”

“A broken glass at the club. Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I need to go in search of Mrs. Haddock?

” His housekeeper was the wife of his butler, and she would likely be abed by now.

As Haddock typically was. Or at least not at their posts.

Constantine had no idea what they did when they weren’t performing their duties, and it was none of his concern.

Haddock stiffened, his shoulders squaring as he met Constantine’s stare. “Lady Aldington arrived earlier this evening.”

The pain in Constantine’s spine sharpened, overtaking the wound in his hand. “I see. Thank you, Haddock.”

“Shall I have some bandaging and poultice brought up to Peale?”

The valet would offer to dress the wound, and Constantine supposed he should let him. “I’d appreciate that.” He started toward the stair hall but paused and looked back at the butler. “The countess’s arrival surprised you.”

“Yes, my lord.” Faint color rose in Haddock’s cheeks. “Perhaps you mentioned it to me, and I forgot.”

Constantine nearly laughed at the preposterousness of that occurrence. “You know that didn’t happen. I’m surprised too. Did she say why she arrived unannounced?”

“She did not.”

“I’m sure I’ll find out in the morning. Good night, Haddock.” Constantine left the entry hall and climbed the stairs. Passing the drawing room, he made his way to the sitting room that served as a sort of antechamber to his and his wife’s bedrooms.

Upon entering, he stopped cold. Seated in a chair before the fire was his wife.

Sabrina Westbrook was the most beautiful woman in England.

Or so many had called her during her debut Season two years ago, including him.

With her red-gold hair that made one think of honey glistening in the sun, her brilliant sky-blue eyes, and warm cream complexion, she was an ideal.

To Constantine, she was the only woman who’d taken his breath away the moment he’d seen her.

That she was the young lady his father wanted him to wed had seemed an impossible dream.

Too bad his dream wife had tried to avoid marrying him and was clearly filled with so much loathing that their union was damned from the start.

Oh, she could be pleasant and polite, but there was no question that she detested being forced into this marriage and despised his nearness and his touch.

Constantine had done a fair job of burying the hurt he’d felt then.

So much so that he could almost forget it. Almost.

“What happened to your hand?” She came toward him, jolting him from his reverie. The skirt of her dark green dressing gown swirled about her ankles. Without waiting for his answer, she reached for him.

He took a step back, shocked by her approach. “I think the more important question, madam, is what are you doing here?”

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