Page 38 of Never a Proper Lady

It irked him to no end that his father hadn’t been born first and wasn’t the duke, thereby making Martin the next in line to inherit the duchy.

Mother gave her nephew a tolerant, if somewhat stiff, smile.

“Your sisters don’t need any help from me, Martin. They are lovely in their own right.”

Outwardly.

Inwardly…?

That was a wholly different story.

Featherbrained, vain, and incapable of cobbling an intelligent sentence together, they were the sort of chits who gave debutantes a poor name.

Having had enough of his cousin’s superior airs, Constantine shifted to guide Faith from the room. “Please excuse us.”

Boorish clod that he was, Martin ignored the obvious attempt to escape his company.

“Miss Roth, you never did say how you and Constantine became acquainted.” There was that sly upward sweep of Martin’s mouth again. “I feel certain it’s a romantic tale.”

As was her habit, Faith met his gaze directly.

“Tut, tut, Mr. Kellinggrave.” She shook her head and wagged a finger at him in mock chastisement. “Fishing for details when I’ve already told you that Constantine and I are not discussing our betrothal. This house party and these guests”—she swept the room with her gaze—“are here for Lady Charlotte and Mr. Howerton. I refuse to steal their thunder.”

Constantine couldn’t contain his delighted chuckle. She’d taken Martin down a peg, and very neatly too.

“As you say.” His features tense with irritation, Martin bowed and departed without another word.

“That, my dear Miss Roth, was very well done of you.”

Approval shone in Mother’s eyes.

Faith had won the duchess over. No easy task.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I but spoke the truth.”

“Go on with you.” Mother made a shooing motion. “Have your walk. Mrs. Shufflebottom is about to descend upon us, and if you do not flee now, you may not be able to. She’s impossible to escape once she launches into one of her long-winded monologues about her dachshunds’ eating and sleeping habits.”

Constantine followed his mother’s gaze.

Indeed, Mrs. Shufflebottom, wearing a puce gown besieged with ruffles and lace and no fewer than six ostrich feathers poking from what was obviously a wig, cruised forth like a schooner in full sail.

“Oh dear.” Mirth crinkled the corners of Faith’s eyes. “We cannot have that. Let’s be away then.”

She stunned Constantine by taking his hand and pulling him toward the open terrace doors. Even with the French windows open, the room had grown warm.

Aware of the inquisitive gazes following their progress, he pasted a besotted grin upon his countenance and matched her pace. Faith had fallen into the role of adoring fiancé with remarkable ease for someone so opposed to the faux betrothal.

And he, a scientist known to be preoccupied and aloof, mightn’t ever regain his taciturn reputation. What was more, at the moment, as he followed the slender woman who had disrupted his life in so many ways from the room, he didn’t bloody well care.

And that scared the absolute spit out of him.