Page 50 of Never a Proper Lady

And that caused remorse because Faith wasn’t by nature a bitter or unforgiving person.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

She’d not brought enough funds with her for a room at an inn or a ticket to London, leaving her in a deuced bumblebroth. She must be away tonight. Her pride would not permit her to stay after what she’d overheard in the study.

Mulish. Termagant. Thorn. Rid of her.

Fresh mortification cleaved her.

How could she ever look Lord Kenworthy in the eye again?

Hot tears sprang to her eyes again as she marched down the corridor, one ear cocked for the sounds of footfalls or voices.

Constantine held her in such contempt. She’d never been anything but an unwanted, irksome burden.

That knowledge shouldn’t hurt as profusely as it did.

The game was up in any event, for she was almost certain she’d seen Mercy Brockman. Mercy would never believe Faith had become affianced to Lord Constantine Kellinggrave since they’d last written each other. Nor would Mercy lie about a fake betrothal.

That was the problem with telling tarradiddles.

One led to another, and then to another, until the facts and lies became so tangled that it was nearly impossible to remember what was truth and what was fabricated.

A tear trickled down her cheek, and she angrily swiped at it. Waterworks never achieved anything except for a red, stuffy nose and swollen eyes.

Regardless, two more intrepid droplets dared to follow the first.

Ooh…botheration.

Faith came very near to uttering a most unladylike oath.

How much farther to Lady Edyth’s chamber, for pity’s sake?

Had she taken another wrong turn?

“Rotten bounder.”

If only Constantine really were a rotten bounder.

“Oh, my dear. What has you distraught?”

Faith snapped her head up to discover Mrs. Peagilly standing inside the doorframe to her chamber. She must’ve either only arrived or was just leaving her chamber.

“I…” Faith swallowed and darted a panicked gaze behind her. “I…”

The dashed words wouldn’t form.

Faith blinked frantically as more stinging tears blinded her.

I shall not cry.

“Tut, tut. You poor thing.” Mrs. Peagilly swept to her side and put an arm about Faith’s waist. “Why don’t you join an old woman in a soothing cup of tea? Tea always works wonders to calm me when I’m overwrought. And I just happen to have had a fresh pot sent up moments ago.”

Before Faith realized what Mrs. Peagilly was about, amid a cloud of violet and lavender perfume, she’d been ushered into the chamber, gently pushed into an overstuffed floral armchair, and a cup of steaming tea had been pressed into her hands.

As Mrs. Peagilly stirred milk and sugar into her cup, she considered Faith. Her modest but elegant midnight blue and ebony gown, the single row of pearls at her throat, and drop pearl earrings dangling from her earlobes bespoke superb taste and quality but a preference for simplicity rather than ostentatiousness.

A woman after Faith’s own heart.