The Constant Companion by M. C. Beaton Page B

glinting like a cat’s in the dim light of the room.
    “How-h-ow nice,” said Constance faintly, her hand nervously feeling at her wrist for the strap of her fan and finding it missing.
    “I am concerned about your position in this household,” he said, and immediately wondered if he sounded as pompous to her as he did to himself. “I bear an old and honorable name, Miss Lamberton. I am offering you the protection of that name.”
    The beautiful hazel eyes flew upwards in surprise and dismay. “My lord,” said Constance. “It is exceeding kind of you to offer me the protection of your name, but I assure you I am not yet reduced to such straits.”
    Lord Philip stared down at her in amazement and fury. And then he realized she had misunderstood the great honor he was about to confer on her.
    He knelt on one knee beside her chair and took her hand in his. “Miss Lamberton,” he said, “I am not asking you to be my mistress—but my wife.”
    Constance looked at him in dazed bewilderment and then a slow, enchanting smile lit up her face. This was like all her girlhood dreams come true—this handsome lord kneeling beside her and proposing marriage. And if Lord Philip Cautry could have kept his aristocratic mouth shut, then Miss Lamberton would undoubtedly have accepted him on the spot.
    But he felt compelled to add, “I realize this will not be a love match, Miss Lamberton. I feel I owe it to your dear father’s memory to see that his daughter is no longer ill-treated. My family will be surprised, of course. They will naturally have expected me to look higher for a bride. But, no matter. I will deal with them.”
    A cloud settled down over the sunshine of Constance’s face. There was a long and heavy silence. A hawker shouted his wares outside, the clock on the mantel ticked breathlessly on, and the shuffle of the butler’s feet sounded in the hall outside.
    At last Constance said, “You do me great honor, my lord. But I fear I cannot accept. You see, the relative who inherited my aunt’s estate is calling today and I am determined to beg him to remove me from this household. I do not wish to be ungrateful to Lady Amelia, but, indeed, I am not happy here. I fear…”
    She broke off as Lord Philip Cautry rose to his feet, his face as black as thunder. He had only heard her refuse him. She had refused none other than Lord Philip Cautry, he who had been fêted and petted and chased after by every matchmaking mama in London since he was first out of short coats.
    “Then we shall say no more about it,” he said through stiff lips. “I bid you good day, madam!”
    Constance rose up with a little pleading gesture. But he had gone.
    He had gone and left her, all too late, with the realization that she was in love with him.
    Hard on the heels of his departure, Mr. Barrington and his wife were announced.
    Constance forced a smile of welcome on her face and moved forward to greet them. Mr. Barrington was a cadaverous man somewhere in his thirties, with a long, lugubrious face. His wife, by contrast, was small and plump and blond, with wide, empty, china-blue eyes and an alarming titter.
    Mrs. Barrington was the first to speak after introductions had been performed. “La!” she cried. “Don’t you look fine! That silk must have cost all of five shillings a yard, I do declare. Where is the Lady Amelia? Lord, I just pine to catch a glimpse of her!”
    Constance explained that Amelia was gone from home and not expected back until late. Mrs. Barrington gave a
moue
of disappointment and relapsed into silence, leaving her husband to break into speech.
    “And how do we go on?” he asked, after Constance had rung for refreshments. “Fine feathers make fine birds, Miss Lamberton. ‘There is an upstart crow beautified with our feathers,’ heh? Is that one of my lady’s gowns?”
    Constance pretended not to have heard either the question or its preceding insult and instead burst out, “Oh, you must help me leave this