Did she ask because she feared he was still afflicted with overwhelming lust and would pounce on her?

“I am fine.”

“Did you sleep well?”

Better than well.

“Fine. Thank you.”

He had fallen into a dead sleep after she left him last night, his body sated, happy and replete from her . . . assistance.

Even now, the taste of her lingered on his lips. He flexed his hands, his palms tingling as he recalled the shape of her hips in his hands.

It was a complicated thing. He was conflicted with wishing he had done more with her, to her, and regretting that they had shared any intimacy at all. It was all vastly inappropriate and vastly unfair to her. He knew that.

Without that tonic, without her invading his bedchamber when he was in such an unbridled state, he would never have touched her. He knew that, too.

Constantine would have continued to resist the allure of her because he was all about reserve and restraint and duty. And doing his duty by her meant keeping his hands, and most importantly, his cock, to himself.

He was courting another woman, on the verge of proposing to a female chosen for him by his family—the family to whom he owed everything.

He may be plagued with this troubling lust for Nora Langley, but he would not succumb to it. Not again.

The tonic may have broken down his will last night, but now he was in full possession of himself.

Today he owned himself entirely. There would be no further missteps. No more moments of weakness.

“I am glad to hear that. That is a relief.” She nodded with a distracted air, her gaze averting his as though she could not tolerate the sight of him, and that stung. He did not want her uncomfortable or repelled by him . . . and yet that might be inevitable.

Footsteps sounded and they both turned to watch as a footman advanced down the corridor, his arms overflowing with fresh linens. He walked stiffly, eyeing them both.

Constantine took her elbow and pulled her to the side of the hall with him so that the man could pass.

The footman paused and nodded deferentially to Constantine. “Mr. Sinclair.” The man then looked at Nora and his eyes visibly cooled as they rested on her. He inclined his head only a fraction, a scarce nod for her. It was apparently all the respect the servant could muster.

Anger stirred within him. He did not know why Birchwood’s staff treated her so shabbily. It was not blatant. He could not call anyone out directly for disrespect. They did and said all the right and proper things, but it was there, a subtle rebuffing. It must stem from the duke.

The servants were always present. At least one of them, if not more, in every room at nearly all times. They had witnessed the duke’s cold treatment of her and they took their cues from him.