Impassioned by Darcy Burke

Chapter 10

When Sabrina arrived in the dining room that evening, her husband was already there, standing in profile at the head of the twenty-foot table. The candlelight seemed to make his bright-white collar glisten against the stark black of his coat. A single emerald stick pin was the only color in his attire, sparkling amidst the snow of his cravat. She was a bit disappointed that his neck wasn’t exposed as it had been that morning after Grayson had scratched him. Apparently, she rather enjoyed ogling his bare flesh.

He pivoted as she walked into the room, his gaze sweeping over her in a hooded fashion. She couldn’t read anything about his reaction. Or if he even had one.

The head of the table was set as was the seat to his right. Sabrina moved to the chair and he, not a footman, held it for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Your chin looks to be improved.” Though there was an inch-long, thin, red stripe.

“It is no longer bleeding, at least. I am not usually this prone to injury.” He was of course referring to the cut to his hand on the night she’d arrived. Was that humor in his voice? She thought so. Perhaps they had turned a corner onto a new path earlier. Who knew a mischievous cat could do what they could not?

As she sat, his hand fleetingly grazed her shoulder. Though the contact was brief and slight, she felt it in the pit of her belly, where a mass of flittering butterflies tickled her in anticipation of the following evening. When she would be his tutor, of all things. The thought of it still sent her into a near panic, and she had to suppress the urge to let out a nervous laugh.

After Aldington was seated, the footman poured claret and the first course, white soup, was immediately placed before them, sending a pleasing aroma of veal and almond into the air.

Sabrina picked up her spoon amidst a tumult of anxiety. She needed to tell him about her invitation to the Phoenix Club. Instead, she said something completely inane. “I have missed Cook’s white soup.”

“She does make my favorite version,” he said before sampling from his bowl.

They ate in silence for a few moments—well, outward silence. There was a cacophony in Sabrina’s head as she contemplated how to tell him about the invitation, recalled everything she’d discussed with Evie that afternoon, and anticipated what was to come tomorrow evening.

She cast a glance in his direction, noting the sharp angle of his cheekbone and the lush sweep of his eyelashes. How had she never noticed how long they were?

Setting down her spoon, she sipped the claret, which reminded her of summer berries. Again, she stalled. “This is delicious. I don’t drink wine very often at Hampton Lodge. I never know what to ask for. Perhaps you could provide me with some direction.”

His brow pleated. “Dagnall should be able to help you with that.”

Dagnall was the butler at Hampton Lodge. She preferred to have her husband’s assistance. “I was rather hoping you could share your opinions,” she said serenely before taking up her spoon and finishing her soup.

“I’ll ask Haddock to put together a selection of wine for us to taste. You should form your own opinions instead of relying on mine.”

“I’d like to hear yours all the same. Tasting them together sounds delightful.” Something else to look forward to. The butterflies in Sabrina’s belly rose to her chest.

A footman removed their dishes, and another replaced them with the next course, sole and green beans. Sabrina gathered her knife and fork. Now. Mention the invitation now.

The butterflies grew darker and moved more quickly, with a sickening effect. She forced a smile. “How was your racing club meeting?”

She was such a coward. And why? Telling him this was nothing compared to asking him if he preferred to sleep with men. He was also not her parents who typically found a way to make anything Sabrina found good into something bad. Aldington wouldn’t do that. He hadn’t ever.

“Quite the usual. We won’t begin the actual racing season until the end of the month, but we do like to plan our excursions. Our season always begins with the jaunt to the Pickled Goose.”

Sabrina recalled that was a tavern in Richmond. “Are wives ever allowed as guests?”

His fork, with a green bean speared upon it, was halfway to his mouth when his arm arrested. “We’ve never discussed it. Likely because half our members are unwed.” As if that explained why it hadn’t come up.

“I should be intrigued to join you some time, if it were allowed.” Sabrina set her utensils down. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—avoid the subject any longer. She’d made it into something far bigger than it was. “Earlier today, I received an invitation to join the Phoenix Club.”

He set his knife and fork down and reached for his wineglass. “I see.” The words were flat, his gaze fixed on his wine before he took a long drink. “And do you plan to accept it?”

“I do. In fact, I’m going to attend the assembly on Friday with Mrs. Renshaw.” She clasped her hands in her lap, wringing them as her insides cartwheeled with unease. “Are you angry?”

“Why should I be?” His entire demeanor had cooled. They’d been sharing a pleasant meal until now. “I am surprised.”

“Because you haven’t received an invitation?”

Now he looked surprised—and slightly irritated. “You know that?”

“I, er, assumed,” she lied, not wanting him to know she’d discussed his membership, or lack thereof, with Evie. “But maybe you did receive one and declined. That wouldn’t surprise me, since you seem to disdain the club.”

“I haven’t ever been invited, nor do I expect to be. How…nice for you to be a member.” He’d held onto his wineglass throughout this conversation and now finished the contents.

“I would prefer that you were a member too. Perhaps Lucien could see that you are invited.”

“No.” The clipped response landed hard, like a stone. “It’s his club. He would have invited me by now if he wanted to.” He set his empty glass down, and the footman moved to refill it.

Plucking up his utensils, he pushed his food around his plate. She could see he wasn’t eating and hated that she’d caused him distress.

“How was your meeting with the duke?” she asked softly. As much as she wanted to know how it had gone, she was more concerned with filling the uncomfortable air.

Aldington’s lip curled slightly, and she instantly thought the interview had gone poorly. “He is considering our request for you to replace Aunt Christina as Cassandra’s sponsor.”

Our request. Sabrina liked the sound of that, even if she didn’t feel like they were an “our” or an “us.” “That’s better than an outright refusal.”

“To be honest, denial was his initial response, but I told him that you were up to the challenge and would do a much better job than Aunt Christina.”

Sabrina lifted her gaze to his, glad for his advocacy, though an old feeling of dread wriggled between her ribs. “I am up to the challenge.”

Aldington instructed the footmen to leave them alone. The dismissal surprised Sabrina. He’d never done anything like that. When they were gone, he continued, “The person I saw last night at the rout and somewhat again earlier today—charming, outgoing, flirtatious even. Is that really who you are?”

“It’s who I want to be,” she answered softly, trying to convince herself as much as him.

“But it’s not who you were. You’ve been different since you arrived. However, I still glimpse the cautious woman underneath. Are you certain you can be the woman you want to be? Are you, in fact, certain that’s what you really want?”

“Yes, it is what I want. Just as I want a child.”

“So I gathered,” he said coolly. “And you shall have your child.”

“Do you plan to visit my chamber again tonight?” She held her breath, wondering if he would, even as tomorrow night’s “lesson” loomed.

He hesitated and, for a scant moment, the anticipation simmering inside her roiled.

“I have a meeting at White’s and will likely be late.” He stood quickly, making the chair wobble. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I purchased some books on horticulture for you and procured the latest issue of Transactions.”

She blinked at him. “From the Horticultural Society?” The organization was little more than a decade old and produced a wonderful periodical with color plates of all manner of plants. “How exceedingly thoughtful of you.”

Indeed, he’d never done anything of the sort. Not in two years. He’d gifted her something on her birthday and at Christmas—handkerchiefs or jewelry. Books about gardening, about which she was passionate, were far more personal.

“Please excuse me. I’ll instruct the footmen to return so you may finish your dinner.”

“I hope I didn’t upset you. Thank you for the books and the periodical. I am very much looking forward to reading them.”

“You didn’t upset me. Have a pleasant evening.” His gaze lingered on her a moment before he departed the room.

After finishing her dinner, she went to the library. There she found the latest issue of Transactions as well as three books. One stood out for its red Moroccan leather cover. It couldn’t be… But it was. A design book by Humphry Repton himself emblazoned with “Repton’s Plans for Hampton Lodge” in gold on the cover.

Sabrina sucked in a breath as she carefully opened the book and drank in the gorgeous watercolor before and after paintings. When he’d said he’d purchased books, she’d never imagined this. Repton was a renowned landscape designer—this was far more than a book.

When had Aldington commissioned this? Did he mean to fund such a sweeping revision to the landscape? Repton had included a narrow lake with a bridge as well as a folly nestled amongst a crescent of trees.

She was overwhelmed by Aldington’s thoughtfulness, as well as his support of the thing that brought her the most joy. And he’d done it well before she’d come to town. Perhaps he was different too, and the change hadn’t been provoked by her arrival.

Closing the book, she stared into nothing, her mind turning back to the dinner they’d just shared. He’d been reserved but not dispassionate, which was how she’d thought of him before arriving in London not even a week ago. It was progress, wasn’t it?

Slow, incremental progress. Yes, he’d been upset about the invitation—whether he wanted to admit it or not—and had left abruptly. He was also championing her to his father, and he’d consented to meet with a courtesan in order to improve the sexual state of their marriage.

Another twinge of guilt stole over her, and she reminded herself that this was a benevolent betrayal, if there could be such a thing. It would be for their common good, and the deception wouldn’t last forever.

This would bring them closer together, as well as give them the child they needed and wanted. That he was willing to go to such lengths told her he wanted things to change. As did the gifts he’d just given her. These were not the actions of a man who didn’t care.

The bedchamber at the Phoenix Club was smaller, more intimate, than the one Constantine had seen before. This one held just a bed with tables on either side and a chair near the hearth. The single candle burning on the mantel produced scant illumination, but that was the point. In darkness there was mystery and anonymity. Constantine found it oddly soothing. As much as anything could be in this moment.

His mind warred with itself, caught between the beneficial outcome he was seeking from this desperate assignation and the guilt that he was doing this behind his wife’s back. She’d invited him to her bed—nay, demanded he visit her there. Shouldn’t he be in her chamber instead?

He’d tried that a few nights ago and while it had been better, it had still been awkward. Tonight, he would hopefully find the audacity to improve their bedsport. Hell, he just needed to find a way to make it bedsport instead of cold duty.

“The lady will arrive shortly,” Lucien said. “You should probably prepare yourself.”

Constantine had already removed his cloak, mask, hat, and gloves and placed them on a narrow bench at the end of the bed. “What else is there to do?” Besides overcome the doubt in his head.

“Er, you might want to doff your coat? Whatever makes you most comfortable.”

“Not being here would make me most comfortable.” And having a wife who wanted him, not just the child he could give her.

Lucien exhaled. “I suppose it’s not too late to change your mind, but only if you can answer the following question in the affirmative.”

“What’s that?”

“Can you go home and shag your wife?”

Constantine clenched his jaw. He could, but he didn’t want a repeat of the other night. He wanted his wife to desire him. Unfortunately, the stark truth of it all was that whatever he learned tonight might not change that. “Just send her in before I do change my mind.”

“A few rules,” Lucien said crisply, pulling a dark strip of cloth from his coat. “You’ll wear a blindfold so she can’t be identified.”

“What about her identifying me?”

“Your blindfold will obscure the upper portion of your face. She has agreed to direct her attention to education only. Don’t worry that she’ll spend time trying to determine who you are. Her goal is to help you—nothing more.” Lucien stepped behind Constantine.

“Wait.” Constantine removed his coat and draped it over the back of the chair. Then he sat and took off his boots, leaving his stockings on. Standing, he turned his back to Lucien. “I’m ready.” The hell he was. His insides were in knots, and he was a breath away from calling the whole bloody thing off.

The moment the blindfold plunged him into obsidian night, uncertainty gripped him hard. He told himself to relax, that plenty of men took mistresses, not that he was even doing that. He was seeking advice of an intimate nature, nothing more.

“I’m trusting you, Lucien,” he said, as though it were necessary that he say it out loud.

“I don’t take that lightly.” Lucien clasped his shoulder. “There is a bell on the bedside table. If at any moment, you want to end this, ring it. She will do the same. She won’t touch you unless you ask her to, and you won’t touch her unless she gives you permission. Those are the rest of the rules.”

A blindfold, a bell, and consent. It all sounded very civilized and orderly. With a hint of carnality.

No, they would only talk. There would be no touching.

Lucien’s hand left his shoulder. “I’m going now.”

Constantine nodded and was glad he’d taken that long drink of his brother’s smuggled whisky on the way upstairs. The snick of the door latching sounded like a pistol shot. While he couldn’t see anything, his other senses had become more, greater. He smelled the wax of the candle burning, and the gentle heat of the low fire in the hearth warmed him.

What in the hell was he doing? Did he really need this? What he needed was for this woman—or someone else—to sit down with his wife and talk to her about what happened in bed and how she ought to respond. Presuming she liked what was happening. Perhaps she didn’t. Which meant he needed the damn tutor.

Swearing softly in frustration, he lifted his hands to the buttons of his waistcoat. The latch clicked, and he froze. His breath caught and held as he pivoted toward the door. It was a silly movement since he couldn’t see anything.

The air in the chamber shifted, thickening and beguiling him with the scent of an exotic flower his father grew in the hothouse at Woodbreak.

“Good evening.” He sounded foreign, as if there was a gravel-voiced stranger within him.

“Good evening.” Her voice was soft and melodic, a vaguely southern Welsh accent, if he had to guess. Yes, his other senses were working very hard to compensate for his lack of sight.

He still didn’t breathe, nor could he move, his body rooted in disbelief over what was happening. Or about to happen. “Why are you here?” He blurted the question despite Lucien telling him she only wanted to help. Why would she?

“I went to Lord Lucien in search of a discreet lover,” she said simply and without hesitation. “He has a reputation for helping people.”

Constantine finally exhaled. “Did you hope to become his mistress?”

“No, why?”

Because most women would. “He also has a reputation for, ah, libertine behavior.”

“What about you?” She’d moved closer, the air moving again, as her tropical scent enveloped him. “You look to be a very attractive gentleman.”

“I am not like Lord Lucien.” There was just something about Lucien that attracted the fairer sex. Even when they’d been boys, the maids had doted upon him. Not that they’d ignored Constantine, but it was different. Lucien always smiled and charmed. For him, it was as easy as breathing—and Constantine was even having trouble with that at the moment.

“I can see that.” She was behind him now, circling him, taking stock.

His muscles stretched taut, as if he were being pulled in multiple directions, drawn and about to be quartered. “This was a mistake.” He reached up for the blindfold, intending to leave.

“You can’t do that,” she said quickly, the pitch of her voice rising. “The blindfold stays on. That’s one of the rules.”

“I can’t leave if I can’t see.”

“Then I suppose you can’t leave.” She stood in front of him now, close enough that he could feel her heat. “Do you want me to go?”

Yes.But the word lodged somewhere on the way from his brain to his mouth, stuck in a battle now being waged between his mind and body—what he believed he should do and what he wanted to do.

“I am conflicted. You are not my wife, and that…distresses me.”

“But you are here for your wife, are you not?”

“Yes.” It was more than wanting her to desire him. He wanted to give her pleasure, to show her how passionate things could be between them. But he supposed he needed to believe that for himself. Until she’d arrived and done things like masturbate, he never would have imagined passion and pleasure between them was possible.

“She would understand, I think.”

Would she? Perhaps one day he would tell her the drastic measures he’d resorted to in order to give them what he thought—or hoped—they both wanted. Or not. He didn’t want her to feel bad, not when she was already so apprehensive about nearly everything.

“You were a courtesan?” he asked, taking a half step back to try to cool the air between them. He was too aware of her proximity.

“I was, but not for a few years now. I prefer my independence. I enjoy the ability to do some of the things that men do.”

“Such as take a lover.”

“Yes.”

She wanted to have sex for the purpose of having sex. Not to have a child and not out of some sense of duty. And she was no longer a courtesan, so there was no financial incentive.

She’d moved closer again because he felt the whisper of her breath against his jaw. A shiver of need tripped up his spine, awakening his body. “Tell me about your wife. What do you think she would like?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t even know if she wants me. She wants a child, but that can be accomplished without, ah, fanfare.”

“Fanfare? What an interesting way to describe it—pleasure, I think you mean?” She didn’t wait for him to respond before continuing. “You could keep things simple and straightforward, lackluster, if you will, but if you were content to do that, you wouldn’t be here. Have you spoken to her about what she wants now? Lord Lucien indicated you aren’t newlyweds.”

“Our relationship is a bit, er, strained.”

“I gather that’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here because apparently I’ve got the completely wrong idea of how to behave with my wife. In my defense, she is incredibly reserved and apprehensive. At least she used to be.”

“She’s not anymore?”

“She’s trying not to be, but when it comes to the bedchamber, I have no idea. We, ah, shared a bed the other night and I think she orgasmed, but I can’t be sure.”

“Why not ask her?”

“She seemed alternately horrified and…responsive during the act. Honestly, it was incredibly confusing.”

“Perhaps she simply didn’t know what to do,” she said softly. “That’s possible, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t only possible, it was probable. He couldn’t expect that her mother had discussed the matter with her. Who else would teach her then, but him? “I’m going to have to talk to her to make seduction work, aren’t I?”

“I think you must, yes. Would that be so bad? Talking can be somewhat…arousing, can’t it?”

“I hadn’t considered it, actually. But I will, if it will help my wife relax.”

“Oh my.” She laughed softly. “If you wish your wife to relax, perhaps you should offer her a glass of sherry or port. And if a modicum of pleasure is all you desire, we can be finished in short order. I would assert, however, that you try for something more than a modicum. Why not aim for a satisfactory amount? Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, you might even set your goal at, say, an excess.” She hissed the last word, and another frisson of need danced across his flesh.

Constantine wanted an excess of pleasure. So much.

Her fingers grazed his hand, and she abruptly withdrew. “My apologies. May I take your hand?”

He wanted to say no, to deny the burgeoning desire igniting inside him. He did not. “Yes.”

She curled her hand around his. “Sometimes it’s nice to just touch someone like this. No expectations, only an intimate moment shared between two people. Perhaps you could hold your wife’s hand.”

Her flesh against his teased his senses, making the darkness even more profound as everything else worked to compensate. He didn’t want this intimacy—not with her. He imagined his wife instead and immediately felt calmer.

“You could also stroke her arm as you sit together—in your coach, perhaps, as you ride somewhere. Your touch outside the bedchamber might ease her anxiety. Then, when you are alone together, you can caress her neck, her back…”

With the inability to see anything, Constantine’s mind filled in the void. He recalled the alluring expanse of Lady Aldington’s back. Lady Aldington? Her name was Sabrina. If he first-named her, that would certainly break down some of the wall, wouldn’t it?

His hand lifted, without direction from him, and he imagined trailing his fingertip down Sabrina’s spine. His finger met flesh, and the woman’s soft gasp cloaked him, drawing him closer in thought, if not in actuality.

He pulled his hand back, realizing somewhat stupidly that this wasn’t his wife. “I didn’t mean to touch you. I didn’t realize you were so close.” He wondered what he’d touched. “Where did I—?” He cut himself off, thinking it best if they didn’t discuss that. “Never mind.”

“You touched me just above the bodice of my gown. If you’d been an inch lower, you would have found my breast.”

He swallowed. This was becoming dangerous. He wished he had touched her breast. No, not hers, Sabrina’s. “I tried to do that to my wife the other night. She didn’t seem to like it.”

“Perhaps she was merely startled. Try telling her what you’re going to do—that you want to caress and fondle her, to put your mouth on her there.”

Lust pooled in his loins, a great thirst he feared couldn’t be slaked. Not tonight anyway. He hadn’t wanted to frighten Sabrina, so he’d taken things incredibly slowly. But he could have communicated to her what would happen, prepared her so as to alleviate her fear.

Regret cascaded through him in a torrent. “I’m sorry,” he whispered before realizing, again, that this wasn’t Sabrina. He was struggling to distinguish this woman before him from the one in his head.

“Don’t be. Do you want to touch me? Show me how you would touch your wife. If you like.”

He was almost desperate with wanting to touch her, but not her. He wanted Sabrina. He wanted to do as the tutor suggested—caress her neck, her back, her breasts. His cock, fully aroused now, strained in his smallclothes.

Would it be terrible if he took this woman to bed? Most other men in his position would do it without thought. Furthermore, if Sabrina didn’t want him for more than having a child, would she even care?

“Fuck.”

“Excuse me?” She sounded shocked, which meant he’d said that aloud.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to say that. Outside of my head anyway. My wife only wants a child,” he blurted as it seemed all his thoughts wanted to break free. “She’s been very clear. Demanding, even. It was quite shocking,” he added in a murmur. But maybe a little arousing too. A commanding woman, especially one’s wife, was a heady thing.

“Then perhaps you should be demanding about what you want. Tell her what you desire.”

The blindfold was suddenly constricting. He wanted to throw it off and see this woman, to differentiate her from Sabrina. “What color is your hair?”

“Dark brown.”

He relaxed slightly. “Your eyes?”

“Er, blue.”

Damn.He’d hoped they would be brown instead of the same color as Sabrina’s.

“If you’re trying to conjure an image of how I look, why not touch me and let your hands inform you?”

The temptation was so great. He clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides lest he reach for her.

She exhaled softly, a sigh of disappointment. “I shall hope you touch your wife instead then. Stroke her and perhaps kiss her skin. Have you done that?” She hesitated a bare moment before adding, “Have you put your mouth on her?” This last question climbed, as if she were also aroused.

“No,” he croaked.

“Then you should. She will likely enjoy your mouth on her breasts, at her sex—”

“Stop.” He couldn’t endure another moment. “You need to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because you should.” His voice was tight, thin, as if he were being relentlessly squeezed.

“I’m not sure I’ve made any progress. You haven’t touched me, and you haven’t said how you plan to seduce your wife. Might I suggest you strip her clothing from her and ply your tongue along her breast—”

“Bloody hell, woman, if you don’t go now, you’re going to have to watch me frig myself.” His hands were already on the buttons of his fall.

“I would like to.” Now, her voice had dropped to an almost guttural level. The sound was as intoxicating as the notion that she would watch him.

“No.” Though he refused her, his body yearned for him to say yes. He hesitated, his fall half open.

“Please, may I stay?”

He surrendered to his basest needs, barely whispering, “Yes.”

“Show me what you want your wife to do.” It was a soft but devastating command.

Mindless, he freed the last buttons and slid his cock from his smallclothes. Grasping the base, he let his head fall back as blood rushed straight to his prick.

He moved his hand up, slowly at first. Delicious sensation rocketed through him. His muscles tightened as pleasure ignited and built.

Her breathing rasped in the quiet of the room, the sound deepening his arousal. He could imagine her touching herself. Was she? He couldn’t bring himself to ask.

His legs wobbled, and he reached out with his left hand for the bedpost for stability. Otherwise, he feared he might collapse, especially when he came.

“How tightly do you hold yourself?” The question jarred him, and his hand slipped.

He struggled to speak. “Not too tight, but not too loose either.” He was tempted to show her, to ask her to finish him. But he’d already gone too far—doing this in front of her.

“Tell me how it feels. Practice so that you can tell your wife how it feels when she does this to you.”

The thought of Sabrina holding his cock, of her driving him to rapture sent a new surge of lust into his cock. He stroked his hand faster, and the tutor’s rapid, shallow breathing joined his in a reckless, sensual symphony. He imagined it was Sabrina, her sweet, soft hand cradling him, and he came undone.

Every muscle in his body clenched just before his release tore through him. He cried out, a low, awful sound he didn’t think he’d ever made before. But then he didn’t think he’d ever come that hard before either.

He cast his head back and gripped the bedpost as though his very life depended on him not letting go. It wasn’t that dire, of course, but he was certain he’d collapse if not for the post.

At last, his orgasm subsided, and he fought to regain control over his body, taking deep breaths, as he tucked his slackening cock into his smallclothes. With shaking fingers, he rebuttoned his fall.

“My apologies,” he said when his breeches were closed once more. “I should not have allowed you to watch.”

“I enjoyed it,” she said in a rather sunny tone. “I think your wife will too, especially if you let her touch you. Although, just watching is incredibly arousing.”

He wasn’t sure he agreed with her as to Sabrina enjoying it. “Did you…touch yourself?”

“No, but I should have. And I will. Next time, we can do that together.”

“There will not be a next time.” He shouldn’t have allowed a first time, even if he thought it would help.

“If you change your mind, I’d be happy to see you again. In the meantime, I wish you luck with your wife.”

“Thank you.” He would take all the luck he could get.

“I hope this helped. I’m leaving now. Good night.” The door clicked shut, indicating she’d gone. Constantine realized he was still clutching the bloody bedpost.

He released the post and shook out his hand, the muscles tight from clenching so hard. Swiping his hand over his face, he’d forgotten about the bloody blindfold. He untied it at the back of his head and pulled it away. Blinking, he stared into the near darkness, as if he could discern the woman’s imprint before him. He could still smell her decadent tropical scent and would forever equate that with toe-curling bliss.

Trudging to the chair, he pulled his boots on. Could he seduce Sabrina as he must?

He thought of how she was trying to change and wondered if he should be doing the same. Perhaps he’d find the real Constantine buried somewhere beneath duty and expectation.

Was there a real Constantine other than who he was? When had his wife’s arrival provoked some sort of existential dilemma?

I am who I am supposed to be.

But was that the husband he wanted to be?