He knew her type.
He adored her type.
He put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “You’d be impatient. And that would only inspire me to prolong the waiting.”
The pale skin along her neck was pink and flushed. It pleased him immensely.
He took a single finger and rubbed it along the nape of her neck.
He leaned down so that his lips were flush with her ear. “You’d be in agony, Constance, by the time I let you up. In agony.”
He smoothed his hand from her neck to her jaw, letting a thumb graze over her bottom lip. “You know what I mean, of course,” he whispered. “You’re aware of the condition.”
She was so utterly still that he could feel her breath on his skin when she finally whispered:
“Yes.”
Chapter 11
Never, in her most private moments, among her most wicked thoughts, had Constance ever wanted something like she wanted Apthorp to touch her.
It was undignified, and she didn’t care.
The servants were noisily cleaning the hall outside, and she didn’t care.
He was no doubt making her feel this way out of pure spite—enjoying her discomfort—and she didn’t care.
Her whole body was one long ache. She wanted to take his thumb into her mouth.
She wanted him to move his hands down to her breasts.
Next time, just tell me what you want.
“Perhaps you might—” she whispered.
A sharp rap sounded at the door.
She froze. So did he.
He cleared his throat. “Yes?” he said pleasantly.
“The countess has arrived, my lord,” Tremont said.
Curses. She had become so wrapped up in his demonstration she had forgotten to tell him the rest of her surprise.
“What countess?” he asked, stepping away from her.
There was a pause. “The Countess of Apthorp, my lord?”
He shucked the silk scarf off her lap, threw it into the nearest box, and stormed out into the hall. “My mother?”
“Yes, with Lady Margaret. Lady Constance said you were expecting them. Mrs. Haslet is laying out tea and refreshments in the parlor.”
“Ah. Of course,” Apthorp said smoothly. “The date slipped my mind. Thank you, Tremont. I shall be with them momentarily.”
He closed the door and whirled around and he really did look like a highwayman, with that expression in his eyes. Not the kind who would tie you up for your enjoyment; the kind who would cheerfully kill you for your jewels.
“Explain yourself,” he barked.
“I arranged for your family to visit. As a surprise. Aren’t you pleased?”
She tried for an infectious smile. Perhaps if she evinced enough happiness for both of them, he would simply absorb it and stop glowering at her.
“Pleased? I’m the very furthest thing from pleased.”
This was not the reaction she’d hoped for.
“But you heard Lady Spence. Inviting your mother here will show her we are seeking to follow her advice. Besides, I’ve arranged for a fabulous visit—balls and the theater and a trip to the Ridotto al Fresco and new gowns from Valeria Parc. At my expense, of course. Don’t you want them to have a little merriment?”
He was staring at her like she had replaced his fake pistol with a real one and shot him in the stomach without warning.
“I don’t know how I continue to let myself be shocked by you,” he whispered. “What was I thinking?”
“Why are you so upset?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he threaded his hands through his hair like he wanted to rip it from his skull and marched out of the room without another word.
“Wait,” she hissed, following him. “Can we just—”
But she stopped, because a small child came toddling down the hall and nearly collided with her shins.
“Why, good evening … ,” she said to the little, golden-haired moppet, perplexed. “Who might you be?”
The little girl smiled up at her, flashing dimples and an angelic smile exactly like Apthorp’s. He turned around at the sound of her voice and, taking in the sight of the child, whispered something that sounded very much like fucking Christ.
The little girl launched herself down the corridor, landing in a pile at his ankles.
He removed the tortured expression from his face with visible effort, like he had to peel it off, and bent down to scoop her up.
“Annie, my love,” he said, placing a kiss on her cheek. The little girl wriggled delightedly in his arms.
“Anne?” A thin young woman came dashing up the stairs.
“Up here,” Apthorp said, turning toward the voice.
Lady Margaret rushed in and her face broke into a smile. “Julian!”
Without setting the child down, he held an arm out to embrace his sister. “Margaret. It’s been too long.” He glanced at Constance. “Lady Constance, you recall my sister?”
“Of course I remember Lady Margaret. I’m so pleased you were able to visit.”
Lady Margaret curtsied. “You were so kind to suggest it. We had no idea Julian had taken up residence in this old place.” Her smile turned wry. “My brother can be such a sparing correspondent.”
Constance knew that feeling well.
“And who is this charming creature?” Constance asked, gesturing to the child, who was now playing with Apthorp’s hair, obviously thrilled to be near him. Her joy reminded Constance of herself on the rare occasions her brother had allowed her to visit him as a little girl.
“This is Miss Anne Haywood,” he said, handing the girl to his sister. “My ward.”
Constance glanced up at him. “I was not aware you had a child in your care,” she said lightly.
“Miss Haywood is the daughter of our late cousin,” Lady Margaret explained quickly. “She lost her parents to illness and Julian offered to serve as her guardian. Mama and I look after her.”
Margaret’s face had a strained, apologetic kind of look. The kind of expression one might wear were one in the position of having to pass off one’s brother’s child to his betrothed.
“How kind,” she said to Margaret. But how scandalous of Apthorp, who was always so long-winded on the subject of masculine honor.
Was this why he had not wanted his family to visit? Because she’d find out he had a by-blow? Was there no end to the scandalous things that he’d managed to keep hidden?
The countess came into the hallway, following the commotion. “Oh, my dear child,” she said, setting her eyes upon Constance. “Julian, how beautiful she is.”
She folded Constance into a hug. Her bones felt frail beneath Constance’s grip. Both the countess and her daughter were painfully thin, and she could not help but notice that the lace of their gowns was dingy from frequent laundering, and looked mended many times.
She had known Apthorp’s coffers were not full, but this was far worse than she’d expected.
“I hope your journey was not too uncomfortable?” she asked the countess, trying not to stare at the pilling edges of her woven shawl.
“No, dear, the carriage you sent was positively decadent.” The countess beamed at her. “My son is blessed to have a woman as considerate as yourself as his future countess. How blessed we all are to welcome you into our family.”
“I’m so happy to be part of it,” she said, swallowing around an uncomfortable pang of guilt at her dishonesty. “I hope I will be a good—”
From behind his mother’s shoulder, Apthorp’s eyes shot daggers at her.
“A good friend to you,” she finished wanly.
“Let’s become better acquainted,” Lady Apthorp said, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I can’t wait to know everything about the woman who has so utterly charmed my son.”
Apthorp noticed a small smile playing on his sister’s lips the next day as they sat in the parlor of his town house drinking tea with Constance.
He had watched her laugh m
ore in the last five hours than he could remember her laughing in the entirety of the last five years.
It made him want to go outside and bury himself in the garden, or lie in the road and let himself be trampled by horses.
The whole painstaking day had left him unutterably depressed.
Constance had prepared for his family like they were royal princesses. New feather mattresses and soft quilts had been awaiting in their bedchambers, along with French eau de toilette, books to amuse them, and new stationery embossed with their initials. His larder had been filled with fruits and cakes and delicacies and the fine teas his mother liked. A dressmaker had arrived with new gowns and gloves and hats. A nurse had followed, borrowed from the Westmeads to look after Anne. By the time Constance came to drive his family to the church service at Lady Spence’s congregation, his mother and sister were so happy they were radiant. And the day had only improved in her company. Following the service, Constance had arranged a lavish family lunch at Westmead House, attended by a group of friends handpicked to welcome his mother and sister back to London. She’d set out a slew of desirable invitations for them to choose from over the coming weeks. She’d showered them with compliments and hugs.
They had reacted the way people typically did when confronted with Lady Constance Stonewell’s powers of seduction: they’d fallen instantly, rapturously in love with her.
As they sat in his freshly redecorated parlor drinking her exquisite tea and laughing at her musical recounting of the season’s most delicious gossip, he could see them imagining her as the center of their family. He could see them picturing a more permanent return to town and the busy, privileged life they’d once enjoyed. He could see them delighting in the effect Constance’s charm and energy would have on life at home in Cheshire—Christmas musicales and quarter day feasts and pageants for the tenants.
She was like the miracle they had not dared be optimistic enough to hope for. And he knew what hoping for it felt like. Just as he knew how it felt to give it up.
She would be the next thing they would lose in a long string of wrenching disappointments he had caused them.
Because in ten days’ time she would break off their engagement and disappear into the night.
And he wouldn’t try to stop her.
That misty idea he’d been entertaining—confessing his true feelings, asking for her hand, convincing her to stay—had been the product of foolish, sentimental self-delusion. There was simply no way around the truth: he could not marry a woman he could not trust.
He wanted to pound his fists against the wall with irritation for wasting a week letting himself hope. Instead, he rose abruptly. He’d allowed this to go on for far too long.
“Tremont?” he called into the hallway. His valet appeared. “Summon Lady Constance’s carriage.” The man nodded and disappeared.
The ladies looked up at him in surprise. “What’s the matter, dear?” his mother asked.
“The weather is turning nasty. Lady Constance should return home before the storm sets in.”
“Oh, yes indeed,” Constance said, smiling to cover up his rudeness. “I was so enjoying our chat I hadn’t noticed the change in the air.”
“I’ll see you out,” he said. “I need a word before you leave.”
Usually it was gratifying to be proved right about something others had insisted you were wrong about. Constance was well versed in the satisfaction that came with defying the prevailing view and winning anyway. She had never met a rule she hadn’t enjoyed breaking, and considered shattered precepts the glitter that lit the pathways to personal contentment.
But today she was not content, and not because she had been wrong in her defiance.
Inviting the countess and Lady Margaret to London was an obvious success. They were delighted to be here. Their presence conferred an immediate wholesomeness upon Lord Apthorp that made the rumors about him seem distant and preposterous. And most critically, Lady Spence had been so pleased that Apthorp had taken her advice, she had agreed to bring Lord Spence to the Strand to dine with them the following week.
And yet, rather than apologize to her for his foul mood the night before, or at the very least allow that her judgment had been wise, Apthorp was regarding her like she was an abscess that had lamed his horse. She had consequently spent the day dizzying herself performing such raptures of charm and happiness that no one might notice his ill temper, and now she was exhausted.
“That was rude,” she whispered as she followed him into the hall into which he had so suddenly dismissed her. “I hope you intend to apologize.”
“Me apologize,” he repeated. He removed her cloak from a peg on the wall and pointedly handed it to her. “I was thinking that the opposite was in order.”
“You wish for me to apologize for possessing the audacity to plan a day of pleasure for your mother and sister while also securing an audience with Lord Spence? Very well. I am sorry. I can’t imagine what came over me, wasting my efforts on an ungrateful child like yourself.”
He took a deep breath. Wind rattled through the stained-glass windows of the ancient door, making his dark expression seem positively menacing. Outside a curious April storm was brewing, the kind that brought hailstones the size of pebbles and icy flecks of rain.
“There is to be no more of this,” he said evenly. “No more outings. No more church. No more teas. You’ve used my family for your purposes like props. Now you are to leave them bloody well alone.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There are ten more days before the vote, and we’ll need to be seen everywhere—”
“Not with my family.”
She lowered her voice, not wanting them to overhear her through the door. “Why are you so determined to keep them away? Can’t you see the effect it’s having? They’re gaunt and gray as carrier pigeons. You’d think a trip to church was the most amusement they’ve had in years.”
He clenched his teeth. “Because in a fortnight we are going to call off this engagement. And it will be the latest thing in eight years of misery to devastate them. I told you that. And you gave me your worthless word.”
Her pulse began to beat intently in her throat. It was true that he had said these things, but she had dismissed them, inferring the real reason he would not permit the visit was that he could not afford the expense of hosting his family in a comfortable manner. Making the trip a gift had seemed like a gracious solution.
“I see,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. Truly. I misunderstood. I thought you were concerned about your finances.”
His face went even darker. She closed her eyes, remembering belatedly that acknowledging her awareness of his poverty only ever made things worse.
“I am sorry that I ignored your wishes,” she said quickly. “But now that they are here, you must at least admit that their presence is helpful to our cause. And their future, after all, depends on our success.”
“I never stop considering their future, Constance,” he hissed. “I have not spent a day of my life in which it did not weigh on my mind since I was seventeen years of age. Do not lecture me on what they need. You know nothing of it. This will hurt them. Losing you will hurt them. And then they will return to Cheshire with nothing but their loneliness and disappointment and the stench of a fresh scandal coming off their family name. Can you understand how that might feel?”
She huddled back into the corner of the vestibule, realizing she had made a terrible mistake. After their moment in her cousin’s parlor with the roses, she had somehow allowed herself to think of Apthorp not as a man she had wronged, but as her ally. A man whose fortunes were entwined with her own.
He wasn’t.
What he felt for her was a loathing so thick it made him hoarse.
Suddenly, she hated him. “Can I understand what it feels like to be scandalous and unwanted and alone?” she repeated. “Actually, I know quite well what it is like to live in exile because one’s relatives believe it is in one’s best interest. It’s so lone
some that I would do nearly anything to avoid experiencing it again. And yet I’m welcoming that very thing for you and still you reproach me.”
“Constance—” he said quietly, his eyes hooded, but she did not care to hear his opinion on this matter. She’d heard quite enough of his opinions.
“You have always believed I am an overindulged, frivolous creature who could never fathom pain or sadness. You persist in believing this even as I give up everything I care about to save your reputation.”
She was so upset her voice shook, and she hated it.
“Malign me all you like but don’t forget our success has not come about by accident, Julian. I spend my nights plotting your social engagements and writing letters to hacks eliciting support for your bill. I have planned your political dinners, your engagement ball, your bloody wedding. I’m exhausted, because I can’t sleep for dreaming about you and—”
He put two hands on her shoulders. “Constance.”
“Do not touch me,” she rasped. She wrenched around his body to the heavy doors and stepped out into the storm. Her coachman, seeing her, leapt out into the hailstorm to retrieve her.
“Wait,” Julian called raggedly, following her onto the street.
But she had had enough of repeating the same story over and over, expecting a different ending.
Their story would end like this. Without a backward glance.
Chapter 12
I want you to touch me.
The hands that were always just out of reach of the place she so fervently wanted them to go swept over her. Soft and masculine and knowing, brushing down over her stomach to her hip bone, teasing her skin. She lifted herself toward him, into the heat that was never as close as she wanted it.
I want you to touch me.
Softly, softly, his hands slid lower. Yes. Please. There.
Thump.
Someone at the door. The hands retreated. No, don’t go, let them knock. Come back.
Constance opened her eyes, as usual, to darkness and the feeling of wanting.
The Earl I Ruined Page 15
