When Lord Spence arrived, he visibly relaxed. As did his wife, who commented on Constance’s seeming knack for cultivating a domestic atmosphere.
The only person in the room who did not seem charmed by the small meal was herself. She hoped her grim demeanor might be mistaken for an air of spiritual devotion.
“Countess, I am so pleased you were able to visit,” Lady Spence said to Apthorp’s mother. “I can already see the effect you are having on my goddaughter. She is quite mollified.”
Constance did her best imitation of a demure smile. “I’m delighted that you think so.”
Apthorp paused and glanced up at her across the table, as if wondering if this was true.
“You know, it seems to me she is unusually doleful,” he said in a low voice that she could tell was pitched mostly to her ears.
He said it lightly, but the comment held a question. Something like, Are you quite all right?
She was fine. Was this subdued manner not what he—and everyone else—had always wanted from her?
She darted her eyes away from him and smiled apologetically at Lady Spence. “Lord Apthorp jests. He was just commenting last night that I have benefited immeasurably from your steady guidance.”
“No, he’s right. You are far less lively. I scarcely recognize you,” her brother said, glancing at her with an unusual amount of concern. “Are you ill?”
The troubled look in Archer’s eyes made her want to pull him into the hallway and confess all her secrets and wait for him to sort it out until there could be some happy ending.
But telling him any part of it would mean confessing the whole sordid mess of lies, which was impossible, as he was the primary person the lies were constructed to protect.
She was in a prison she had designed and built herself.
Alone.
As she always had been.
And soon would be forevermore.
Do. Not. Cry. Into. The. Roast. Beef.
“I am quite well. The excitement of planning for the ball has only left me tired. From joy.”
Lady Spence smiled. “Of course, dear. Besides, our aim is to make Lady Constance less lively, Westmead, and more godly. As I’m sure Lord Apthorp agrees.”
“Actually, I adore it when Lady Constance is lively,” Julian said, once again looking at her with that tenderness he’d displayed all week. “I’ve always thought it’s what makes her so remarkable,” he added softly.
Lady Margaret put her hands to her lips, to hide a smile.
Even Constance’s frigid-hearted brother shook his head, looking faintly moved. Moved on her behalf. Because he thought that Apthorp was telling the truth.
Because she had created a monster.
He was so touching and solicitous it made her distraught. He was so good at behaving like he loved her, she was beginning to believe that it was true. That all the cynical things he’d said to her that night in her bedchamber had been real.
And if they were, why was she in the process of dismantling her life to escape him?
Did she really want to leave? Or did she want him? And if she did, would he not just do what he had always done: remember all the reasons he found her lacking and dismiss her as soon as she betrayed the slightest interest?
Was she to believe a week of loving looks and gentle touches over a near decade of being rejected, ignored, and chastised as unfit?
She resumed the task of sawing at her beef, but her hand trembled, and she had to put her knife aside.
“Are you quite all right, my love?” Julian asked, no longer hiding his concern.
She smiled at him brightly. “Yes, of course, darling.”
“Lady Margaret, how are you enjoying your sojourn in London?” Cornish Lane Day asked brightly, no doubt in an effort to reorient the conversation around some subject more charming to the Spences than Constance’s emotional unraveling.
Constance had noticed him sneaking glances at Margaret all night.
Margaret blushed prettily. “’Tis far more excitement than I am accustomed to. I can scarcely sleep at night for the noise, though my bedchamber overlooks the gardens.”
Lady Margaret blushed deeper, no doubt shocked at herself for having inadvertently mentioned her bedchamber in front of a gentleman.
Constance dug her nails into her palm beneath the table. She did not want to think about bedchambers. She could scarcely eat or sleep from her constant, never-ending, godforsaken thoughts about bedchambers.
Mr. Lane Day smiled at Lady Margaret, clearly charmed by her. “I am the same, for all my years here. I find that the longer I’m in town, the more the quiet of the country beckons.”
“But your work here must sustain you,” Margaret said. “I love to read about politics in the paper. I saw with keen interest your essay concerning Lord Hardwicke’s marriage bill last year. The parallel you drew between unsuitable gentlemen and the advantages of wolves in the forest was very apt—I smiled when I read it.”
Lord and Lady Spence nodded. “Yes, a very virtuous bill, that,” Lord Spence said. “Marriage should be performed in a church.”
Constance plunged her nails deeper into her hand. No recent piece of legislation made her angrier than Lord Hardwicke’s bill, which had replaced the practice of marriage by vow with a system in which banns must be issued weeks in advance, parental permission secured for anyone beneath the age of majority, and the ceremony performed in a church. It was purported to protect women from men who would abuse them with false promises of marriage under the old codes. But in her opinion, its primary effect was to put barriers between women and what modest control they had over their own lives.
“Indeed,” Lady Spence sniffed. “We are not pagans.”
“But as a Christian woman, Lady Spence,” Constance found herself saying, despite the fact that it was not at all a good idea to speak, “have you no concern that the law makes the sacrament of marriage a transaction, based more in coin than in religious principle or love?”
Lord Spence raised a furry brow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, take the clause on marriage prior to the age of majority. By requiring a father’s permission, the law allows him to treat his offspring as chits to amplify his fortune, with no concern for what they might wish for their own futures.”
“No one chooses his fate,” Lord Spence said severely. “That is in the hands of the Lord.”
Apthorp caught Constance’s eye across the table and subtly shook his head, warning her not to pursue the debate. He cleared his throat. “The law is intended to protect women from bigamy and false promises, is it not? That can only strengthen our society.”
“Ladies don’t need gentlemen limiting their choices for their supposed protection,” Constance said, in a louder voice than she meant to. “They need the ability to protect themselves. They need information. They need rights.”
Everyone stared at her.
Lord Spence laughed. “Indeed. Rights!” He merrily sawed into his beef. “You’ve raised a proper hellion, Westmead.”
“Thank you,” her brother said, continuing to look at her as though trying to diagnose an ailment of the mind.
Lord Spence continued to chuckle. “Apthorp, you’ll have to take her firmly in line.”
Apthorp arranged his face into an exquisitely neutral expression. “I cherish Lady Constance in no small part for her independent mind. It is, in fact, the reason that I fell in love with her.”
She retreated to the farthest recesses of her uncomfortable wooden chair, not wanting anyone to observe that she was touched by the sentiment to the point of wanting to weep. Touched by the performance of the fake sentiment she herself had insisted he demonstrate at all times.
Unless it was true.
What if it was true?
She could feel everyone looking at her, wondering why she was so fractious.
She should be happy in this moment, with victory so close at hand.
She should be seizing it, spearing it on her fork, and s
avoring its sweetness.
But she didn’t want sweetness. She felt like if she ate a single pea, she would choke.
Because if she seized this success that sat before her at the table, so easily in reach, it was well and truly over. The family environment, the hum of purpose, the comforting patter of the ladies, her brother’s solicitude. Even the dreadful sewing.
And, of course, her kind and handsome and altogether lovely fake fiancé, Julian.
She had arranged it to work out exactly as it had. She had simply not expected it to hurt so much.
“My dear Lord Apthorp,” she said, finally finding the soothing tone that was required, “you are kind. But Lord Spence is right. I can be quick to temper. I am blessed that my future husband is possessed of so much patience.”
“Patience is about all he is possessed of by the sound of it,” Lord Spence cackled. “You’ll certainly need your waterway to afford the likes of this one for a wife. Westmead’s ruined her for anything but lavish rot.”
“You are a direct fellow, aren’t you?” her brother whistled, warning in his tone.
“Well, that’s why I’m here, is it not?” Spence intoned. His great, thunderous voice was giving her a headache. “The ladies may be fooled by your sudden interest in our congregation, Apthorp, but let’s be frank. I am here not because my wife has saved your soul but because you require my votes to save your bill.”
“Your support would indeed do much for the welfare of my tenants, who suffer from the high price of coal,” Apthorp said. “These canals will open up the entire region to fair trade.”
Lord Spence tapped his hands on the table. “My wife tells me you’re a decent man. Increasingly devout. That the trap in the papers is all slander. Is that right?”
“It is,” Julian said.
“Well, my secretary tells me a bloc is fomenting to oppose Henry Evesham’s appointment to lord lieutenant.”
Apthorp coughed on his elderflower cordial. “Pardon?”
“I’ve put a proposal before the Lords to convene a special committee to investigate vice, naming Henry Evesham as lord lieutenant, with broad powers to wrest this infernal city out of bedlam.”
Apthorp looked taken aback. “I’m afraid I’ve been preoccupied with the coming vote. I was not aware.”
“Nor was I,” her brother added, looking most displeased.
“It is very important to me that it passes, gentlemen. And, if you are indeed so reformed, Apthorp, I imagine you share this impulse.”
“No one is a greater supporter of Mr. Evesham’s aims than we are,” Constance said quickly, for Julian looked like he might be inclined to disagree.
“Yes,” he echoed, looking somewhat pained. “Of course you have my support.”
“If you can assure me of your votes, I will grant you mine in favor of building the canals.”
“I’m so very glad to hear it,” Julian said. “Thank you for your consideration, Lord Spence. I know we are all very grateful.”
Lord Spence stood, rubbing his prodigious belly. “Well, no need to dally over pudding. Eugenia, I’m feeling most dyspeptic. Apthorp, tell your man to call my carriage.”
As soon as the Spences departed, Constance leaned back in her chair. “I thought they would never leave.”
“They only stayed for two courses,” Lady Apthorp noted.
“Only? It seemed to last forever. I feel like I have aged into a wizened old crone since they arrived.”
“You’re ill-tempered as a crone, if not precisely wizened,” her brother observed. “Yet. Apthorp, where’s your Armagnac? My sister clearly needs a drink.”
Julian poured them all a round. “I believe a toast is in order,” he said. “To our canals. And our immortal souls.”
He winked at Constance.
Everyone cheered, except her.
Her brother raised a brow at her. “You are not pleased?”
“I am overjoyed,” she said. “But I am also exhausted. It must be my nerves. I was so worried I would say the wrong thing that, well, I nearly did. Would you escort me home, Archer?”
Julian stood and touched her arm. “I had hoped for a word before you left. I have something for you. Would you mind?”
His eyes locked onto hers. Implying what he wished to give her must be exchanged in private.
But tonight, if she was with him in private, she would break her own oath. She could not pretend to be in love when her heart hurt so much that looking at a dingy room full of homespun cloth and hymnbooks had her on the verge of tears.
She yawned. “Oh, I’m so very tired. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
He looked like he wanted to protest, but she could not stand to be in this room with him and her emotions a moment longer. She took her brother’s arm and all but dragged him to the hall.
Rosecroft pulled open the door of his town house at half past eleven with an expression of sheer disbelief.
“Apthorp, I consider myself a progressive man, but even I must draw the line at midnight callers. You can see her in the morning.”
Apthorp held up the wicker basket he’d brought. “I’m sorry. It can’t wait. Is she awake?”
“I doubt it.”
He didn’t. He knew from the pallor of her face she had not been sleeping.
He would have preferred to simply sneak back to her window, dispensing with his cousin entirely, but she would have trouble explaining how his gift had appeared in her room overnight.
“James, I’m in agony. I have to see her tonight. Please.”
His cousin sighed. “Another lovers’ quarrel?”
“No. But she was upset tonight, and I don’t know why, and I have something for her, and I can’t stand imagining her—”
His cousin lifted up his hands and stepped back, making room for him to come inside. “Very well, very well. Come in, you poor sop. Wait in the parlor. Westmead’s here, having a drink. I’ll see if she’s awake.”
He disappeared up the stairs, chuckling.
The duke was sipping a brandy by the fire. He raised a brow at the sight of Apthorp. “Well, don’t you look aflutter,” he said in an amused tone. “What has my sister done to you?”
“Nothing, Your Grace. I have a gift for her that won’t keep overnight, and she rushed away before I had a chance to give it to her.”
“What an inspired excuse to come calling in the dead of night,” he drawled. “But don’t mind me. I know young love can be a trial.”
“It’s no trial to be in love with your sister, Your Grace. Not at all.”
Being in love with Constance Stonewell, and not pretending that he wasn’t, was like breathing fresh air after a decade in a cave under the ocean. It was like feeling the heat of fire on your skin after a long, cold march through the snow without a coat.
He did not have to feign enjoyment of her wit, nor appreciation of that delicate way she bit her lip when she was thinking. He did not need to pretend that his eyes drifted toward her whenever she was near him, nor affect an appearance of longing for her company when she was not. He was left with the task of doing what many men never had the chance to do in all their lives: carry out a lovely springtime romance with the woman of his dreams.
Watching her conduct the symphony of their final days was like watching Bernini sketch the pietà, or listening to Vivaldi play by ear. It was all he could do not to simply gaze at her with lovesick admiration.
And yet, as the days passed by, each time they made a dashing show of courtship at a ball, or affected a tender air as they listened to a musicale, or glanced fondly at each other from across the supper table while securing their latest vote, he grew more ill at ease.
For when they were alone, her eyes were empty.
She was just as pleasant. Just as solicitous. Just as charming.
But the girl who sparred as vigorously as she danced, who never hesitated to tease him or challenge him or tell him exactly what she thought, had disappeared.
It seemed that what she meant by prete
nding to be in love was to retreat behind a cloak of sweetness.
He’d never imagined he might be wistful for the days she’d called him Lord Bore. But tonight, when she’d seemed so dismally upset by their final victory, and so determined to run off immediately after it, he’d have given anything for her to tell him he was tedious.
Because somehow, he’d convinced the only girl he’d ever really wanted that the only future she could imagine with him was one in which she had to run away. And tonight it had felt like she was already gone. He wanted to weep at the loss.
Love is a system of behaviors, she’d declared to him.
And she was right. He’d proved to her for years and years that his sudden declaration of affection was not one to be trusted. He wouldn’t press her to change her mind. Not using words.
But he was determined to show her, with his actions, how much he cared for her before she left. Because if she knew that, perhaps she might feel as if she had a choice.
The door opened and she entered, trailed by Rosecroft.
“Make it quick,” his cousin said. “Some of us would like to sleep tonight.”
Constance glanced at him like she was afraid to look at him. “Lord Apthorp.”
“Constance, thank you for seeing me. I wanted to give this to you before you left, and I’m afraid it’s not the kind of gift that keeps well overnight.”
He pushed the basket toward her. A whine sounded from inside, like the soft cry of an infant baby.
Rosecroft raised a brow. “Constance, please tell your wayward intended that we are not a foundling house.”
Apthorp ignored him. “Look inside.”
Constance gingerly lifted the lid of the basket, and the head of the little spaniel emerged, all drooping ears and big brown eyes. The dog was tiny and adorable, and he happened to know that Constance had a soft spot for anything tiny and adorable. When he’d seen it on the street this afternoon, he’d simply had to get it for her.
The Earl I Ruined Page 18
