The Earl I Ruined

by Scarlett Peckham

  “Very well,” Margaret said, still looking ill at ease.

  Constance took a look at herself to make sure she seemed beautiful, confident, and utterly bored, and then swept into the smallest, most inelegant parlor in the house. Gillian, having been here many times, would know that reception in this room was a sign she was not wanted.

  She was waiting on a straight-back chair, dressed exquisitely in a violet gown that brought out her dark eyes and dainty figure.

  It was Constance who had encouraged Gillian to favor gowns that flattered these features. It was also Constance who had given her the dangling sapphire earbobs that drew attention to her cheekbones. It was also Constance who had encouraged her to wear her hair swept up over one eye, to emphasize her intriguing minxlike chin.

  Constance had done a remarkable job transforming Miss Bastian from the too-talkative daughter of a rich colonial from Philadelphia to the distinctive, fashionable young heiress who now sat before her. Glancing upon the striking success of her efforts, she rather regretted she was so very talented at performing miracles.

  “I’m most surprised to see you here,” Constance said, ignoring pleasantries and sitting down on an upholstered sofa.

  “I’m most surprised I was not invited to your ball tomorrow,” Gillian said, matching her tone.

  “Are you? Given our last meeting, I gathered you no longer wished to be acquainted.”

  Gillian rolled her pretty eyes. “Well, what do you expect? Saddling yourself with such a pathetic man?”

  Pathetic. That word made her seethe. Not least because she had known that’s exactly what Gillian would think of anyone who possessed unorthodox tastes. In trying to protect her friend from an unwelcome marital surprise, she’d no doubt added fuel to unfair prejudices—encouraging the equation of a private pleasure with weakness, when the two things were not related. For the hundredth time, she wished she could unwrite it.

  “If you believe Lord Apthorp to be pathetic, then I am most confused as to why you would wish to attend our engagement ball.”

  Gillian quirked up the corner of her mouth. “Oh, you aren’t confused. We both know exactly why I’m here. I’ll admit it, Constance: I miscalculated. I should have known you would manage to turn his scandal into some romantic public spectacle. It’s never wise to doubt your skill at that, is it?”

  Gillian’s unpredictable flashes of candor—and canniness—had always been the reason Constance liked her. At times her interests seemed so vacuous that one wondered how she did not float away. And yet, just when one was tempted to dismiss her, she would make an observation that was so trenchant that one realized, with equal fear and admiration, that she took in a great deal more than she let on.

  This quality was amusing in one’s friend. It was much less appealing when it was deployed against oneself.

  “If we are being candid, tell me this,” Constance said. “Why did you pretend you wished to marry Lord Apthorp, and let me encourage his suit, if you were attached to Lord Harlan Stoke?”

  Gillian laughed in her tinkling, staccato way—a sound like cracking ice. Constance had once found her laugh infectious. Today it was only unsettling.

  “I never said I wished to marry Lord Apthorp. I merely refrained from objecting when you insisted we were fond of one another.”

  “But why? Surely you must know I had no desire to force a match where there was no attachment. Had you simply said he did not interest you, I would have let the matter drop. Why not disabuse me of my false notions, if I was so decidedly in error?”

  Gillian looked at her as if she were very, very silly. “There was obviously never any chance of him marrying me, even if I had wanted him. Not when he looks at you like he wants to …” She paused, and raised a brow in a rather suggestive manner. “Have his way with you. Or, if his reputation is correct, let you have your way with him.”

  Gillian snickered to herself.

  “But you pretended—”

  “Yes, because being honest with you has never paid. You are bold, but you are not plain dealing, Constance. I knew you’d frown on my attachment to Lord Harlan, and so rather than wait for you to meddle in my affairs and try to block the match with your silly circular—”

  “My what?”

  “Oh, don’t deny it. I’ve never been the fool I let you think I was. You so love to be right that it does not take much work at all to convince you that you are when it suits one’s purpose. Everyone agrees you are too vain to know when you’re ridiculous.”

  The flinty look in Gillian’s eyes made Constance feel naked. Was this how she was perceived? As some self-admiring fool so convinced of her own powers to contrive the world to her liking that she could no longer see the truth?

  In the years when she’d set out to reshape herself in the image of her choosing, she’d often imagined herself to be an ice sculpture. Carved ice looked so cold and brilliant to the naked eye—stunning and beautiful even if, upon closer inspection, its glow came from the fact that it was slowly melting. It dazzled not in spite of its perspiration but because of it. And so, Constance had imagined, did she.

  It was why she preferred the kind of friends one saw only at parties. If one did not spend enough time in the company of others, they could not see the deficits in character that lurked beneath one’s superficial charm. And that was comforting. Because it took great effort to win the room, to be the grandest presence, to make a spectacle. But if one perspired enough, all anyone ever saw was the flash of light against one’s carefully chiseled edges. Not the puddle beneath one’s gown.

  Gillian looked at her like her dress was not just damp but soaking wet. She hated being seen that way. Hated it.

  And Gillian could tell. She sat there drinking tea as though it were nectar from a flower she’d been crowned with following a long-awaited victory.

  “In any case,” Gillian said, barely managing to sip her tea around her smug expression, “now you have your love match, and your spectacle, and I have mine. So invite me to your ball and I shall receive you after my wedding, and we can forget this unpleasantness and go on being useful to each other.”

  “Love match? Does that mean you still intend to marry Lord Harlan, after what I told you in my letter?”

  Gillian narrowed her eyes. “Oh, don’t bother to malign him to me again, Constance. I know you despise him. You never like anyone you can’t feel you’re above. He told me how you pursued him like a harlot and he had to fend you off. You’re lucky he was discreet about it.”

  She wanted to invite Gillian to enjoy the fate that awaited her if that was what she believed about the story she’d told her in her letter. But on certain topics, the need for honesty outweighed the force of anger.

  “He is lying to you. It brings me no pleasure at all to say that everything I wrote to you is true. I once had to defend myself against his attentions by force. I have learned that he still keeps a mistress, despite his engagement to you. And I have reason to believe, though I have no direct proof, that he has at least one child out of wedlock, whom he has abandoned—”

  “Stop,” Gillian said acidly. “If you do not wish to make an enemy of me—of us—you will drop this and invite us to your ball and make it known that we are fashionable. And you will never spread these lies again.”

  Constance stood. “No, I won’t. I wish you the best of luck. But Lord Harlan Stoke is not welcome in this house. And if you want to save yourself a world of trouble, Gillian … before you marry him, ask him to tell you the truth.”

  Gillian rose and smiled calmly. “You will regret this.”

  Constance swept to the door, opened it, and waited for Gillian to exit, not lifting her eyes from the girl’s form until Alfred had shown her onto the street. And then she sank back against the doorframe and clutched herself.

  She noticed Margaret still stood across the corridor, watching her.

  “What is it, dear? Could you not find Valeria?”

  The girl looked as pale as Constance felt.


  “I knew him once,” Margaret said. “Lord Harlan, I mean. Is he … will he be in attendance tomorrow? Because I should not like to see him and if he is expected—”

  “No,” Constance said. “Not unless he desires a hatpin between the eyes.”

  Margaret looked as disturbed as she did relieved.

  “Sorry, darling,” she said, taking the girl’s hand. “I forget not everyone speaks so casually of murder. Let’s go be made beautiful and never speak his name again.”

  When Julian arrived with the Duke of Westmead to celebrate the good news, Alfred informed him that Lady Constance was in the parlor with his sister and her mantua-maker.

  “I’ll wait for her,” he said, sending the duke onward to share the news with the Rosecrofts, who were waiting on the terrace. “I’d like to tell Constance myself.”

  Now that he knew he could not change the ending of their tale, he wanted one final good-bye.

  The parlor door was half-ajar, and he could hear the soft sound of feminine chatter. He sat on a bench, waiting for the ladies to conclude their business.

  “I noticed Mr. Lane Day took an interest in you,” Constance said. He could hear a conspiratorial smile in her voice. “I will be sure to see that he asks you to dance at the ball.”

  “Oh, I hope not.” Margaret sounded panicked at the thought.

  “But darling, why? It’s such a pleasure to dance with a gentleman who admires you, and with you in this he will be helpless not to fall in love. Doesn’t she look stunning, Valeria?”

  “She does,” a lightly accented voice concurred.

  “It’s been quite a long time since I danced with a gentleman,” his sister said. “I’m not sure I remember how.”

  Apthorp winced. That was his fault. He could have insisted she have another season after her illness, but he had not liked the idea of her plunged into the heat and dangers of a London ballroom after everything she’d endured. To this day he could not look upon her face without remembering how vulnerable she was. But perhaps Constance was right. Perhaps encouraging her to remain in the country had not been in her best interest.

  “Don’t be silly!” Constance cried. “You have perfect manners, a poetic form, and a touching nature. And you’ve certainly caught Mr. Lane Day’s eye.”

  Margaret lowered her voice. “Do you really think so? Since my illness I have felt rather … drab.”

  He winced again. His sister was not drab. She was very pretty, but beyond that, she had an inner kindness that gave her light even when she’d been at her lowest.

  “But you are a perfect dove! In spirit as well as looks,” Constance said, echoing his feelings exactly. “Besides, the flash of beauty is highly overprized. Give me a piece of coal, sixpence, and an hour, and I can make a beauty out of anyone.”

  Margaret laughed. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Beauty is a question of directing the eye to the features one wants noticed, and ensuring those features look their best. Anyone who has had the misfortune to see me in the morning can attest to this.”

  That was certainly not true. He had spent the past week trying not to spend every spare moment remembering how she’d looked on a very recent morning. He may have remembered at length, on several occasions.

  “Please,” his sister said. “You are one of the most celebrated beauties in all of London.”

  Constance snorted. “Only because I’ve trained London to celebrate illusions. If you squint, you can see that my chin is misshapen, my eyebrows are invisible, and my figure is far too puny to be fashionable. Tell her, Valeria.”

  He heard the woman click her tongue. “Far too little bosom.”

  Also not true. He had seen enough bosoms—large and small, in various stages of bloom—to know that Constance’s was perfect. He could spend a great deal of time becoming acquainted with such a bosom.

  “It’s true,” Constance sighed, in a tone that had a hardness to it he didn’t like to hear. “It’s all true. And knowing it is valuable, because if one knows one’s flaws, one can correct them, or exaggerate them, to make oneself in one’s best image. Add a carefully cut gown, a dash of charm, and before you know it, everyone sees exactly what you want them to. They’d be shocked at the meager substance underneath.”

  His sister, who rarely contradicted anyone, gasped in displeasure. “There is nothing meager about you.”

  There was a pause, and he heard footsteps. “Margaret,” Constance said in a low, firm voice, “let me give you some advice. Few people even like me. I make them think they do by discerning what they want and figuring out a way to help them get it. Or failing that, I distract them with jokes and favors and parties until they’ve quite forgotten what they really think. And so can you, if you so wish. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t be whatever kind of person that you wish to be. Now, then, the family is waiting—”

  The door opened and the three ladies paused, taken aback to see him standing there.

  “You don’t believe that,” he said to Constance, not even bothering to pretend that he hadn’t been eavesdropping.

  “Believe what?” Constance asked.

  “That you must trick people into admiring you.”

  The other ladies looked away from him, as though embarrassed by the amount of heat in his tone.

  Constance blushed. “Well. If one wants the trick to work, one should refrain from mentioning one’s tactics in front of one’s admirers.” She winked at Margaret.

  “Constance, you are lovely,” he said. “Truly lovely. We all see it. No trickery required.”

  “Did I not tell you he is quite attached?” she asked her dressmaker in an arch tone, as though he could not hear her.

  The woman smirked. “Indeed. The gowns must be working.”

  Constance gave a throaty laugh. “Or the bosom.”

  He hated the brittleness in her manner. It reflected a belief she was correct in how she saw herself.

  She wasn’t.

  And after tonight he might not ever have another chance to make her see how wrong she was.

  “Constance, may I have a word with you? Alone?”

  She looked at her dressmaker. “Valeria, did you not say you had something you wanted to discuss? I don’t wish to keep you waiting.”

  The dressmaker trained her eyes on Apthorp, as though the sight of him puzzled her. “Nothing worth keeping you,” she said. “I will leave a note with your maid. Good day.”

  As soon as the others left, Julian came and put his hand on top of hers, running a finger over a blotch of ink near her thumb.

  His eyes were intense. She could not read his face.

  “You are wrong, you know. About how people see you. I’ve spent nearly every day in your presence for a month, so I consider myself an expert on this subject.”

  “Oh, more of this,” she sighed. If she’d known he’d wished only to continue this discussion, she would have found reason to withdraw with Valeria and Margaret. “And how do they see me?” she asked, thinking of Gillian. Not really wanting to know.

  “I’m sorry to report that they adore you. They delight in being near you.” He nodded grimly. “And having observed you very closely I can confirm that their judgment is correct. People like you very much. I like you very much.”

  He squeezed her hand, then pressed it to his lips. “I think you are the very best kind of woman, Constance. The very best kind of person.”

  Her nerves flared. She half wanted him to mean more than he was saying, and was half-terrified of how she might feel if he did.

  “You’ve been spoiled,” she said lightly, not sure what to do other than to ignore the intensity of his tone. “I’ve been on my best behavior for a month. It isn’t real.”

  “No. I’ve seen what’s underneath.”

  Suddenly all she could think about was the fact that he had literally seen what was underneath. He had seen her without a stitch of clothing, so lost to her attraction to him she had made love to an apple while he watched. After whi
ch he had declared her unbearable and left, giving her a piece of phallic rock to remember him by.

  This behavior should not make her emotional. She was being deranged.

  “You have seen what’s underneath indeed,” she said, striving to keep her tone light. “And I daresay you didn’t like it.”

  He shook his head. “I think you know I’m not talking about what’s underneath your gown,” he said in a low voice. “I’m talking about your heart. I never noticed until this month how generous you are. How you go out of your way to bring others joy, or spare them suffering, even if it hurts you. It’s a noble quality. A rare one.”

  She did not know what to say, so she turned away and began collecting the pins Valeria had left on the escritoire.

  “But,” he added in a low voice, coming up behind her, “in point of fact, I did like what I saw underneath your dress. Just to correct the record.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You did not,” she whispered.

  His lip curled up ever so slightly. “Oh, I did. I liked it immensely. I may have remembered how much I liked it and had to relieve myself of distress just this morning.”

  Did he mean … ? Oh, the thought of that made her quite distressed indeed.

  He ran a hand down a strand of hair that had come unpinned during her fitting, inspecting it in the light of the golden summer sunset streaming through the window.

  She watched him in the looking glass above the escritoire, feeling, as usual, breathless at his nearness.

  “I wish you could see yourself as I see you,” he said, meeting her eye in her reflection.

  She inhaled, trying to not reveal how unstrung this exchange was making her. “And how is it that?”

  His hands slid down her shoulders, the sides of her arms, the swell of her breasts.

  He rested his chin on her shoulder, staring at the two of them. She did not dare breathe.