She fought back tears. “Then, Lord Apthorp, I must do the only proper thing one can when one has ruined a man, saved his reputation, destroyed his reputation once again, attempted to flee the country in a blinding rainstorm, causing him to pursue her at the risk of death by fever, and then nursed him back to health.”
“And what is that?” He smiled.
“I must offer you my hand in marriage.”
“I accept,” he said softly, pulling her closer to him. “Because I love you more than life itself. As I have very nearly proved.”
Through her tears, she laughed. “Yes, you foolish man, you nearly have indeed.”
She pressed her head against his chest. “Julian?” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
He closed his eyes and smiled. “Oh, Constance. Sweet girl. I already know.”
After she had watched him sleep until she was once again sure he wouldn’t die, she stepped into the hall.
“Constance Louise Eleanor de Galascon Befucking Stonewell.”
She looked up to a sight she had dreaded as long as her memory had functioned: her older brother glaring at her.
“Archer. What are you doing here?”
“I had a sudden yen for seaside air,” he said, his jaw clicking in that way it did when he was emotional and did not wish for anyone to notice.
She had hoped she would be spared his anger for a few more days. But then, her brother had always been a driven man. If anyone was going to chase her across the downs of England solely for the purpose of excoriating her, it would be him.
“I suppose you saw my confession,” she said.
He raised a brow. “Hard to miss it, Constance.”
“I’m sorry for lying to you. For breaking my word. I know you won’t forgive me for what I did. I don’t expect you to—that’s why I left.”
“I’m not here to offer forgiveness,” he said impatiently, in a tone that implied he was here to throttle her.
She sighed. “Well, you didn’t need to chase me here merely to dress me down. I’m sorry.”
He crossed his arms. “Is that why you think I’ve chased you? Why I paid investigators to figure out who you bribed and then tore across the country in a storm until my backside chafed? Because I want to dress you down?” He shook his head. “For an exceptionally intelligent woman, Constance, you can be painfully dense.”
She rolled her eyes and fought the urge to smile. Accusations of lackwittedness were as close as her brother came to words of endearment.
“If you are not angry, why are you here?”
He let out an exasperated snort and ran a hand through his hair. “To stop you from running away. To Europe. Over Apthorp.”
Something strange was happening in the vicinity of her heart. Was that … affection in her brother’s voice?
“Well, I didn’t so much want to run away as I knew I would have no choice once you found out what I had done.”
“And what is it that you did that was so terrible you had to run away?” he asked softly.
“The story in Evesham’s paper was not exactly the truth. I exposed your club. Using gossip. I ruined Julian with it. Even though I swore to you I wouldn’t write another word.”
“So I gathered,” he said. He took a crumpled piece of newsprint and held it out to her. “You haven’t seen this?”
confessions of a harlot earl
By Henry Evesham
She took the paper, scarcely believing it.
Following the sensational exclusive report printed in these pages from Lady Constance Stonewell, confessing to having framed her betrothed, the Earl of Apthorp, by inventing a story about his membership in an illicit whipping club in order to entrap him into marriage, SAINTS & SATYRS can report that the earl himself denies this story. Here is his confession, in his own words:
My name is Julian Haywood, the Earl of Apthorp. But you may know me better as Lord Arsethorp if you’re a fan of vulgar ditties.
This is my confession. Once upon a time, when I was a man of eighteen, I met a brilliant, beautiful, singular girl. You will know her as Lady Constance Stonewell.
She tried to get my attention, and foolishly, I hurt her. I spent the next eight years compounding that mistake, rather than telling her the truth: She had my attention from the moment I set eyes on her. She also had my heart.
Lady Constance made up her story to save me from the truth. She is a liar of the most selfless kind. The kind of liar I don’t deserve to call my own.
So for once, allow me to live up to her example and cause a scandal:
As a young man I made mistakes, and became in desperate need of coin. To improve my lot, I sold my body. And I’ll confess to something else: I enjoyed it.
I make no apology for my past. I am a sinner, but so is every Christian in the eyes of the Lord. If I have sinned, I have also strived to be a decent man. We all must follow our hearts’ morality; my conscience is between myself and God.
My only apology is to Lady Constance Stonewell: I’m sorry I ever made you think that you were anything but perfect. I’m sorry that I didn’t show you how much I love you. I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you with my secrets. And I’m sorry that I made you feel you had to leave.
I hereby confess that it was all my fault.
I confess to being reckless with my body and my family and my reputation.
And most of all: I confess to being hopelessly in love with Lady Constance Stonewell.
So in love that I want a chance to be forgiven, even if I don’t deserve it.
Signed,
The Earl of Apthorp
P.S.: You can call me Arsethorp all you like. I vastly prefer it to Lord Bore.
By the time she finished reading, the pages were sopping wet with her tears.
Her brother reached out and dabbed her face with his handkerchief.
“Dastardly stuff, small Constance,” he said softly.
He had not called her “small Constance” in a very, very long time.
Her weeping became sobbing. He pulled her into a tight hug.
“Shhhh. I suspect it’s all going to be all right. I suspect you two are just interesting enough to deserve one another.”
“You aren’t upset with me?” she sniffled.
He cracked what, for him, passed for a rather warm smile. “Actually, this is all quite heroic. I’d say you’ve done me proud.”
Proud.
Her brother had accused her of making him many things over the years—gray-haired, exhausted, poor—but never had he said she made him proud. Why this meant so much to her she could not say. Except perhaps it’s what she’d always wanted.
“You are?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “And, Constance … even if I were not … even if I were so furious my eyes were crossed and I blacked out from rage, when I came to, I still would not wish to see you flee the country. You are my sister, for Christ’s sake. My family. There is nothing you could ever do that I would not eventually forgive you for after quite a bit of grumbling. I love you far too much to have to cross the bloody Channel every time I need to yell at you.”
“Oh, Archer,” she sniffled. “I love you too.”
He smiled and patted her head. “Now, then. How is your poor Apthorp?”
“Almost dead,” she sobbed. “The physician said it’s influenza but I suspect I nearly killed him.”
“Well, dear girl,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do to bring him back to life.”
Chapter 21
The wedding was not publicized.
There were no sparkling jewels or elaborate gowns or political advantages to be won.
The only witness was the bride’s brother, who gave his blessing, signed the settlements, and promptly left the newlyweds to enjoy their honeymoon in the cottage he had rented for them on the coast.
There was not a whiff of scandal; by tacit mutual agreement, the bride and groom were saving the scandal for their weddi
ng night.
But by three o’clock, Apthorp had grown tired of waiting.
“What do you say we retire to the bedchamber?” he asked his wife.
Constance smiled at him with the tender solicitude she had displayed throughout his illness, during which she’d proved herself a surprisingly attentive nursemaid. “Why, it’s rather early, my love. But then, today has been quite taxing, and you’re still recovering. Of course you must rest.”
She turned around and began tidying their tea things on the table.
He came behind her and stopped her busy hands.
“I wasn’t suggesting I was tired, my bride. I was suggesting I was amorous.”
In his arms, she stilled.
And then she shivered.
Oh, it melted him, that shiver.
“About that,” she said softly. “I have a … question.”
She dragged the words out shyly, as though she was about to ask something perilous.
He placed his hands over her shoulders and pressed her close to him, to reassure her with his body that she could ask whatever she liked. “Mmmm? Then I am at your service.”
“Given we have already made love … ,” she drew out, toying with his fingers nervously.
“Made wild, passionate love all night long,” he corrected her with a smile, taking her small hands into his larger ones.
She chuckled. “Very well. Given we have already made wild, passionate love, I wondered if you would prefer to indulge in your … perversities.”
Oh dear.
They had done quite a bit of talking during the many quiet hours of his convalescence. They’d gone over those years he’d dreamt of marrying her while acting like she wasn’t fit for company, and she’d pretended she disliked him while craving his attention. They had apologized and pronounced themselves absurd. They’d mused on his political ambitions and her secret vision of buying a theater and writing for the stage. They’d talked about their childhoods, their families, their fears, their hopes, their favorite strategies at whist, and the foods they couldn’t stand. They’d debated what they’d call their future children, and she’d told him that she’d never felt truly right or good or wanted, and he’d told her how he’d never felt worthy of his title or capable of much, and they’d held each other, both shocked that the other could be so wrong about themselves.
But somehow, in all of these confessions, the conversation had not once turned to sex. He hoped it was because it was an area where they already knew the strength of their connection. But now he worried they had not discussed it because she dreaded learning more about his past or his taste for the unorthodox. Or perhaps he had avoided it out of fear he would alarm her or make her feel pressured to share his predilections.
Like now.
“Constance,” he said gently, “I think I once requested that you not call what I like perverse—”
“Until I tried it,” she cut in. “Yes. Well, you see. That’s just what’s causing me distress.”
“If you’re worried about my past, there’s no need. I’m hopelessly attracted to you. I would never ask you for anything beyond what you might like.”
She swiveled her head around and met his eye. “Thank you. But I wasn’t at all worried that you would. It’s not that sort of distress, Julian. It’s … distress.”
He stared at her. And then he squeezed her tighter and laughed into her hair as the alarmed pounding of his heart faded into a new, more urgent pulse originating from the region of his groin.
“Oh. I see.”
She nestled back against him, sighing.
“How intriguing, my bride,” he whispered in her ear. “Tell me, how long has this distress been troubling you?”
“It has been something of a preoccupation since that day I discovered your chest of toys. Leaving aside, of course, moments when I hated you and moments when I thought you might be on the cusp of death. And the occasion when we made passionate love late into the night.”
“Mmm,” he murmured sympathetically. “You must be quite distressed indeed. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Well, I didn’t want to trouble you while you were ill. But now that you seem
revivified …”
“Oh, I am thoroughly revivified. And most curious about what you’ve been imagining.”
He could sense that she was blushing, based purely on the rising temperature of her skin beneath his hands. “Tell me. Please. The suspense is causing me burgeoning distress of my own.”
She turned around and kissed him, still shy, but with a twinkle in her eye. “I don’t exactly know. But I suspect a person like Master Damian might have ideas.”
“I suspect he would.”
“How might he go about it?”
“First, he would recommend you tell him what you’ve been imagining, and he would ask you what you might like and what you might not. And then he would do everything in his power to make your fantasy come true.”
She bit her lip, and then broke into a sheepish smile. “Well, you see, back in the days when I would provoke you and spy on you and generally make a nuisance of myself, I sometimes imagined what would happen if you caught me. In fact, I rather hoped that you would catch me. I found the idea of it exciting.”
He smiled. “What a naughty girl.”
She nodded. “Exactly. Very wicked of me.”
“And what would have happened, do you think, if I had caught you?”
“Well, Julian, knowing how very proper you are, I think you would have been very cross with me.”
“Very.” He nodded. “Unless, of course, I had been hiding similarly wicked thoughts of my own.”
She tapped her chin. “In which case you might have forgiven me if I asked sweetly and tried very, very hard to make it up to you.”
“Perhaps. If you were extremely well behaved and did everything I asked.” He endeavored to say this in a tone that thoroughly conveyed his wish that she not ask for anything that could be construed as “good behavior.”
She caught his playful smile and returned it. “Oh, I know you wouldn’t make it easy.” She stared up into his eyes, quite direct. “In fact, you would probably torment me a little, wouldn’t you? You do enjoy that kind of thing, I’m told.”
“Oh, do I?” he drawled. “And what do you imagine such torment entails?”
She smiled up at him and whispered all sorts of delightful theories in his ear.
Her husband kept her waiting.
Which was fair, since she’d requested torment, but he tarried so long she began to wonder if he’d changed his mind about their little game. Just when she was about to stop pretending to read the diary he’d left on the desk in the parlor of their rooms, he threw open the door, startling her.
He looked furious.
She grinned. Master Damian, it seemed, was committed to his craft.
He was dressed in breeches and a loose white shirt, as though he’d been out riding and caught her unawares. She remembered her part, and dropped the pages in exaggerated alarm, sending them drifting to the floor.
“What are you doing in my rooms, Lady Constance?”
He’d shaved and run water through his hair, and his face and voice were different. He was just as beautiful, but his posture was more arrogant, his tone more withering.
If he spoke to her that way in real life, she would slap him. Instead she made a show of smirking, rather pleased to be caught. “Nothing at all, my lord. I was … searching for a quill. Forgive me, I’m just leaving.”
He strode across the room and caught her hand. Which was, as usual, covered in stray spots of ink.
“I don’t believe you, Lady Constance. For if there is one thing you possess in abundance, it is quills.” He picked up a page from the floor, and slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. “Were you reading my private journal?”
The challenge in his tone sent a thrill of danger down her spine. The thrill of doing what one shouldn’t, and not caring. When he looked at her like that
as she stood guiltily beneath his gaze, it made her hot.
“I’m sorry,” she said, meeting his stare slyly. “I was just trying to learn where you might be this afternoon. Where I might find you alone.”
“And why would you wish to do that, when you know it is far from appropriate for young ladies to be alone with older men?” he drawled, running his eyes up and down her body in a crude manner he would no doubt slap any other man for trying.
“I wished to be alone with you,” she said, reaching out and boldly running her thumb over his perfect, sneering lip. “Because, you see, I seem to recall you owing me a kiss.”
Even though the beats of the scene were rehearsed, making the confession still sent a hot pang of desire through her. She peeked up at him, feeling her face turn the color of an August sunset for her boldness.
He cocked up a brow. “Ah. She wants a kiss. I see.” He pretended to consider this. “Did it occur to you that spying is not the way one goes about obtaining favors, Lady Constance?”
She looked down at his lips. “Yes. And since I’ve been so naughty, I suppose you’ll want me to earn your forgiveness first.”
He took her fingers and brought them to his breeches, pressing her hand to his erection, which strained in welcome evidence that this game was having the same effect on him as it was on her.
“I warn you,” he said, rubbing her hand up and down his shaft, “what I ask for will be absolutely wicked.”
Julian had done this many times for lovers he had scarcely known, and a few times with people he’d been vaguely fond of. But he had never done it for anyone for whom he felt such capacious tenderness. In fact, he’d never felt so leveled by emotion at all.
He hoped he was not making a mistake.
Their love affair—not the dramatic passion that had erupted during their faux courtship, but the quieter affection that had blossomed these past weeks in between naps in his stuffy room at the inn and during long walks along the coast with Shrimpy—was still so new. It felt tender and sweet and fragile. He worried that to mix it with his wilder proclivities might extinguish it, or make it tawdry.
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