Constance glanced up at Apthorp, and for first time he saw uncertainty in her eyes. He couldn’t blame her. That speech made him want to weep with sentiment, and he was the villain of it.
There was only one thing he could possibly offer in response: the truth.
He stepped forward and met Westmead’s eyes. “Your Grace, I have loved your sister since I was eighteen years old. I regret I hid my feelings behind a stiff exterior, but it was only because I did not want to prevail on her to consider my suit until I felt confident I could be the kind of husband who deserves her. It is the tragedy of my life that I will never be that man. And the miracle of it is that your sister would have me anyway.” To his astonishment, his voice cracked.
Both Constance and Westmead stared at him, as shocked as he was by his display of emotion. He turned to the wall and collected himself.
Constance came and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Oh, my darling. There, there.”
She turned to Westmead. “Don’t you see, Archer? He acts aloof, but only to protect his tender heart. Is it not human to hide our vulnerabilities?”
Apthorp took a minute with the wall. In truth, saying these words to manipulate the duke only made him feel worse. For once, mere days ago, he would have meant them virtuously. Using them in the service of this gambit was a travesty for which he would not soon forgive himself.
Nor soon would he forgive himself for making Constance feel he had rebuked her for the very qualities that made her exceptional. He could see that beneath her laughing dismissal of his criticisms was real hurt. How had he never noticed it before?
Westmead had begun to pace. “If all of this is true—and I am not saying I believe you—then why am I reading about it in a bloody gazette?”
“Apthorp wanted to ask for your blessing, but I forbade him,” Constance said. “It’s my decision whom I marry. I shouldn’t need your permission.”
“Nor should I need yours to call him out.”
“Call him out?” she said coldly, the girlish effusion suddenly so absent from her voice it was chilling. “What purpose would that serve?”
“Justice.”
“No. Think clearly. It would merely amplify the scandal. And you are far too shrewd to do that. What I suspect you will do is welcome my intended husband into our family and make a great show of seeing that anyone who attempts to cut him understands they do so at their peril. And then you will help him save his bill.”
“You overestimate my powers to protect him or you,” Westmead thundered back. “If you betroth yourself to him, your reputation will be damned and there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re going to be the talk of the whole nation. And for what?”
“I enjoy being the talk of the nation. Have you not noticed my concerted efforts to engender just that effect for years? And besides, no one is more adept at shaping reputations than myself. I have a plan. And if you hold me in as high regard as you say you do, you will grant me the capacity of knowing my own will and letting me see it through.”
Westmead rubbed his temples, looking from his sister to Apthorp and back again. “I see that you’re both determined. What I don’t yet see is why.”
“Because I love him,” Constance said, in a tone so simple and believable that he once again wanted to weep. “I love him, Archer. I know it might be hard for you to accept that, given I have always made a point of hiding it before. I know you only want to protect me. But you don’t need to. Apthorp will.”
Damn him if his traitor’s heart did not swell at these words. Damn him if he did not resolve to somehow make them true.
“Westmead, give us the evening to convince you,” he said quietly. “If you still doubt my sincerity, we’ll call the whole thing off. You have my word.”
Westmead shut his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “Convince me. Otherwise it’s dawn with dueling pistols.”
Constance leapt up and threw her arms around her brother, her steely demeanor suddenly so featherlight Apthorp wondered if he’d dreamt it. “Thank you, Archer. I knew you were a romantic at heart. Now come, both of you. It’s time for supper and everyone is waiting.”
As soon as her brother turned and stalked down the hall to the dining room, Constance latched on to Apthorp’s arm to shore him up. He had the look about him of a man who had eaten day-old cockles and was about to pay the price.
“That was brilliant, your little speech,” she said. “So moving even I nearly believed you.”
He shifted away, but she clutched his arm more tightly. She was aware she was holding on to him in the manner of a child squeezing an uncooperative cat, but she did not feel any steadier than he looked, and it soothed her nerves to touch him. Now that she’d started, she couldn’t seem to stop.
He paused and turned to look at her. “You realize Westmead doesn’t believe us.”
“Not yet. But he will.”
She said it more to reassure herself than to convince Apthorp. And what she meant was that he must. Because she’d heard every word her brother had said from her hidden spot beneath the stairs, and when he’d revealed he was an investor in the whipping club, she’d felt like she might plummet through the earth. She would prefer to plummet through the earth than to see his face if he found out what she’d done.
For what Apthorp had said about the club serving as a haven for people who risked judgment had lingered with her bitterly for hours the night before, like the flavor of raw garlic on the breath. Neither she nor her brother had ever fit their birth-appointed places in society. For her part, she had made this a point of pride, adopting fellow outcasts and eccentrics and burnishing their odd qualities, as she did her own, with vast supplies of insouciance and money. Her brother had gone a different route, disguising his sensibilities beneath a cold exterior and keeping mostly to himself. She did not wish to think too deeply about how a secret whipping house might feature into his private comforts. But if such a place had given him respite from the desolation of their family’s past … well.
It was enough to know that Archer invested only in concerns that he believed in. If he championed the place, it must be something he cared about ferociously. And she couldn’t stand to see her brother hurt.
She could never let him know she’d been the architect of it.
Apthorp stopped walking and forced her to look at him. “Constance, you don’t have to do this for me. If we reverse course right now, it will not be too late to change your mind.”
She gave him her most serene smile. “I am not doing this for you. I am doing this because I made a mistake I am determined to repair. Just agree with everything I say at supper.”
He glared at her, looking boyish in his petulance and not the least bit in love with her. She tapped a finger to his scowling lips. “And pretend you like me.”
He removed her fingers from his mouth and placed them over his heart, smiling into her eyes like she was a precious object.
“Better, my love?”
She smirked at him, pleased that he could mount a show of false adoration at will, even if the sight of her seemed to repel him. They would need that skill.
“Quite. Now, then. During the meal I’m going to excuse myself to freshen up. When I do, I want you to wait five minutes, make an excuse, and follow me down the corridor toward the billiards room.”