He had watched her laugh more 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?”