He’d not renewed his suit to marry her. He’d not repeated his claim he was in love with her. He’d not acknowledged the moments they’d spent together in her bedchamber.
No one observing them would perceive that anything had changed.
And yet, somehow, everything was different.
He was different.
His mouth, which had always been so resolutely stern, rested in a smile when he was with her. He laughed more easily and stood more languidly and talked more freely. He found reasons to touch her—adjusting her cloak around her shoulders, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. He began to call her my love.
In private.
Without a touch of irony.
But the true difference was in his eyes. There was a softness to them, as though a veil had been lifted and he was letting her see him for the first time. And when she looked into them, some emotion blazed back at her that looked immoderate and unsettling and naked.
It looked like adoration.
It was the way she’d always wanted to be looked upon by someone, and yet when she saw it in his eyes, it made her so nervous that she had to look away.
And so each day she retreated, not sure what to think or how to feel.
Her mood did not lend itself to entertaining. She did not wish to perform; she wished to go into her bedchamber and lock the door and be alone and think. She wished to write in her journal for hours and hours, for days and days, until her hands cramped and she was up to her elbows in spilled ink and she knew, somehow, what to do.
But hours and days were not a commodity she had to spare. Every waking moment between now and the morning she would climb out her window and depart for the coast was consumed by the production of The Courtship of the Century, the theatrical masterpiece in which she served as star and playwright.
And tonight was the most climactic scene: she must so impress the Spences with her homespun, pious manners and infectious matrimonial joy that they agreed to support her fake fiancé’s bill once and for all.
I’d rather be stabbed in the eye.
Stop it. Blindness would stand in the way of your writing and you would look very odd with an eye patch.
She smoothed a woven cloth she’d personally secured from the servants’ kitchen at Westmead House over the old oak table in Julian’s dining room, for she’d learned Lord Spence enjoyed a humble home. She’d spent weeks subtly seeking clues on how best to win him over and staged the night accordingly. The family Bible was prominently displayed on the mantelpiece, for Lord Spence was pious. The house smelled deliciously of roasted beef, nutty bread, and stewed apples, for Lord Spence had a weak stomach and preferred plain foods. The table was laid without wine, for the Spences eschewed spirits. Tulips were arranged in glass vases, for Lord Spence invested in the tulip trade.
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.”