Her brother raised a brow at her. “You are not pleased?”
“I am overjoyed,” she said. “But I am also exhausted. It must be my nerves. I was so worried I would say the wrong thing that, well, I nearly did. Would you escort me home, Archer?”
Julian stood and touched her arm. “I had hoped for a word before you left. I have something for you. Would you mind?”
His eyes locked onto hers. Implying what he wished to give her must be exchanged in private.
But tonight, if she was with him in private, she would break her own oath. She could not pretend to be in love when her heart hurt so much that looking at a dingy room full of homespun cloth and hymnbooks had her on the verge of tears.
She yawned. “Oh, I’m so very tired. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
He looked like he wanted to protest, but she could not stand to be in this room with him and her emotions a moment longer. She took her brother’s arm and all but dragged him to the hall.
Rosecroft pulled open the door of his town house at half past eleven with an expression of sheer disbelief.
“Apthorp, I consider myself a progressive man, but even I must draw the line at midnight callers. You can see her in the morning.”
Apthorp held up the wicker basket he’d brought. “I’m sorry. It can’t wait. Is she awake?”
“I doubt it.”
He didn’t. He knew from the pallor of her face she had not been sleeping.
He would have preferred to simply sneak back to her window, dispensing with his cousin entirely, but she would have trouble explaining how his gift had appeared in her room overnight.
“James, I’m in agony. I have to see her tonight. Please.”
His cousin sighed. “Another lovers’ quarrel?”
“No. But she was upset tonight, and I don’t know why, and I have something for her, and I can’t stand imagining her—”
His cousin lifted up his hands and stepped back, making room for him to come inside. “Very well, very well. Come in, you poor sop. Wait in the parlor. Westmead’s here, having a drink. I’ll see if she’s awake.”
He disappeared up the stairs, chuckling.
The duke was sipping a brandy by the fire. He raised a brow at the sight of Apthorp. “Well, don’t you look aflutter,” he said in an amused tone. “What has my sister done to you?”
“Nothing, Your Grace. I have a gift for her that won’t keep overnight, and she rushed away before I had a chance to give it to her.”
“What an inspired excuse to come calling in the dead of night,” he drawled. “But don’t mind me. I know young love can be a trial.”
“It’s no trial to be in love with your sister, Your Grace. Not at all.”
Being in love with Constance Stonewell, and not pretending that he wasn’t, was like breathing fresh air after a decade in a cave under the ocean. It was like feeling the heat of fire on your skin after a long, cold march through the snow without a coat.
He did not have to feign enjoyment of her wit, nor appreciation of that delicate way she bit her lip when she was thinking. He did not need to pretend that his eyes drifted toward her whenever she was near him, nor affect an appearance of longing for her company when she was not. He was left with the task of doing what many men never had the chance to do in all their lives: carry out a lovely springtime romance with the woman of his dreams.
Watching her conduct the symphony of their final days was like watching Bernini sketch the pietà, or listening to Vivaldi play by ear. It was all he could do not to simply gaze at her with lovesick admiration.
And yet, as the days passed by, each time they made a dashing show of courtship at a ball, or affected a tender air as they listened to a musicale, or glanced fondly at each other from across the supper table while securing their latest vote, he grew more ill at ease.
For when they were alone, her eyes were empty.
She was just as pleasant. Just as solicitous. Just as charming.
But the girl who sparred as vigorously as she danced, who never hesitated to tease him or challenge him or tell him exactly what she thought, had disappeared.
It seemed that what she meant by pretending to be in love was to retreat behind a cloak of sweetness.
He’d never imagined he might be wistful for the days she’d called him Lord Bore. But tonight, when she’d seemed so dismally upset by their final victory, and so determined to run off immediately after it, he’d have given anything for her to tell him he was tedious.
Because somehow, he’d convinced the only girl he’d ever really wanted that the only future she could imagine with him was one in which she had to run away. And tonight it had felt like she was already gone. He wanted to weep at the loss.
Love is a system of behaviors, she’d declared to him.
And she was right. He’d proved to her for years and years that his sudden declaration of affection was not one to be trusted. He wouldn’t press her to change her mind. Not using words.
But he was determined to show her, with his actions, how much he cared for her before she left. Because if she knew that, perhaps she might feel as if she had a choice.
The door opened and she entered, trailed by Rosecroft.
“Make it quick,” his cousin said. “Some of us would like to sleep tonight.”
Constance glanced at him like she was afraid to look at him. “Lord Apthorp.”
“Constance, thank you for seeing me. I wanted to give this to you before you left, and I’m afraid it’s not the kind of gift that keeps well overnight.”
He pushed the basket toward her. A whine sounded from inside, like the soft cry of an infant baby.
Rosecroft raised a brow. “Constance, please tell your wayward intended that we are not a foundling house.”
Apthorp ignored him. “Look inside.”
Constance gingerly lifted the lid of the basket, and the head of the little spaniel emerged, all drooping ears and big brown eyes. The dog was tiny and adorable, and he happened to know that Constance had a soft spot for anything tiny and adorable. When he’d seen it on the street this afternoon, he’d simply had to get it for her.
She gasped and dropped to her knees. “Oh, a puppy!”
Laughing musically, she lifted it from the basket. “He’s so small!”
The puppy yelped, as if in protest of this assessment.
She grinned and tucked the furry creature up against her face. “Oh, is he for me?”
Apthorp cleared his throat. “If you like him. I thought you might.”
What he had actually thought was that he wanted her to have something that would not fail her the way he had. He wanted her to have something that adored her without condition.
“That beast shan’t be staying here,” Rosecroft drawled. “My children will persecute it mercilessly.”
“I will protect him,” Constance said as the puppy cuddled into her neck. “I will keep him in my bedchamber and then he will come to live with us at Apthorp Hall.”
Come to live with us at Apthorp Hall.
That sliced through him—reminded him that she was acting, even now. For she had no intention of ever living at Apthorp Hall.
The puppy licked her face. “Oh, what a forward little shrimp you are!” she murmured, burrowing her nose into its fur.