“Go on.”
Her mouth went dry.
It had been one thing to write words of this nature. Reciting them aloud—in front of him, no less—was simply not a possibility. She did not handle embarrassment well. She would die of mortification, and her hopes of fixing this predicament were not high if her corpse was discovered in his parlor.
“I can’t.” She cleared her throat, which had begun to itch, and attempted to use his scruples against him. “It’s not appropriate. For a lady.”
He gave her a black, sardonic smile. Which she supposed she deserved, for he knew her well enough to know that she had never before much cared what was appropriate for ladies.
“If you can write it, Lady Constance, then I daresay you can read it.” His tone was as poisonous and liquid as toxin in a tin of treacle.
And he was right.
But that didn’t make it any easier. She drew a shaky breath.
“A Word of Warning about a Proper Lordling,” she began.
“Louder, please.”
She wanted to wring her hands. Instead, she squared her shoulders and cleared her throat and looked him directly in the eyes and bellowed “A WORD OF WARNING ABOUT A PROPER LORDLING” loud enough to be heard all the way in Southwark.
“By Princess Cosima Ballade,” she added primly. Kind of Mr. Evesham to give credit to her nom de guerre when stealing her work without permission.
Apthorp waved his wrist in the air, signaling for her to proceed.
“This week,” she began,
Princess Cosima must strike a chord
Of caution about a certain lord.
Marriage-minded ladies should be ’ware
That this man, who haunts the drawing rooms of St. James Square
—and indeed the halls of Parliament,
Where one notes with some lament
He is known to ramble on about the laws of decency
And the creek-heads of the Midland shires with equal frequency—
She winced. The verse was meaner than she remembered.
“Go on,” he ordered.
Is in search of a wife possessed of fortune
Of which he might exchange his title for a portion.
You will know him by his manner fair, and courtly air
And by the beauty of his golden hair.
“Too kind,” he muttered.
She looked up, and his face was akin to that of someone whose foot had been trampled by a milk cart. “If you’re not enjoying this, may I stop?”
He leaned back and recrossed his ankles. “And miss the end? Many say that’s the best part. Please, read on.”
“Very well.” She took a deep breath and recited the rest quickly, to get it over with:
Such a swain might seem a suitor most appealing
If one did not know the secrets he’s concealing.
A reputation for virtue, calm, and gravity
Belies an inclination for depravity.
Princess Cosima must, out of duty, here announce:
His lordship belongs to a SECRET WHIPPING HOUSE
Where he’s been espied by London’s knowing sages—
“Enjoying acts not fit for decent pages,” Apthorp cut in, slowly, and with the excellent elocution he was known for in the Lords.
She stopped, but he gestured for her to read on. As she did so, haltingly, he closed his eyes and recited with her from memory.
“A rogue in disguise as a paragon of virtue,” they said together,
Is the kind of rogue most liable to hurt you.
Or, better still, to be the source of rue
On that day he comes to you
And beseeches—oh, wicked farce—
That his wife deliver pain unto his arse.
Eyes still firmly shut, he gave a long, slow clap at her performance. “Inspired work. Though you might have tidied up the meter.”
She felt like her heart might burst from shame. She rushed forward and perched on the arm of the sofa on which he was rather imperiously reclined. “You must let me explain. You see—”
“I see,” he said, “that there is nothing further to discuss. Follow your own advice, Lady Constance. Stay away from me.”
He rose and stalked across the room to a decanter of brandy.
Her pulse beat wildly. She had not anticipated he might be so unmanageable. She had to fix this now before it spiraled out of her control.
As it was, there was time enough to correct the worst of the damage. But only if Apthorp agreed to her plan. And he had to, because if her brother found out she was the author of this poem before she’d fixed the situation, well. That would be it.
She’d lose him.
She knew better than anyone that one was not entitled to one’s family’s affection. One was not even entitled to one’s home, or one’s country. One had to win one’s place through character and merit. And if one’s character was susceptible to occasional lapses in judgment, one had to draw on the more reliable powers of beguilement, ingenuity, and wiles.
She clasped her hands before her. “Apthorp, please listen. This has all gotten out of hand. Letters from Princess Cosima is a private little note I send out to a tiny handful of ladies to share pertinent information about potential suitors—the kinds of things that men discuss at their clubs but ladies never learn until it’s far too late. I had no idea the poem would find its way to Saints & Satyrs, or be turned into a song, or that the Spences would see it and drop your bill. I only meant to apprise Miss Bastian of your”—she winced, for this was delicate—“eccentricities … before she married you.”
Oh, it was so dreadful she wanted to disappear.
“Marry Miss Bastian?” he repeated. He wrinkled his face, as though she was at once very tiring and very confusing. “But I don’t even like Miss Bastian.”
Chapter 3
Constance narrowed her eyes at him like she thought he was playing a trick on her.
“Now is not the time to be coy, Apthorp,” she drawled. “You all but told me you intended to propose to her. You asked me what kind of betrothal gift she would like.”
Was she joking? Was she daft? He had not asked her about betrothal gifts because he wanted to marry Miss Bastian. He had asked her about betrothal gifts because he wanted to marry Constance.
Because he’d been in love with her so long that it felt as unremarkable as breathing. Because he’d dreamt of the day when he could finally tell her he adored her. Because he’d spent the past eight years trying to shape himself into the kind of man who had more to offer her than a pair of bankrupt salt mines, a crumbling earldom, and more debts than he was comfortable tallying in his own mind.
For years, he’d struggled not to make a fool of himself in front of her, not to let his longing seep out at every family supper and ballroom soiree and chance passing in the corridor of his cousin’s town house.
Evidently he’d been better at it than he’d thought.
He counted to ten before speaking. “You mistook my meaning. I had no intention of offering for Miss Bastian.”
She wrinkled her nose in a manner he’d always, until today, found very charming. “You gave every evidence of being very fond of her,” she said flatly. “You’ve followed her around for months.”