He had not been able to get a single morsel down his throat. He felt impatient and irritable and overhot, like he had a fever.
All he wanted in this world was to see her walk through those doors and smile at him. Maybe then, the prickling of his skin would stop, and he would be able to breathe.
Rationally he knew she would appear at any moment now. And yet he could not stop picturing her eyes as they’d been the day before.
Empty. Like she’d departed from her own body.
The parade of guests finding their seats had begun to ease now, close as it was to the appointed hour of the wedding. He squinted to the back to see if there was any sign yet of his bride.
“Trust Constance to make an entrance,” Rosecroft said in his ear. “Will she sail in on a cloud of trained peacocks? Or perhaps she intends to have the place light up in flares when she arrives.”
He laughed weakly. “Neither would surprise me.”
They waited. The pleasant light filtering in through the windows grew dim. It was humid, turning wet, like it did before a sudden rain.
In the front row the Duchess of Westmead consulted Lord Avondale for a look at his watch, then whispered anxiously in Lady Rosecroft’s ear. Her lips formed the words Where could they be?
The dim light gave way to the soft patter of rain, and Apthorp felt a trickle of sweat fall beneath his neckcloth.
Still, they waited.
The chatter in the room grew louder as the guests began to make conversation in their seats, and the rain gave way to thunder.
And still, interminably, they waited.
The bishop pretended to be absorbed in his Bible. Apthorp shifted from foot to foot. Beside him Rosecroft commenced a grating, nearly inaudible humming.
He felt another bead of sweat prick on his forehead. The day was not particularly warm. The only reason to perspire was in fear that his bride would not materialize.
Don’t be absurd. Of course she will. She’s always late.
And yet his hands, too, began to sweat as the minutes ticked past and “late” became more like “missing.”
Don’t even think it.
But, Christ, he was standing up here before their every last relation and all the towering figures in society he and Constance had spent the past month convincing of their epic, star-crossed love … all of whom were casting their glances away from him and beginning to look queasy as the reality became too difficult to overlook.
The reality being, she had not come.
It was half past ten, one hour beyond the appointed start of the wedding, and she had not come.
Finally, there was movement in the back. Every head turned in relief, prepared to beam at the bride. But there was no cloud of silk at the doors. Only the Duke of Westmead, looking paler than Apthorp had ever seen him. A tendon in his jaw twitched as he met Apthorp’s eye.
He shook his head from left to right: the universal symbol for no.
No, she was not coming.
The world went black before his eyes. He felt every stare in the room as though it were a burning match. His skin was on fire. He was going to burn alive.
Rosecroft’s hand clapped onto his shoulder and he made himself step forward, march back down the aisle.
The church was absolutely silent.
All he could hear was the sound of his own shameful, ragged breath.
He felt arms around him and heard the sound of doors closing. Lady Rosecroft was embracing him, leading him out of the church.
Westmead grabbed his shoulder and pulled him inside a waiting carriage.
“Has something happened to Constance?” he asked weakly. “Is she ill, or—”
He couldn’t bear to say it. He knew. In his heart, he knew.
“She left,” Westmead said in a strangled voice. The duke cleared his throat. “She sent me and the servants running all about the house to search for our mother’s missing locket. She must have had a hackney waiting, because her carriage is still in the stables. I didn’t believe it at first until I realized the damn dog was missing. And then this was delivered.”
He grimly held out a piece of newsprint.
the earl i ruined: a not-quite countess confesses
By Henry Evesham.
Today it can be exclusively reported in SAINTS & SATYRS that Lady Constance Stonewell, engaged to be married to Earl of Apthorp, has been masquerading as Princess Cosima Ballade, writer of a notorious gossip circular, which last month published explosive accusations about her intended husband.
Lady Constance, who was due to marry the earl this morning, has chosen to publish her dramatic confession in these pages. These are her words:
Once upon a time, when I was a girl of fourteen, I fell for a handsome man. You will know him as Lord Golden. Or perhaps, by his real name: the Earl of Apthorp.
He was not particularly fond of me then. (I daresay he is even less so now.)
I spent the next eight years trying to capture his attention.
I tried everything. Perhaps you heard of some of my antics? Flamingos on the lawn of my first house party. Gowns adorned in a thousand tiny silver bells. Acrobats and lilies. Whispers of public ruin.
But the Earl of Apthorp is a good man, and a serious one. He values comportment, discipline, manners, and integrity. Which is to say, my antics did not charm him.
Quite the opposite, I’m afraid.
And so, dear readers, I did something rash. Something I will regret until my dying day.
I set out to ruin him.
I paid an actress and a rogue to go around town telling tales about his supposed weakness for a whipping house. I wrote a cruel poem about his alleged perversities and placed it in my circular, where I knew it would get out. And you, of course, know the rest, because you’re still singing about him in the alleys outside public houses late at night. (You should really stop calling him Lord Arsethorp. It makes him cross.)
The rumors were not true, but they were wickedly effective. They raised questions about his character and ethics. They toppled his political support, ruined his pending legislation, scuffled his prospects for a decent marriage, and destroyed him financially.
Exactly as I planned.
For you see, I knew that when my scheme worked, he would be desperate.
And I would be his last resort.
I would offer him my influence, my dowry, the power of my family name. He would have no choice but to marry me to save his tenants and family from ruin.
I thought I was so clever.
That is, until it worked.
The more I have come to know the Earl of Apthorp, the more I have come to realize that my tricks could not have victimized a more honorable man. He is not simply handsome and charming—the object of my girlhood fancy. He is strong-willed, empathetic, and passionate. Deeply committed to his family, his country, and his dependents. The kind of man who deserves true love. Not marriage to a woman he can never trust.
I hereby confess that it was all my fault, as most things usually are.
I confess to being reckless with his future and his family and his heart.
And most of all I confess to discovering I care about him far too much to consign him to a life with a woman he cannot forgive.
Signed,
Lady Constance Stonewell
P.S.: One last word of warning to the marriageable ladies from Princess Cosima: Lord Harlan Stoke is a ruiner of innocents, a liar, and a violent man. Some rich woman should do us all a favor and send him to the colonies.
Chapter 20