“I thought if I went through with the marriage, I’d make you miserable. I still think I will very likely make you miserable, at least from time to time. But now that I have saved your life, perhaps you owe me a bit of forbearance.”
“You were right to leave,” he said, stroking her hair. “I’m glad you left.”
“But why? I thought you’d hate me for it.”
“No, sweet girl. I could never hate you. Constance, I am such a bloody fool that only losing you made me certain. Standing there alone, I realized nothing in the world mattered except the fact that you were not there with me. Nothing.”
She fought back tears. “Then, Lord Apthorp, I must do the only proper thing one can when one has ruined a man, saved his reputation, destroyed his reputation once again, attempted to flee the country in a blinding rainstorm, causing him to pursue her at the risk of death by fever, and then nursed him back to health.”
“And what is that?” He smiled.
“I must offer you my hand in marriage.”
“I accept,” he said softly, pulling her closer to him. “Because I love you more than life itself. As I have very nearly proved.”
Through her tears, she laughed. “Yes, you foolish man, you nearly have indeed.”
She pressed her head against his chest. “Julian?” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
He closed his eyes and smiled. “Oh, Constance. Sweet girl. I already know.”
After she had watched him sleep until she was once again sure he wouldn’t die, she stepped into the hall.
“Constance Louise Eleanor de Galascon Befucking Stonewell.”
She looked up to a sight she had dreaded as long as her memory had functioned: her older brother glaring at her.
“Archer. What are you doing here?”
“I had a sudden yen for seaside air,” he said, his jaw clicking in that way it did when he was emotional and did not wish for anyone to notice.
She had hoped she would be spared his anger for a few more days. But then, her brother had always been a driven man. If anyone was going to chase her across the downs of England solely for the purpose of excoriating her, it would be him.
“I suppose you saw my confession,” she said.
He raised a brow. “Hard to miss it, Constance.”
“I’m sorry for lying to you. For breaking my word. I know you won’t forgive me for what I did. I don’t expect you to—that’s why I left.”
“I’m not here to offer forgiveness,” he said impatiently, in a tone that implied he was here to throttle her.
She sighed. “Well, you didn’t need to chase me here merely to dress me down. I’m sorry.”
He crossed his arms. “Is that why you think I’ve chased you? Why I paid investigators to figure out who you bribed and then tore across the country in a storm until my backside chafed? Because I want to dress you down?” He shook his head. “For an exceptionally intelligent woman, Constance, you can be painfully dense.”
She rolled her eyes and fought the urge to smile. Accusations of lackwittedness were as close as her brother came to words of endearment.
“If you are not angry, why are you here?”
He let out an exasperated snort and ran a hand through his hair. “To stop you from running away. To Europe. Over Apthorp.”
Something strange was happening in the vicinity of her heart. Was that … affection in her brother’s voice?
“Well, I didn’t so much want to run away as I knew I would have no choice once you found out what I had done.”
“And what is it that you did that was so terrible you had to run away?” he asked softly.
“The story in Evesham’s paper was not exactly the truth. I exposed your club. Using gossip. I ruined Julian with it. Even though I swore to you I wouldn’t write another word.”
“So I gathered,” he said. He took a crumpled piece of newsprint and held it out to her. “You haven’t seen this?”
confessions of a harlot earl
By Henry Evesham
She took the paper, scarcely believing it.
Following the sensational exclusive report printed in these pages from Lady Constance Stonewell, confessing to having framed her betrothed, the Earl of Apthorp, by inventing a story about his membership in an illicit whipping club in order to entrap him into marriage, SAINTS & SATYRS can report that the earl himself denies this story. Here is his confession, in his own words:
My name is Julian Haywood, the Earl of Apthorp. But you may know me better as Lord Arsethorp if you’re a fan of vulgar ditties.
This is my confession. Once upon a time, when I was a man of eighteen, I met a brilliant, beautiful, singular girl. You will know her as Lady Constance Stonewell.
She tried to get my attention, and foolishly, I hurt her. I spent the next eight years compounding that mistake, rather than telling her the truth: She had my attention from the moment I set eyes on her. She also had my heart.
Lady Constance made up her story to save me from the truth. She is a liar of the most selfless kind. The kind of liar I don’t deserve to call my own.
So for once, allow me to live up to her example and cause a scandal:
As a young man I made mistakes, and became in desperate need of coin. To improve my lot, I sold my body. And I’ll confess to something else: I enjoyed it.
I make no apology for my past. I am a sinner, but so is every Christian in the eyes of the Lord. If I have sinned, I have also strived to be a decent man. We all must follow our hearts’ morality; my conscience is between myself and God.
My only apology is to Lady Constance Stonewell: I’m sorry I ever made you think that you were anything but perfect. I’m sorry that I didn’t show you how much I love you. I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you with my secrets. And I’m sorry that I made you feel you had to leave.
I hereby confess that it was all my fault.
I confess to being reckless with my body and my family and my reputation.
And most of all: I confess to being hopelessly in love with Lady Constance Stonewell.
So in love that I want a chance to be forgiven, even if I don’t deserve it.
Signed,
The Earl of Apthorp
P.S.: You can call me Arsethorp all you like. I vastly prefer it to Lord Bore.
By the time she finished reading, the pages were sopping wet with her tears.
Her brother reached out and dabbed her face with his handkerchief.
“Dastardly stuff, small Constance,” he said softly.
He had not called her “small Constance” in a very, very long time.
Her weeping became sobbing. He pulled her into a tight hug.
“Shhhh. I suspect it’s all going to be all right. I suspect you two are just interesting enough to deserve one another.”
“You aren’t upset with me?” she sniffled.
He cracked what, for him, passed for a rather warm smile. “Actually, this is all quite heroic. I’d say you’ve done me proud.”
Proud.
Her brother had accused her of making him many things over the years—gray-haired, exhausted, poor—but never had he said she made him proud. Why this meant so much to her she could not say. Except perhaps it’s what she’d always wanted.