Mostly because Apthorp agreed with him.
Westmead had been his closest ally in politics, the unlikely champion of his bill when he’d had little beyond determination to recommend him. And Apthorp had not only failed politically but gone and yoked his failure to the man’s only sister without so much as a word of warning.
His behavior was exactly as noxious as the duke’s disgusted stare implied.
“Your Grace, I’m sorry. None of this was my intention.”
Westmead worked his fingers in the air, like he was looking for a neck to throttle. “Don’t speak to me of intentions, Apthorp. What I’d like to speak about is decency. A quality which before today I would not have said you lacked.”
“First let me assure you that the rumors of my supposed dissipation are exaggerated. You need not worry that—”
Westmead held up a hand to stop him. “Spare me. That isn’t what I mean. Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into at Mistress Brearley’s is your private affair.”
“Mistress Brearley’s?” he repeated. The question was disingenuous, for he knew exactly to whom Westmead referred. He simply could not imagine how Westmead knew of her.
“Don’t play innocent with me,” Westmead growled. “I’m an investor in her club. While I’m baffled by your carelessness in allowing your membership there to become gossip, you don’t need to explain your tastes to me. Your tastes, whatever they may be, are not my concern.”
Apthorp stared at him, not sure whether to be relieved or more alarmed. “Thank you, Your Grace, for your broad-minded—”
“Which of course does not change the fact that you will not be marrying my sister.” Westmead’s eyes drilled into his.
Apthorp swallowed and tried to ignore that Westmead looked at him like he’d grown mold. “With respect, Your Grace, I’m afraid I will be marrying her. She has agreed to be my wife. To my tremendous honor.”
The duke’s lips curled. “Tremendous honor. I see. Or rather, I don’t. I don’t see, Apthorp, because I keep getting stuck on the small fact that Constance cannot stand you.”
“Can’t stand him?” an offended feminine voice trilled. Constance came sailing up from the lower stairs, dressed in a shimmering pink gown with hoops so wide she resembled a schooner made of ballerinas. She was flushed and slightly disheveled, with strands of dust clinging to her hair, exactly as they might had she been eavesdropping in the service cupboard below the stairs. Which, given her history of doing exactly that whenever anyone in the house was peeved with her, would explain her absence.
“What rubbish, Archer,” she said, reaching the landing as she caught her breath. “I adore Apthorp.”
Westmead whirled around. “You. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Surprise!” She threw out her arms in his direction, as if in expectation of a joyous embrace. “Isn’t it wonderful!”
“Wonderful?” Westmead repeated. “What in bequaking Sodom are you thinking?”
“I’m in love!” she cried. “Rapturously in love!” She spun around, letting her skirts swish about in festive circles. “Oh, Archer, I’ve been dying to tell you, but I was worried you might try to stop me.”
He came and put two hands on her shoulders, forcing her to stop spinning. “I am, without question, going to stop you.”
“Oh, don’t be tiresome,” she chirped, shrugging him off. She wobbled backward, precarious in her hoops and heeled slippers. “I’m so delighted I might swoon.”
Apthorp darted forward and pressed a hand to her shoulder to prevent her from careening into a credenza. She smiled fondly and took his other hand in hers. “My hero,” she whispered in his ear, just loud enough for her brother to hear.
Westmead looked at both of them with the half-focused squint of a man suffering from vertigo or nausea. “What scheme is this you two have concocted?”
Constance wrinkled her nose. “Scheme? I finally find the courage to profess my love for the man I’ve pined for since girlhood, and you accuse me of a scheme? That is cynical even for you, Archer.”
“Constance. You can’t possibly expect me to believe you want to marry Apthorp.”
Apthorp tried not to be offended by the degree of derision in this statement, however much he might privately agree with Westmead’s position.
“Whyever not?” Constance asked. She reached up and cradled Apthorp’s face, cupping his jaw like he was a priceless piece of pottery in a museum. “Is he not the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?”
Apthorp tried not to be moved at the idea she found him handsome.
Was that just for her brother’s benefit? Or does she really—
Westmead closed his eyes and averted his face, as if the sight of his sister touching Apthorp might render him blind, reminding him the question was moot.
“Constance, it has not escaped my notice that you have displayed nothing but contempt for Apthorp for half a decade. You have addressed his Christmas gifts to ‘Lord Bore’ since 1749.”
Constance gave her brother a long-suffering sigh. “I was flirting, Archer. Haven’t you ever been flirted with?” She paused, and looked up conspiratorially at Apthorp. “Upon further reflection, no. I daresay he has not.”
Apthorp choked back a snort of laughter. Constance fluttered her eyelashes at him, evidently pleased to be found amusing. Dear God. Despite his impulse to despise her, it was enjoyable, this feeling of being in league with Constance. It was exactly the thing he’d always wanted.
“Very well,” Westmead interjected, forcing the rupture of their small moment. “Apthorp is your great love, then? The man you feel you deserve? Him? A person who does nothing but lecture you on how bothersome and vulgar you are?”
Apthorp froze. He felt Constance freeze beside him.
Was that true?
Given that she had made exactly the same observation the day before, he could only surmise that he was … guilty.
He ticked through half a decade’s interactions. Since she’d arrived from France at fourteen, she’d been such a bold, fanciful creature that he’d worried she would say the wrong thing to the wrong person. He’d sometimes offered her discreet advice about manners and comportment, but only out of a desire to protect her. He’d meant to help her see that her bold ways left her open to criticism.
He had never meant to imply she was unfit.
Before he could think of what to say, she recovered her composure with an airy wave of her wrist.
“Well, I can be bothersome and vulgar, when it serves my purpose. It’s part of my charm.” She looked at him with an arch smile. “Clearly, it worked on Apthorp, didn’t it, darling?”
He nodded with everything he had.
Westmead plucked her hand from Apthorp’s arm and spoke to her with a voice like gravel. “Constance, I regret I have not always been the most attentive or affectionate of brothers. If I could go back and be a better guardian to you in the years when you were small, I would. But in light of what happened to our mother, I have made certain you would never need to marry any man you did not choose. So I beg you, before you make a mistake that is irrevocable, consider whether there might not be some person out there whom you cherish, and who would cherish you in return.”