“Thank you, but I can’t. I am planning a surprise for Lord Apthorp this afternoon. Do keep me apprised.”
Apthorp arrived home from a meeting with Westmead as weary as he’d been in years. He was hoarse from making promises to scheming politicians. His bones hurt from rattling across London in ill-sprung carriages. His heart ached from gazing at Constance over candlelit dance floors, making a show of how much he looked forward to a wedding that would never happen.
And fighting back the gnawing feeling that it should.
For if she had longed for his attention as a girl, if she trembled when he touched her, if he could not look upon her without smiling in a way that hurt his jaw—was it not within the realm of possibility that this thing between them might be salvaged? Was it possible that he had not imagined a connection all those years?
He couldn’t sleep for debating in his mind which was the greater risk: to throw away the only thing he’d ever really wanted, or to admit to Constance that he wanted it.
For if he did, he would need to explain to the woman he least trusted with his secrets the full truth about his past. A truth that could ruin him a third time over.
He wanted to. It was dishonest to pretend he didn’t, and since his every waking hour had devolved into a pretense, the least he could do was stop lying to himself.
But he could not quiet the part of himself that was equally convinced that doing what he wanted would, as usual, only make things worse.
He needed a night alone to mull it over before they attended church tomorrow with the Spences, when he’d have a chance to talk to her in private.
But something in his house was off.
The air inside the vestibule smelled like lemons and vinegar, rather than its customary redolence of must, and Tremont was not at his usual post downstairs. He lit a candle to investigate, but oddly, it did not flare and give off the stink of barnyard fat, for someone had swapped his inexpensive tallow tapers with pleasant-scented beeswax ones.
He held the flame up to the wall. In the dim light it was not just the air that was different. It was his entire house.
Tapestries had been hung over the worst of the damp stains and peeling plaster.
His worn parlor chairs had been replaced by homely, well-stuffed sofas. Someone had arranged fresh flowers on the table in a silver bowl he did not own, and laid a soft, plush India carpet on the floor.
What the devil? If he was the victim of a burglary, the intruders had rather missed the point of thieving.
He heard footsteps from upstairs.
“Tremont,” he called, “is that you?”
He was answered by the muffled sound of furnishings being dragged across the floor. He snatched an iron fire pike from beside the hearth and marched upstairs, wielding it before him.
In the hallway two footmen and three housemaids paused their various acts of domestic improvement—hanging paintings, sweeping floorboards, polishing woodwork— and stared at him, alarmed.
Constance stood behind them, conferring with Tremont over a list.
“What are you doing here?” he cried.
Constance jumped, and turned around. “Lord Apthorp! You’ve returned! But why are you armed?”
He realized he was wielding the iron poker with a greater degree of animation than was strictly safe when one held a metal hook. He put it to his side.
“What is all this?”
Constance smiled. “You’re early. We were hoping to finish before you returned. I wanted to surprise you.”
“You have certainly succeeded.”
She gestured up at the walls, which were remarkably absent of spiderwebs, and waved her hand through the air, which had the tang of freshly burned cedar. “Tremont and I have been working like two bandits to get your home in order. With the help of these lovely people of course.”
She smiled at the assembled servants, most of whom were still eyeing his poking stick nervously.
He put it behind his back. “And they might be … ?”
“Your new staff. I brought anyone Westmead House could spare. Miss Pip here has agreed to run your kitchen. Miss Smith, Mr. Carmody, and Mr. Fine will make up the rest of the house. And this is Mrs. Haslet. She’s head maid at Westmead House and will make you a fine housekeeper. Once she has assessed how much work needs to be done, we’ll hire additional servants.”
Constance beamed at him.
All he felt was shame.
“May I have a word with you?”
“Of course.”
He stepped into his study, waited for her to follow him, and pulled the door shut tight so as not to be overheard. “Constance … I see you mean well by this—”
“I do!” She nodded vigorously. “Don’t you like it?”
It was impossibly sweet of her. So sweet it produced a heavy feeling in his chest. Nevertheless …
“I can’t accept it,” he said quietly.
She cocked her head like a parrot who understood his words but not their meaning. “Can’t accept it? Whyever not?”
He closed his eyes. Would there be no end to his leveling this month?
“I see you mean this as a kindness, and I’m touched. But surely you must not think I live this way out of a personal taste for filth? I don’t employ more servants here because at present I cannot afford them.”
With his creditors calling in his debts and his usual means of supplementing his coffers with small coin decidedly unavailable, he had less than four guineas of ready money at his disposal to spread between his needs in town and his estate. He’d withdrawn from his clubs, given up his horse, sold off his silver. Even with those economies, when wages came due in Cheshire next quarter day, he had no earthly idea how he would pay them. And the small comforts he had always been able to provide his mother and sister would not be forthcoming.
It was humiliating to admit how bad things actually were, even to himself.
Admitting it to Constance, who exuded money like her strange perfume, was a special form of torture.
“I can’t pay them. Please see them reinstated at Westmead House.”
Her face softened, in that way nice people had of pretending that something that was humiliating wasn’t. “No need. I will continue to pay their wages out of my household budget. It’s a gift.”
His pride dripped to somewhere beneath the well-scrubbed floorboards.
“That’s kind of you, but there is no need for it. I’m not home to visitors, and the season will be over soon in any case. And once I have the money, I’ll sell this place and buy a proper house in Mayfair.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ah, Mayfair, where the houses are as alike as the people. Why move there when this place has so much history and character? If you kept it and improved it, it could be a jewel. Besides, what’s the appeal of doing what all the boring people do when one could stand out?”
Because standing out was not an advantage when one had things to hide. Dullness was a form of self-protection. But saying as much would only invite questions he did not wish to answer.
“Constance, I simply cannot accept your charity.”
She continued to smile at him, as if by not acknowledging his obvious humiliation, she could erase it. “It’s not charity; it’s strategy. You must make a point to entertain here. When your creditors hear that your home is full of valuables, servants, and fine food, they will glean you have regained access to funds. After all, you are now living in anticipation of my very considerable dowry. And Lady Spence has expressed a desire to visit us at our future home. If it is not in order, she will know that something is amiss.”
She gave him a winning smile.
His head pounded. “Would you please just do as I ask one bloody time?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m afraid that cursing will not change the fact that I am not known for doing things I disagree with. Besides, I can’t bear to see a friend live in such disorder.” She gestured at a number of trunks shoved up against a wall. “It’s a wonder you�
�re always so elegantly attired when you live amidst this squalor.”
She lifted the lid of one trunk distastefully and grimaced at the mess of papers it held. “Have you unpacked nothing since you left the Rosecrofts?”
“Leave that. Please inform the servants they will not be required here.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be that easy,” she said, busying herself by prying off the lid of another crate. “I’ve already begun issuing invitations and no one will believe I intend to live in a crumbling rathole. You must be seen to be preparing your home for my arrival.”
She paused to peer inside the trunk. “Ah, look, here are your riding effects.” She pulled out a whip. “I’ll have these sent down to the stables. Or, rather …” Her voice trailed off.
From deeper in the box, she extracted an iron key on a long leather cord.
What was that doing with his riding gear?
“What’s this?” she asked, fingering the intricately wrought key. “It’s very pretty.”
He quickly snatched it from her hands. “I’ve been looking for that,” he said, putting it into his coat pocket.
She plunged her hands back inside the trunk.
“Constance, could you please—”
She yelped, producing a pistol, which she gingerly held up in the air with two fingers.
“Good holy God, Apthorp. You should not store firearms so haphazardly. What if some unsuspecting young lady accidentally shoots off her own hand?”
Fuck. These were most certainly not his riding effects.
He stepped forward and removed the weapon from her hand. “It’s not real. But let that be a lesson to young ladies not to nose about in other people’s private things. You’ve made your point. Go downstairs.”
She shot him a challenging smile, evidently enjoying teasing him. “I wasn’t nosing. I was cleaning. You should try it. Why do you have a fake pistol?”
He pointed at the door. “Out.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. This is far too intriguing.” With a teasing look at him, she plunged her hand back in the crate and produced a cord of rope, a blindfold, and a pair of leather cuffs with silver hooks.
“Oh dear,” she said, suddenly less amused.
He could only agree with the sentiment.
“So that’s how you’ve been paying your bills. You’re a highwayman.”
Her game was growing tiresome, and he was increasingly concerned by what else might be lurking in that trunk. “I assure you I’m not a highwayman.” He reached out for the cuffs. “Give me those and go downstairs. If you must paw through my things, you can do it in the kitchen.”
She chuckled, in a flirtatious way that would be attractive were it not that he desperately, desperately wanted to prevent her from reaching back into the box. “So secretive, my lord. Exactly like an outlaw. Tell me, why would an elegant gentleman like yourself possess a box of blindfolds and fake pistols if he was not using them to rob coaches?”
She plunged her hand back into the box, rummaged deeper, and extracted a long, carved marble phallus. Seeing what she had retrieved, she froze, her jaw agape, holding it out in front of her. Her eyes roved over his face, and her mouth formed a perfect O as realization dawned in her eyes.
He lunged, snatched the object from her hands, and threw it in the box.
“Stop this! It is not appropriate for you to see these things.”
She leaned back against the wall and looked up at him in wonder. “Wednesdays. These are for Wednesdays.”
“Go downstairs, Constance,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t have seen this.”
“It’s all right,” she said softly. “I see that you’re ashamed. I shan’t antagonize you further.”
“Oh, I’m not ashamed,” he snapped, for a man could handle only so much raillery from a girl too innocent to realize she was baldly slinging accoutrements of erotic play all about the room before he lost his patience. “Far from it. I’m annoyed that you keep prying.”
She glanced at the crate, from which the priapic head of the large, extremely suggestive plaything she had discovered glinted in the light.
“But I’m confused. You told me I was wrong about your … desires. But if you have all this, you must …” She trailed off, not quite accusing him of lying to her, but looking as though she did not intend to let the matter drop.
He rubbed his temple. None of this was in any way proper to discuss, but if the choice was between being thought a sanctimonious liar … he’d rather have out with the truth. He wasn’t ashamed of what he did with these objects, and he was tired of the implication that he should be.
“I didn’t lie to you, if that’s what you’re suggesting. These things are not for use on me, though I would not be embarrassed if they were. I use them to pleasure lovers who happen to enjoy such things.” He shot her a mordant glance, to be sure she would not miss his meaning. “In private.”
“You couldn’t possibly mean …” Her eyes widened. No doubt, she was recalling the entries in his diary in a new light. The correct light. “You injure people?”
Alas, no. Not the correct light.
“No, Constance, I don’t injure people. I sometimes elicit a bit of pain, but only if they very specifically ask for it.”
“But why would anyone ask for such a thing?”
“Must there always be a reason for what we want?”
She looked uncertain. “I just don’t see what could be appealing about being whipped or tied up or—” She again glanced at the trunk.
“Care for a demonstration?” he shot back.
He regretted saying it even as it left his mouth. He needed to end this conversation.
But it irked him that a girl who did not know kissing from mauling felt entitled to mock his—or anyone’s—tastes in bedsport.
“Why, yes,” she said. She tossed her head back like a helpless maiden and brandished two limp wrists. “Ravish me, Lord Apthorp, I am most curious.”
Her mockery irritated him.
“Don’t ask for what you don’t want,” he said in a low voice.
She fluttered her lashes at him. “I think you want me to believe you are more intriguing than you really are, Lord Bore.”
Without a second thought, he snapped up her wrists in his hands and whirled her around so that she faced the wall. She breathed in, startled.
“Do not call me Lord Bore,” he whispered in her ear.
“Why not?” she whispered back. He felt her breath quicken at the light pressure of his fingers on her wrists.
He smoothed her pulse points with his thumb. “Because it hurts my feelings.”
For a moment, they were both completely still. His hands on her wrists, her back to his chest, the room silent except for the slight intake of her breath.
“Are you nervous, Constance?” he asked.
“No, I’m patiently awaiting my demonstration.”
He lifted her wrists above her head and pressed them against the wall. “Stay just like that.”
“Why?”
“Because it pleases me.”
He moved a hard-backed wooden chair from behind his desk and placed it in the center of the room, turning it so it faced the wall.
“Sit,” he instructed her.
She scoffed at him. But, curiously, she did exactly as he asked.
He reached inside the crate and rummaged until he found what he was looking for: a long silk scarf. He came behind her and brought her wrists behind her back, tying them together with the scarf, and then securing them to the chair.
He stepped back to appraise his handiwork.
The black silk against the white of her wrists made for a lovely contrast.
“Well. I am your captive,” she said. “What now?”
He smiled to himself. Now, Lady Constance, I will let you wait while I stare at the sight of you like this and memorize it.
A few seconds passed in silence.
“Apthorp?” Her voice was less confident now. “You wouldn’t �
� leave me like this?”
He chuckled. “Not unless you wanted me to.”
“Why would I want you to?”
At the rising uncertainty in her tone, he came to his senses. This was inexcusable.
“That’s as much as I can say without imperiling your virtue.”
“I’m not at all sure my virtue survived the sight of your ridiculous Priapus,” she said, clearly annoyed at him for avoiding her question.
“It’s called a dildo,” he said, reaching for the ties at her wrists and beginning to unknot them. “If you must belittle it at least use its correct nomenclature.”
She huffed. “I’m not sure I believe that this is something people like.”
He was not sure he believed she didn’t like it. He had heard the change in her breathing sure as anything. But in matters such as this, one took a lady at her word.
“You’re welcome to draw your own conclusions. Hold still while I untie you.”
“This is a rather unconvincing demonstration,” she pronounced, like that settled it. “Most disappointing.”
“I know,” he said in a low voice, unwinding the silk. “Ideally, I’d keep you tied up for much, much longer.”
She was quiet for a moment. Which pleased him.
“Oh?” she finally asked. “And then what?”
He released the silk and dropped it over her shoulder, letting it fall into her lap. He gripped the back of the chair, letting his fingertips brush against her hair. “I’d stand behind you and kiss a trail from the back of your neck to your shoulder.”
“Why?”
“Because I wish to.”
She turned to look at him, chewing on her lip.
Gently, he took her head in both hands and repositioned it to face the wall.
“No. I wouldn’t let you watch.”
“Why not?”
“Because without being able to see me, you would never quite know what to expect. And I think, Constance, that you might like that very much.”
She let out a sigh so shaky that he felt it in his palms.
He smiled.
He’d thought so.
He’d always thought so.
The Earl I Ruined Page 14