The Marriage Wager (11 page)

A smile twitched Constance’s lips, and she quickly bowed her head to hide it. Raising her face, she answered, “You are wicked.”

“But truthful. What I would not give to be a man right now, just to escape this.”

“Will they stay in the smoking room until this is over?” Constance asked, surprised.

“If they know Muriel is playing, they will,” Francesca retorted. “And since Mother always asks her to…” She trailed off, sneezing. She sneezed twice more in quick succession, doing her best to muffle the sounds. “Blast! I keep doing that. I hope I have not come down with a cold.”

Lady Rutherford, who was seated in front of them in a chair close to the piano, turned around, frowning, to see who was interrupting Muriel’s performance with her sneezes. Francesca smiled at her apologetically. A moment later, she straightened suddenly and cast a glance over at Constance, a look of mischief in her eyes.

Raising her fan again, she leaned closer to Constance, whispering, “Follow my lead.”

Constance nodded, mystified. Francesca settled back into her chair, wafting her fan and looking suspiciously angelic. Then she began to cough. First it was one cough, then a series and after that a sneeze, followed by a veritable paroxysm of coughing. It was done so realistically that even Constance felt a stab of worry.

“Are you all right?” Constance asked in a hushed voice, leaning closer to her in concern.

Francesca, covering her mouth, could not answer, only shook her head. She started to stand up, and Constance quickly moved to help her, taking her arm. Murmuring their apologies, Constance led Francesca, still stifling her coughs, from the room.

Once outside, Francesca coughed a few more times for effect as she hurried off down the hall, glancing back at Constance with a grin. Constance suppressed her laughter and hastened after her friend.

“Are you all right?” she asked again as they reached the bottom of the staircase.

Francesca grinned wickedly, then hastily covered her face with her handkerchief as she sneezed again. “I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “The coughing was pretense. But this sneezing…” She cleared her throat and dabbed delicately at her eyes. She sighed. “Oh, dear, I hope I shall not be forced to miss the outing tomorrow.”

“What sort of outing?” Constance asked as they climbed the stairs.

“Only a trip to the church in the village.” Francesca wrinkled her nose. “The rector is going to give a little talk about its history. It is, apparently, a very good example of a Norman tower—Oh, and there are a number of other things that I cannot remember. Deadly dull, I’m sure, but at least it is an outing, and the Duchess, my mother and Lady Rutherford will not be there, which should make it more appealing.”

Constance chuckled, and Francesca smiled, adding, “However, your aunt volunteered to my mother that she would be happy to chaperone the party, never having seen the church, which Mother was quick to take her up on. Still, I think there should be some opportunity for talking and, perhaps, a little flirting?”

She cast a sideways glance at Constance that was at once both hopeful and questioning.

“I am not averse to that,” Constance answered.

“I saw you were seated next to Mr. Willoughby,” Francesca went on. “How did you like him?”

“He is very nice,” Constance replied, then paused.

“But…?” Francesca supplied.

“I hope you will not think me ungrateful, Francesca, but I must tell you that I think there is little hope that he—that I—well, I am sure that it will seem quite vain of me even to say this, for we have scarcely met and I doubt that he would ever actually offer for me, but I truly do not think that if he did, I could accept. He is a very nice man, but I do not feel that I could love him, and—”

“Hush, now, do not look so anxious,” Francesca told her, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I shall not be upset with you if you do not become engaged. And certainly I would not expect it to happen in the next two weeks! There is ample time before us—and many more men in the world besides Cyril Willoughby. Why, he is only one of several men here—there are Alfred Penrose and Mr. Kenwick and Mr. Carruthers. Sir Philip Norton. Not Lord Dunborough, of course—I cannot imagine why I thought he might do. And when we return to London, there are hundreds of eligible men there.”

The clutch of anxiety in Constance’s stomach eased considerably. “It is good of you to say so. I know how much you have done for me, and, indeed, I am very grateful.”

“Nonsense. I have been having worlds of fun. Why, what have I done except go shopping with you and cast about a few invitations? I should be the one thanking you for giving me something to enliven this house party. It is always excruciatingly dull.”

They had reached Francesca’s room by now, and she decided to ring for her maid and get undressed. “Given my little performance downstairs, I suppose I had better go on to bed.”

So Constance went on to her own room. Its peace was preferable to listening to Muriel Rutherford play the piano, but she was not ready to go to bed yet, and she had nothing to do. She decided to go down to the library and find a book to read. She had noticed the library on her way to supper with Francesca, and it was a large room with hundreds of books. She was sure that she could find something with which to pass the evening.

After lighting a candle, she slipped back down the stairs and along the hallway to the library, careful to move as quietly as a mouse. The last thing she wanted was for anyone in the music room to hear her and look out, for then courtesy would require her to rejoin them. It was fortunate, she thought, that the music room lay beyond the library, so she would not have to pass it on her way.

There was an oil lamp burning low on a table just inside the library. Constance stepped inside, closing the door silently behind her, and turned up the lamp. She went to the shelves on the right, holding up her candle to better see the spines, and began to trail along the wall, studying the titles.

There was a noise behind her, and she whirled, her heart pounding furiously. She gave a start and let out a squeak when she saw a man sitting on the sofa and gazing over the back of it at her. In the next instant she recognized the man as Lord Leighton, and she sagged with relief, letting out a sigh, her hand going to her heart.

“We simply have to stop meeting like this,” he told her lightly. “Someone is sure to talk.”

“You scared me to death,” Constance retorted, the rush of fright making her cross. “Where were you? I didn’t see you when I came in.”

“Lying down,” he told her, sliding off the sofa and crossing the room toward her. “Hiding out again, are we? Who is it this time? The dread aunt? No, wait, I know the answer. No doubt it is the same reason I am here. Muriel is torturing the piano.”

Constance let out a giggle, though she tried to adopt a stern look as she said, “She is an excellent pianist.”

“No doubt. But you are right. I misspoke. It is actually her listeners she tortures.”

“Surely you were safe in the smoking room with the other men,” Constance said.

“Oh, no, for my father was there,” he pointed out.

Constance raised her brows a little at this statement. Clearly there was some sort of estrangement between Leighton and Lord Selbrooke, as she had suspected from the formal way by which he referred to his parents and the fact that he apparently rarely visited Redfields. She wondered why, but, of course, it would be terribly rude to ask, so she did not.

“I am sorry to have intruded on you,” she said instead.

“Your presence could not be an intrusion,” he assured her gallantly. “Come. Stay and talk with me.” He gestured toward the sofa and chairs grouped in the middle of the room.

Constance glanced at the closed door. It was scarcely proper to be alone at this time of night with a man, with the door closed, even if they were in so public a room as the library.

He came closer to her, saying teasingly, “Afraid to be alone with me? I promise not to compromise your virtue.”

Constance’s pulse beat a little faster. She remembered the last time that she had been alone with Leighton and what had happened then. She looked up into his eyes and saw them light suddenly, and she knew that he had thought of that kiss, as well.

He reached up, skimming his knuckles along the line of her jaw. “I know. I could not resist you last time, so how can you trust me now? That is what you think, is it not?”

“A valid question, surely,” she retorted a little breathlessly. Her skin felt warm where his fingers had touched it, and her heart was hammering so hard it seemed a wonder that he could not hear it.

“That time was a lark,” he replied softly. “I did not know you, never thought to see you again. It was just…a foolish moment, a bit of pleasure.”

“And now?” Constance could not pull her eyes away from his. She felt strangely both bold and filled with trepidation.

“Now it is different, isn’t it?” He brushed back a stray curl from where it clung to her cheek, and his eyes traveled over her face, coming to rest on her mouth. His eyes were a dark, velvet blue, so intent and warm she could almost feel them upon her skin.

As though he had actually touched her, her flesh tingled, and some wild, primitive heat blossomed in her abdomen. It seemed suddenly difficult to breathe; Constance was aware of the flow of air as she took a breath, and she realized that her lips had parted slightly.

“Because I am your sister’s friend, you mean?” she asked, struggling to sound unaffected by his gaze.

“Because it would mean something.”

They stood for a long moment, looking into each other’s eyes. Constance thought that he might kiss her again. It was a little shocking, she thought, just how much she wanted exactly that. Her breasts were full and heavy, aching, the nipples prickling, and suddenly her mind was filled with the image of his hands on her breasts. She flushed with heat, unsure whether the blood rushed up through her in embarrassment or desire.

The very air seemed to sizzle between them. Then Dominic dropped his hand and stepped back.

Constance swallowed, turning aside. “I—I had better return to my room.”

“But you have not chosen a book,” he pointed out.

“Oh.” She turned back to the shelves and blindly pulled out a volume. Holding it tightly against her chest, almost like a shield, she murmured, “Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, Miss Woodley. Sleep well.”

There was little chance of that, Constance thought to herself as she hurried away down the corridor and trotted up the stairs toward her bedchamber. She was so thrumming with nerves, so aware of her senses, her mind filled with thoughts of what had just happened, that she was sure she would not be able to go to sleep for hours.

Because it would mean something.
What had he intended by that?
What
would it mean? Love? Marriage? No, clearly that was absurd; they barely knew one another. Yet it would not, presumably, mean something shallow and fleeting, not “a lark.” Then would it, in contrast, mean something deep and profound? Or at least a step in the direction of something deep and profound?

Constance entered her room and closed the door, going over to the window to gaze out into the darkness. Perhaps what he had meant had simply been that if they kissed again, she would be taking a step down a road that could lead only to her social ruin.

The heir to an earldom did not marry the penniless daughter of a baronet. She had noticed tonight that when Francesca had been listing the available suitors at Redfields, she had not mentioned Lord Leighton. Francesca liked her, Constance knew, but clearly she did not consider Constance an acceptable bride for her brother. Certainly the stiff and formal Lord and Lady Selbrooke would not.

So his words had likely been a warning to her, she thought. Yet they had not sounded like a warning. They had sounded, quite frankly, like an invitation.

She leaned her head against the frame of the window, closing her eyes, and she remembered their kiss—the touch of his breath against her skin, the full, firm feel of his lips on hers, the heat and hunger that had swirled through her.

She shook her head as though to clear the tangle of thoughts from it and turned away from the window. She noticed that she still clutched the book against her chest, and she lowered her hand to look at the title.

It was
Leviathan
by Thomas Hobbes. A relaxing little bit of nighttime reading, she thought, and a bubble of laughter escaped her lips.

She laid the book aside on the dresser and with a sigh began to unbutton her dress. The maid, Nan, had told her to ring for her help, but Constance had no desire for anyone else’s company right now. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. They might keep her awake too long, but that was all right. For the first time in a long time, she felt vividly alive. And she meant to enjoy the feeling to the fullest.

T
HE NEXT MORNING WHEN
Constance went down to breakfast, Francesca was not there. She had a pleasant conversation with the Misses Norton, a pair of excitable young sisters who had come with their brother Philip from their estate in Norfolk. They were, as best as Constance had been able to make out, some sort of relation to Lady Selbrooke. Living under the somewhat haphazard guardianship of their older brother, who was as placid and introspective as they were outgoing, they had not yet made their debuts, though at seventeen and eighteen they were of an age to do so. It was clear that they regarded their visit to Redfields as a sophisticated treat compared to the county assemblies and small local parties that had constituted their social life heretofore, and they were bubbling with speculation about the outing into the village scheduled for today.

There would be an open air landau for the older ladies and those who did not ride, they told Constance, but those who wished to ride would be provided with horses. This, they agreed, was what they intended to do.

“Though, of course, we shall doubtless look quite gauche compared to Miss Rutherford,” Miss Elinor Norton told her with a smile that showed how little she cared.

“She is an excellent horsewoman, I understand. Why, she brought her own mount,” added her sister, Lydia.

“She told us yesterday evening that she could not bear to ride any horse but her own.”

“I would expect nothing else,” Constance replied dryly.

“Do you ride, Miss Woodley?” their brother Philip asked, surprising Constance by showing that he had actually been listening to his sisters’ chatter.

She smiled. “I am no expert such as Miss Rutherford, but, yes, I have been known to ride. It has been many years, however, and, sadly, I did not think to bring a riding habit.”

Indeed, she had left her riding habit at home, not even bringing it to London, as she had not dreamed of needing it. So, she imagined, she would be consigned to the open air landau along with the “older ladies.” Ah well, at least she would not have to be part of the group with Muriel Rutherford, which was some comfort, she thought.

When the meal was over, she went up to Francesca’s room, as she found her friend’s absence worrisome. Unfortunately, she discovered that her uneasy premonition was correct, for when she knocked upon Francesca’s door, a voice croaked for her to come in, and she stepped inside to see Francesca, swathed in a shawl over her bedgown, sitting propped against her pillows, her face flushed, and her eyes red and watering.

“Oh, Constance,” she wailed—if so gravelly a sound could be termed a wail. “I am so sorry. It seems I’ve caught this wretched cold.”

“Heavens, no, don’t be sorry,” Constance assured her. “It’s scarcely as if you caught a cold on purpose.”

“I cannot go to the church,” Francesca lamented, then paused to sneeze several times.

“Of course not,” Constance agreed. “You must stay right here and get better. I shall stay and look after you, why don’t I?”

“Oh, no! You mustn’t do that!” Francesca cried. “Maisie can fetch my tea and put cooling rags on my forehead. Promise me you’ll go!”

Francesca looked so alarmed that Constance hastened to assure her that she would do just as she asked. “But I hate to leave you here, feeling so ill.”

Francesca coughed, but shook her head firmly. “No. I didn’t bring you here to nurse an invalid. You go and have fun.”

Constance felt rather selfish, abandoning her friend, but Maisie entered the room with a bowl of steaming water in which aromatic herbs were floating and placed it by her mistress’s bed, then assured Constance that Francesca would prefer that she go.

“Truth is, miss,” Maisie told her confidentially as she ushered Constance to the door, “she hates for anyone to see her looking like this. She’s used to me, and I know just what to do.”

Constance reflected that Francesca’s devoted maid had been caring for her for years and doubtless was far better than she would be at nursing Francesca back to health. So it was with a clear conscience that she went downstairs to join the others.

She could not deny that she suffered a pang of envy when she saw Muriel Rutherford mounted on an elegant bay mare, her narrow figure shown off to advantage in her mannishly-cut charcoal-gray riding habit, with a rakish little hat that resembled a military shako perched on her black hair. Miss Rutherford controlled her dancing mount with ease, her eyes almost warm. It was clearly the milieu that suited her best.

Leighton, too, was on horseback, as were most of the young people, and Constance could not help but notice what a striking figure he cut. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked born to the saddle. She remembered that Francesca had told her that he had been in the Hussars, and she could certainly imagine him on horseback, leading a charge.

Constance resigned herself to riding in the carriage with her aunt and her cousin Georgiana, who could not abide horses, as well as Miss Cuthbert, a solemn, quiet girl who was, if Constance remembered correctly, a grandniece of the Duchess. The ride was exactly what Constance had feared it would be, with Aunt Blanche dominating the conversation, chattering about the excellence of the food, the accommodations and, of course, the entertainment provided last night by Miss Rutherford. She could not, apparently, contain her admiration for that young woman’s skill on the pianoforte.

Constance, only half-listening to her aunt’s paean of praise to Lady Muriel, was astonished to see Lord Leighton detach himself from the riding party and fall back to ride beside the open carriage, sweeping off his hat and bowing toward them in gallant greeting. Georgiana and Aunt Blanche straightened, greeting him effusively, and Constance noticed that even Miss Cuthbert became somewhat more animated in his presence.

He looked at Constance. “I am sorry, Miss Woodley, to see that you are not riding today.”

“Indeed, sir, I wish that I was, but I did not think to bring a riding habit,” she responded candidly.

“That can be remedied, I am sure,” he told her. “There is bound to be one around the house that will suit you. We must ride out some afternoon. I should like to show you the estate.”

“I would enjoy that very much,” Constance replied, and from the corner of her eye she could see her aunt and cousin glowering at her.

“I understand you have a very lovely summer house,” Aunt Blanche put in. “I am sure it would be a treat for the young ones to see it. Wouldn’t you like to, Georgiana?”

“Oh, yes, Mama,” Georgiana replied eagerly.

“I shall mention that to my mother,” Leighton said smoothly. “Perhaps she will set up an outing to the summer house, if, indeed, she does not already have one planned. We have often picnicked there, as I recall.”

Constance smothered a smile at his adept avoidance of the implied request to take Georgiana to see the place. “A picnic sounds lovely,” she commented, tilting her parasol a little to look at him.

He continued to ride beside their landau, chatting about the upcoming tour of the church and sundry other mundane matters. Constance did not really care about the topic; it was enjoyable just to ride with him. Even the presence of her aunt and cousin was made more enjoyable by his being there.

Constance noted that more than once Muriel Rutherford glanced back at them, her expression icy. Constance felt sure that Miss Rutherford was less than pleased that Leighton was not spending the time with her. She wondered if she was being foolish to feel that Miss Rutherford had taken an especial dislike to her. Perhaps the young woman looked at all other women with such disapproval.

Finally, when the carriage rolled across a small stone bridge over a serene creek and they stopped to admire the view, Miss Rutherford pulled to a halt, then turned and trotted back to join them.

“Is something wrong?” she asked as she rode up, though her voice expressed little tone of concern. “Do you need to return to the house?”

Constance felt sure that Muriel hoped that her surmise was correct. She found herself quite happy to dash her hopes. “No, we simply stopped to look at the view. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

Muriel gave her a look down the length of her nose, as if faintly surprised that Constance would address her. She glanced indifferently out over the water, lined with gracefully bending willows along its west bank.

“Yes, I suppose so.” She turned toward Leighton. “I am amazed to find you lagging behind, Dominic. Is Arion hurt?”

“No, he’s healthy as ever,” Leighton replied easily, patting his horse’s neck.

“He must be chafing at this slow pace,” Muriel commented, a contemptuous smile touching her lips.

Dominic quirked an eyebrow, looking faintly amused. “Are you criticizing my handling of my horse, Muriel?”

Even Miss Rutherford had the grace to blush at his question. “Good heavens, no, of course not. Everyone knows you ride like a centaur. I was merely…surprised at your setting such a slow pace.”

“I was simply enjoying a conversation with these lovely ladies,” Leighton replied easily. “Perhaps you would like to join us.”

Miss Rutherford glanced at the carriage. Constance suspected that riding alongside the landau ranked very low on her list. However, after a brief mental struggle, she offered a smile to Leighton and said, “Certainly. Why not?”

The remainder of the ride was far less enjoyable, for Muriel did her best to engage the viscount in conversation about people, places and events with which the other women were unfamiliar. Though Dominic time and again brought the conversation back to the others as best he could, Miss Rutherford quickly switched it to another equally unknown topic. It made for a disjointed and boring exchange. However, it was clear to her that Muriel was not interested in conversing so much as in showing Constance and the others that Lord Leighton and she were close friends, part of a group to which the other women did not belong.

The remainder of the ride was mercifully short. Not long after the bridge, they rolled into the quiet village of Cowden. The square stone, battlemented tower of the church was visible above the trees, and they soon pulled to a stop beside the churchyard. A lych-gate led into the graveyard behind the church.

The other members of the party had already dismounted and were standing in the shaded side yard of the church, chatting amongst themselves, having handed over their mounts to the two grooms who had accompanied them.

Leighton dismounted and turned to help the ladies down from the carriage. When they reached the others, they saw that their group had been joined by the black-clad rector, a white-haired, well-rounded gentleman who beamed at them.

“Well, well, welcome to St. Edmund’s,” he said cheerfully, bouncing a little on his toes. “It is not often that we have so many distinguished visitors. Lord Leighton.” He bowed toward Leighton, his smile broadening even more.

He led them into the church, pointing out the Norman tower, which dated from the thirteenth century, and the charming metalwork on the ancient wooden doors. Inside, he continued extolling the historic and architectural virtues of the church in a rich, rolling voice that doubtless stood him in good stead when delivering his sermons. He pointed out the fifteenth-century octagonal font made of brass, and the Flemish stained-glass east window through which the sun filtered, throwing jewel-like colors across the stone floors.

They walked past tombs covered with the effigies of this or that lord or lady, including the apparent focal point of the church, a highly detailed stone rendering of a thirteenth-century Sir Florian FitzAlan, the precursor of all the other Lords Leighton and Earls of Selbrooke whose tombs and memorials lined the east wall of the church. He lay, sword strapped to his side, his hands folded prayerfully on his chest and his feet propped on his faithful staghound.

They admired the medieval wall painting, now faded almost into nothing, of the twelve apostles, as well as the gothic arches, and the Jacobean black walnut pews and high pulpit, the latter topped with a flat sounding board. The enclosed pew belonging to the Earl’s family was, Constance noticed, far roomier than any of the others, and its back rose so high as to make the family virtually invisible to the other parishioners behind them.

As the priest led them to the chancel at the front of the church, describing the carved rood screen and the marble altar, Constance trailed along behind the others, looking at the effigies and memorials. Though she admired the unexpectedly fine artistic points of the church, it was these reminders of the departed humans who had lived and worshipped here that most intrigued her.

“The FitzAlans are a disgustingly self-satisfied lot, are we not?” murmured a wry voice behind her, and Constance turned to see Leighton standing there. He nodded toward the brass memorial touting the virtues of the First Earl of Selbrooke.

Constance smiled. “I suspect most tombs and memorials describe their subjects in rather glowing terms.”

“Hmm, no doubt. But I have seen the portrait of that fellow, and I can tell you that he looked more like a tyrant than a ‘kinde and gentle’ father and ‘just master.’ This one, on the other hand—” he pointed to a brass plaque a few feet ahead of them on the wall “—had a decidedly weak chin and a rather hunted look. It was said that his lady was a virago, which perhaps explains the fearful expression.”

Constance chuckled, rebuking him in a playful tone, “I think you are too severe with your ancestors.”

“You would not say that if you had seen the gallery of their portraits. I will show it to you tomorrow, and you will understand.”

They strolled along slowly, looking at the statues and markers. Dominic pointed out certain phrases and names that had caught his fancy over the years, murmuring sardonic comments about many of them.

“Stop,” Constance told him with mock severity. “You will have me laughing most improperly in church.”

He cast a glance over at their group, who were clustered in the small side chapel, listening to the priest expound on the perpendicular style of the windows. He took her arm and nodded toward the back of the church. “Then let us walk outside, where we won’t disturb the sanctity.”