The Marriage Wager (13 page)

He must be, as Lady Rutherford had said, a rake. And not just a libertine who sought the pleasures of the flesh with demireps or experienced ladies of the Ton, wives or widows who knew exactly what they were doing. He was the sort who seduced virgins, young ladies whose reputations would be ruined as a result. He was, in short, the kind of uncaring roué whom Constance would have sworn he could not be.

Her disillusionment was bitter. She felt wounded and betrayed. It hurt to know that Dominic was engaged to another woman, but it hurt even more to realize how mistaken she had been in her estimation of him.

Slowly, sadly, she got up and walked back through the garden and into the house. There was the sound of many voices, some of them masculine, coming from the sitting room as she passed, and she thought that the hunters must have returned. She did not pause, however, just quickened her steps until she reached the stairs.

Upstairs in her bedroom, she closed the door behind her and went to sit down beside the window. She wanted to leave, just pack her things and go, but that was impossible. She could scarcely explain to anyone why she no longer wanted to be there, and even if she could, she refused to admit that she had been so naive as to have been deceived by Lord Leighton or so foolish as to have been hurt by learning that he planned to marry another woman.

Clearly, she must stay. And just as clearly, she told herself, she must avoid Lord Leighton. But she could not remain in her room, as she wished to. That would be not only impractical, but also cowardly. Besides, she refused to allow anyone to see that his actions—or Lady Rutherford’s news—had in any way bothered her.

Having made her decision, she went along the corridor to Francesca’s room, where she offered to sit with the patient while Maisie took another break. Francesca awoke at Constance’s entrance and smiled weakly.

“Oh dear, I have been a very bad hostess, I’m afraid,” she said, stretching out a hand.

Constance smiled at her reassuringly and took her hand. “No, of course not. I have been doing very well on my own. There was the trip yesterday to St. Edmund’s, which was quite enjoyable, and today I walked a bit in the gardens, and before that I visited with your mother and my aunt and Lady Rutherford.”

Francesca made a face. “Oh dear. I am even more surprised that you are not angry with me, then.”

Constance smiled and lied, “It was not so bad.”

“You are very good to lie to me.” Francesca sighed. “Maisie tells me I am better. I do not feel hot now, at least. But I am so very tired. Still, soon I will be well.” She forced a faint smile. “And then I promise I shall be a more entertaining companion.”

“Do not worry about it. Would you like me to get you anything? Or to read to you?”

“No, ’tis enough for you to sit here with me. Tell me what has happened.”

“Why, very little, really,” Constance said, sitting down in the chair beside her bed. She longed to ask Francesca if it was true that Lord Leighton was engaged to Muriel Rutherford, but she could not think of a way to phrase it that would not reveal her own interest in Francesca’s brother.

“Tell me about Mr. Willoughby and the others. Have any of them made any headway with you?”

Constance shook her head and let herself be diverted. “I fear you will find me a hard case, indeed. But I promise you that I will do my best to spend more time with them this evening and tomorrow.”

After all, she thought, she would have to occupy her time somehow if she was to manage to avoid being around Lord Leighton.

With that aim in mind, Constance went down to supper later. She cast her eyes over the people in the room. She quickly spotted Dominic’s tall figure standing on the far side of the room, talking to Mr. Norton and his sisters. He looked up and saw her, and a smile crossed his face.

Constance glanced away, searching for some other conversation to join. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lord Leighton leave the Nortons and start in her direction. Quickly she walked to her left. Her aunt was sitting against the wall, and she could join her, if nothing else.

Fortunately, Sir Lucien, who was chatting with Alfred Penrose, turned at that moment and saw her, and he smiled. “My dear Miss Woodley, do join us. You have met Mr. Penrose, have you not?”

“Yes, indeed. It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Penrose.” Constance’s smile was bright with relief, so much so that Penrose straightened a little and looked back at her with interest.

They chatted a little about the visit to the church, which Sir Lucien said—with a certain twinkle in his eye—he regretted he had missed.

“Indeed, sir, you missed a great deal,” Constance told him. “It was very interesting.”

Mr. Penrose looked at her in such astonishment that Constance was betrayed into a giggle.

“It was a dead loss,” Penrose told Lucien bluntly. “Unless you’re one of those poetic sorts who likes to hang about in graveyards. Or look at effigies of people who died four hundred years ago. Gave me the shivers.”

“Ah, Miss Woodley, Mr. Penrose has shamed you with his candor. Now tell me, how did you actually enjoy the trip?” Sir Lucien grinned impishly at her.

Constance chuckled. “You will not lead me to criticize it, Sir Lucien. I fear I must be one of those ghoulish sorts who likes to look at effigies. It is quite an historical church. And as I had never seen it before, I found it enjoyable.”

“Hear, hear, Miss Woodley. I am glad to see that you are a staunch supporter of our small country entertainments.”

Constance turned quickly at the sound of Leighton’s voice. He had walked up to the edge of their group and was standing just behind her. He smiled at her, and she felt the familiar flutter inside.

For an instant her resolution wavered. Surely Lord Leighton could not be the man Lady Rutherford had described. He could not be a cad who pursued young females while he was engaged to marry another.

But, of course, she reminded herself, a deceiver would not be so successful if his deception were written plainly on his face. She steeled herself and gave him a nod that was polite but nothing more. “Lord Leighton.”

She turned back to Sir Lucien, who greeted Leighton warmly. So did Mr. Penrose, and Leighton took another step so that he was part of their small conversational group. Constance was careful not to look at him, and, fortunately, Sir Lucien engaged him in conversation so that she did not have to speak any further. When a few moments later the men’s conversation lagged, Constance looked across the room to where her aunt sat and quickly excused herself so that she might speak to Aunt Blanche.

She gave a general nod to all three men. Sir Lucien and Mr. Penrose merely smiled and bowed. Lord Leighton, she noticed, was watching her narrowly. She turned and hurried away before he could speak. It would look odd and obvious if he followed her now, she knew, so she would be safe, she hoped, until they went in to eat.

She was forced to endure her aunt’s chatter, of course, but she was correct in her estimation, and Leighton did not join them. Later, at supper, she was at the opposite end of the table from him, safely ensconced between Sir Lucien and Cyril Willoughby. When she sat down at the table, she was aware of Sir Lucien studying her for a moment, then glancing up the table. She followed his gaze. It seemed to her that he was looking at Leighton, and she wondered a little apprehensively if he had guessed something about her and Lord Leighton. Had she been too obvious in the haste with which she had left the group after Dominic arrived?

But then Sir Lucien glanced at her and smiled, and Constance felt reassured. She turned and asked Mr. Willoughby about the hunt that morning.

The meal passed easily enough, as did the rest of the evening. She was careful to sit between Miss Cuthbert and her own cousin Margaret after dinner. Miss Cuthbert said almost nothing, and Margaret chattered far too much; however, Constance had not chosen her position in order to enjoy the evening, but to ensure that it would be impossible for Lord Leighton to take a seat next to her when the men returned to the drawing room.

When the men did return, Lord Leighton took up a post by the mantel, resting his elbow on it as he surveyed the rest of the room. Constance carefully did not look at him, though she was certain that she felt his eyes on her several times. She waited until Miss Cuthbert rose to excuse herself for the evening, then popped up with her, saying that she thought she would retire early, as well.

She could not keep from casting a quick glance at Leighton and found him watching her, a frown on his face, as she walked out of the room with Miss Cuthbert. She had to pay, of course, for leaving early by spending a lonely hour or two reading or gazing disconsolately out the window before she was ready to go to bed. And even then she found it difficult to sleep, her mind retracing the same track it had run all day.

She awoke the next morning, heavy-lidded and tired, and decided to miss breakfast, taking only tea and toast on a tray in her room. She put on the most attractive of her day dresses, thinking to lift her mood a trifle by looking her best, then went down the hall to Francesca’s room for a visit.

Francesca, still stuffy-nosed and listless, was feeling somewhat better, and Constance stayed, reading to her for an hour or two until Francesca felt sleepy again. Then she made her way downstairs. She paused outside the cozy morning room where yesterday she had sat with the other women.

She started to go inside, but her gaze fell upon Lord Leighton sitting on a chair by the window, looking supremely bored. Quickly she slipped past the door, and hurried as quietly and quickly as possible down the hall toward the conservatory.

“Miss Woodley!” Constance heard her name called and glanced involuntarily over her shoulder.

Leighton had come to the doorway of the sitting room and was looking down the hallway at her. Without replying, Constance turned and whisked through the door into the conservatory. Almost running, she hurried through the large plant-filled room and out onto the terrace. She trotted down the steps and into the garden. She had almost reached the path she had taken the day before when she heard her name again, louder this time. Leighton had followed her onto the terrace.

She did not look back this time, but whipped around a hedge and down the path. Lifting her skirts to her ankles, she ran lightly along the path, following its twists and turns. She heard Leighton’s footsteps on the gravel behind her, and she knew that it would be impossible to get away from him.

“Constance!” His voice was close behind her. “Bloody hell, will you stop?”

She whirled to face him. “What?”

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, his breath rapid from the haste he had made in following her, his brow drawn into a scowl.

“Why are
you
following
me?
” she retorted.

“Because you will not talk to me,” Leighton answered, his scowl growing. “What the devil is the matter? Why have you been avoiding me?”

Constance drew herself up, saying coldly, “I am not in the habit of spending time alone with men who are engaged to other women.”

“Engaged!” He stared at her blankly for an instant, and then anger darkened his face. “Engaged?” He took two quick steps to her and grabbed her wrist. “Does this look like I am engaged?”

Then he jerked her forward, and his other arm wrapped around her, holding her tightly against his long, hard body, as his mouth came down to cover her own.

C
ONSTANCE WAS TOO
astonished to move or even protest. His arms were so tight around her that she could not move, and his mouth plundered hers, hot and consuming. She trembled, stunned by the desire that rushed through her at his kiss. She was suddenly on fire, wildly alive to every touch and sensation, her blood thrumming in her veins.

She had been thinking about his kiss for days, since the first time he had stolen a kiss from her in Lady Welcombe’s library. She had thought about every moment of it, every aspect, recreating it in her mind. Indeed, she had even dreamed about it.

But none of that compared to the reality. Her heart thundered; her every sense was overwhelmed. His mouth sank into hers, his lips seeking, taking, giving such pleasure that she was almost drowning in it. The fury in his kiss drained away until there was only hunger and a passion so intense that it seemed to fill up every fiber of her being.

His arms loosened around her, and his hands slid down her body, slowly gliding over her back and onto her sides, his thumbs brushing against the sides of her breasts as his hands moved down to her waist and over her hips. His fingers were spread wide, encompassing as much of her body as he could, and his skin was hot, searing through the muslin of her dress. He rounded his hands over the curve of her buttocks, caressing and squeezing, as he continued to kiss her. His fingers dug into her soft flesh, pushing her up and into him, so that she felt the hard length of his desire pressing into her abdomen.

Her flesh quivered, her loins turned pulsing and warm, and she yearned to press herself even more tightly against him until they melded together. An ache grew between her legs. She was not certain what she wanted, but she knew that she wanted it very much.

He pulled his mouth away, murmuring her name in a low, shaken whisper. He kissed her face and throat, his lips and teeth and tongue teasing and nibbling at her sensitive flesh as he made his way down the column of her neck. Constance let her head loll back, mutely offering up her throat to his mouth.

His hands slipped back up her body and cupped her breasts. She shuddered. Her breasts had ached for his touch, and now, as his fingers gently cradled the soft orbs, she was filled with a satisfaction that was equaled by an ever-growing hunger for more.

Dominic growled low in his throat, and his mouth came swiftly up to claim hers again. His long fingers gently squeezed her breasts as his thumbs brushed across her nipples, exciting them into hard points. His tongue teased her even as his fingers played with her nipples, arousing her almost unbearably.

She moved restlessly, yearning for more but not knowing what to do. Her hands moved instinctively, sliding up his chest and around to the back of his neck, shoving up into his hair. His hair slid like satin through her fingers, caressing her skin as she caressed him. Constance felt as if she were sliding down into some fiery pit of hunger, helpless, yet longing for her own immolation.

There was the sound of high-pitched laughter and the murmur of feminine voices. Dominic stiffened, then quickly straightened and cast a look around him. Taking Constance’s arm, he pulled her off the path and across the grass, then whisked her around a high hedge and into the shelter of a vine-covered arbor.

Deep in its shadow, they waited, every sense alert, as the sound of the voices drew nearer. Constance was standing only inches from him, her eyes level with his broad shoulders. She could feel the heat of his body, smell his scent, her skin so alive and sensitive that she could feel the very touch of the air on her flesh. His hands were on her upper arms, holding her in place, hot and heavy on her skin.

Constance looked up at him. His head was turned as he peered back through the vines and leaves toward the path where they had stood earlier. She realized how exposed they had been, how easily they could have been seen if anyone had happened to stroll by. She knew the damage that would have been done if they had been discovered in that compromising position; her reputation would have been ruined.

But even knowing that, it was not the chill of fear that permeated her body down to its bones; it was the glow of passion that his kisses and caresses had awakened in her. Her body still hummed with pleasure, still throbbed with desire. He could have had his way with her just then, she thought, and she would have done nothing to stop him. Indeed, she was sure that she would have urged him on.

The thought filled her with anger, more at herself than at him. How could she be so weak? So ruled by her passions instead of her head? It was little wonder that he felt free to treat her like a doxy when she was so ready to act like one!

The Norton sisters and Lord Dunborough appeared finally, walking along a path a few feet from where Constance and Dominic had been standing. The three guests did not look around them, never even glancing across the grass and through the trees to the vine-clad bower where Constance and Lord Leighton were concealed.

Dominic watched the others until they disappeared into the rose garden. He relaxed, his hands loosening on Constance’s shoulders. She wrenched away from him and started out of the arbor, but he reached out and grasped her wrist.

“No, wait!”

“Let me go!” she spat, whirling around to glare at him. “Or do you intend to force me right here in your mother’s garden?”

His mouth tightened, the skin around it turning whiter, and a light flared briefly in his eyes. “Of course not,” he said tersely.

“Then let me go.” She cast a pointed look at his hand wrapped tightly around her wrist.

He released her, holding his hands up and to the side a little as though to show his intention not to touch her again. “I apologize for my rash behavior. I was angry and I—’tis no excuse. I should not have seized you or…” His eyes darkened at the memory, and his gaze flickered for an instant to Constance’s mouth.

She thought of what he must see, her lips swollen and soft from his kisses, dark with the blood called by her passion. She flushed and turned away.

“Wait, please,” he said urgently, his voice lower and softer now. “Will you not at least give me a chance to speak on my own behalf? Are you so unfair as to condemn me without giving me an opportunity to defend myself?”

“How dare you?” Constance blazed, swinging back to face him, her eyes bright with anger. “How can you act as though I am the one who has done something wrong? You are the one who is manhandling a woman, holding her here against her will!”

“I am not holding you now. Please. I am sorry for acting boorishly. I ask only that you listen to me.”

Constance gazed at him for a long moment, aware of how very much she wanted to hear his explanation, how much she wanted him to explain away what she had heard, yet knowing that it was probably foolhardy to do so. It was clear that she could not trust herself around the man.

She crossed her arms across her chest. “All right. I will listen to you.”

“Thank you.”

He led her deeper into the garden, bringing her after a few minutes to a wooden bench that lay deep beneath the shade of a spreading willow tree. They were all but hidden from sight and far enough from any path that no one was likely to wander past. She and Dominic turned to face each other, standing several feet apart.

“Now, tell me,” Dominic said. “What did you hear? Why do you think I am engaged?”

“Lady Rutherford herself told me,” she replied. “She said that you are engaged to her daughter Muriel.”

His eyebrows soared upward. “Did she now?” He looked away meditatively. “She must be very sure of herself. Or very desperate.”

“It does not seem likely that she would lie,” Constance said. “It would be far too embarrassing to be caught in such an untruth.”

He nodded. “Yes. I can understand why you believed her.” He came closer to her, reaching out to take both her hands in his, and looked intently down into her face. “But it
is
a lie, nonetheless. I am not engaged to Muriel Rutherford. I never have been and never will be. I can promise you that.”

Constance’s hands trembled in his as relief rushed through her. She felt suddenly breathless and lightheaded, as though she might faint, and she moved away, sitting down abruptly on the bench.

“Constance? Are you all right?” Leighton went down on one knee in front of her, gazing at her with concern in his eyes.

She nodded. “Yes. I—” She shook her head, not knowing what to say.

“Do you believe me?” he pressed her. “I swear to you that I am telling you the truth. Ask Francesca. Ask my parents. I have not made Muriel an offer.”

Constance looked at him. His face was grave, his blue eyes dark here in the deep shade of the tree and filled with an intensity that she had never seen there before.

The heavy weight that had pressed upon her chest for the past day was lifted now, and filling the space it had left was an uplifting joy. “Yes,” she murmured, scarcely trusting her voice. “Yes, I believe you.”

Relief flooded his face, and he smiled at her, then raised her hand and pressed his lips to it. “Thank you.”

He sat down on the bench beside her, still keeping her hand in his. He raised it again and laid a kiss upon her palm, cradling her hand against his cheek.

Constance gave in to a moment of weakness and leaned her head against his arm. Then, with a sigh, she straightened.

“Why would Lady Rutherford make such a claim when she could be so easily found out? It would be humiliating to have you deny it.”

He shrugged. “I presume she was hoping that you would not have the courage to ask me outright, that you would assume I had been deceiving you. Or perhaps she was hoping she could force my hand, that if she announced it, I would simply acquiesce. Give in to the pressure.”

“Why would she think that?”

Dominic gave her an amused glance. “Because Lady Rutherford does not know me. She is used to bending others to her not inconsiderable will. Her husband and her children dance to her tune. I know how haughty and ill-natured Muriel is, how much she expects to get her way. But I can tell you that she does not cross her mother. I suppose that Lady Rutherford might have thought she could bully me, as well.”

Dominic sighed and stood up, beginning to pace. “There is no engagement. Or even any sort of understanding between us. But it
is
my parents’ dearest wish that I marry Muriel. They have been plaguing me with it from the day I became heir to the title. My parents wish it, and Lady Rutherford wishes it, which means that Lord Rutherford wishes it.”

“If all these people wish it, does that mean that eventually you will agree?” Constance asked, her newfound happiness beginning to crumble around the edges.

“No!” he retorted sharply. “God, no! I would as soon take a viper to my bed as wed Muriel. Indeed, there would probably be little difference in the two.”

“But do your parents not realize how much you dislike the match?” Constance asked.

Dominic let out a snort. “My parents do not care what my feelings regarding the matter are. That is not important. All that is important in their eyes is the estate. The family.” He sighed and resumed his seat beside her. “Redfields is a large estate, but the lands have been much encumbered over the years. The family needs an infusion of gold, you see. My father has chosen me as the sacrificial lamb to bring about this happy result.”

“And the Rutherfords are wealthy?”

“Very.” He nodded. “Despite all their pretensions, Lord Rutherford’s title is not an old one, and there is the taint of trade in their background. Lady Rutherford’s grandfather, you see, made a fortune in the wool industry, enough to snare a nobleman’s daughter for his son and a baron for his granddaughter. Now Lady Rutherford is eager to make her daughter a countess.”

“I see.”

“They cooked up the scheme between the two of them, my father and Lady Rutherford. It suits them perfectly, and the wishes of the persons involved do not matter. One must do one’s duty. The family is all that is important.”

“And what of Muriel?” Constance asked, though she was rather sure that she knew the answer to that question. Muriel had made it clear that she considered Leighton her property.

“I think she is agreeable. She is proud and ambitious, much like her mother. She aims for an earl only because there is little prospect of anyone higher. If she thought she had any chance of Rochford, believe me, she would try for him. No doubt I would be far down on her list were it not for the fact that she is beginning to feel desperate. She finds me…lacking in the proper respect for my position.” He quirked a smile at Constance. “But no doubt she feels sure that she will be able to crush all levity out of me once we are married.”

“I imagine she is capable of that,” Constance agreed. “I must confess that I am glad you are unwilling to marry her. I cannot like Miss Rutherford.”

“Neither can I. I knew that my father hoped to force the match upon me at this party. That is why I had planned to stay well away from it.” He paused and looked at her. “Until Francesca told me that you were planning to attend.”

Constance looked at him, then quickly away. The warmth in his eyes unsettled her. She was very glad to learn that Lady Rutherford’s tale of his betrothal to her daughter had been nothing but a fabrication, but she was also well aware that the factors that had made his father pursue the match were still there. The family required an heiress for Dominic’s bride. He was not for her any more than he had been a moment earlier. He had not deceived her; he had not acted the part of a cad. But, still, one day he would have to marry to please the family. Constance knew that it would be complete folly to let herself even start on that slippery slope that led to love.

“But you are not one to shirk your duty,” she said quietly.

His gaze flickered over to her. He studied her for a moment, then answered just as quietly, “No, I suppose I am not. Though I have done my best to ignore it for the last two years.”

Constance looked at him. His jaw was set, the usual amused expression utterly gone. Looking at him thus, she had little trouble believing him a man who had gone to war for his country, who had fought and bled and led men into battle. He had known sacrifice.