The Marriage Wager (17 page)

He glanced at her, surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s in your voice. And in the way you know your tenants and their families. The way you asked after them.”

The knowledge caused a sharp pain in her chest. It was clear to her that Dominic would do whatever was necessary to help the estate. No doubt that would include marrying an heiress.

“I am surprised that you have stayed away from it so long,” she went on.

He glanced at her, his eyes bright and hard. “My father and I are…estranged.”

Constance did not say anything, reluctant to pry into his affairs, and after a moment, he went on. “He and I had a falling out years ago. He ordered me off the land. After that I could not return—would not have, even if I could. I gave up all ties to Redfields then. I despised the place. I despised my family.”

Constance made a small noise, and he looked at her. “You disapprove,” he said.

“No. I—I am just surprised. I had not realized how much your past troubled you.” She thought of his light manner, the easygoing smile. She had realized that there was a rift between him and his father, but she had not guessed at how deep it ran. The pain was still clear in his voice.

Dominic grimaced. “I have done my best to get away from my past, but I have found it a difficult thing to outrun.”

Constance took his hand, and he smiled down at her. “Dear Constance,” he said, reaching up with his other hand to cup her chin. “You are always so kind, so ready with your sympathy, your warmth. I fear you would be appalled if you knew what my family was really like.”

“I am sure I am a great deal less kind than you give me credit for,” she replied, with a rueful smile. “And whatever your family may be, I know you and I know your sister, and neither of you is wicked.”

“Perhaps Francesca and I were not wicked, only negligent. Selfish…” He sighed, then tugged her toward a large rock. “Come, sit down here with me, and I will tell you about the FitzAlans.”

“F
RANCESCA AND
I
WERE
close in age, only a year apart,” Dominic began after they had sat down on the rock. He held Constance’s hand in one of his, with the other tracing a light pattern over her palm. He watched his finger on her skin, not looking at her as he told his story.

“We had an older brother, Terence,” he went on. “He was three years older than I. And we had a younger sister, Ivy.” He smiled sadly. “She was the baby. Such a beautiful little girl. I remember, I thought she looked like an angel.”

The loss in his voice pierced Constance with sorrow, and she took his hand in both of hers, bringing it up to lay a soft kiss upon it. For a long moment she cradled his hand against her cheek, then let their joined hands fall back to her lap.

“My brother, however, was anything but an angel. Terence was always a bully. He terrorized Francesca and me when we were young, but Ivy was enough younger than the three of us that he did not bother her. Our governess knew what Terence was, and she did her best to protect Francesca and me from him. There was, of course, only so much she could do, for our parents would hear no ill of Terence.” His mouth twisted with remembered bitterness. “Terence was the heir, the perfect son. As far as my mother and father were concerned, he could do no wrong. Fortunately, Francesca and I had each other, so we were able to join forces to combat him. And, even better, eventually he went off to Eton and we had to put up with him only at holidays.”

He paused, gazing out across the vista before them. “Terence was better as we grew older. I never really liked him, but he left us alone more. I’m not sure if he gave up his bullying or simply confined it to school. At any rate, we did not have to be around him much. After Eton, there was Oxford for a couple of years, and when he grew tired of that, he did a tour of the Continent, then lived in London for a while. Finally, when he did come home to live, I was not often at Redfields. I had started Oxford by then, and after that I was busy being a young blade in London. Francesca was not home much of the time, either. She made her debut and got married. Neither of us realized…”

He stopped. Cold dread filled Constance’s stomach. She almost hoped he would not continue.

“But finally, when Francesca was home visiting, Ivy confided in her. She was, of course, too frightened to tell our parents, too sure that they would not believe her. She told Francesca that Terence had—had been forcing himself upon her for the past two years, since she was only fourteen. And she was in despair.”

“Oh, Dominic,” Constance breathed, and she put her arms around him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I am so sorry.”

He turned into her, sliding his arms around her and resting his cheek against her head. His voice was low and hoarse as he went on. “Francesca wrote to me. She urged me to come posthaste to Redfields and help them. She was frightened, but she hoped that while she was there, Terence would not try anything with Ivy. She had Ivy sleep in the room with her. But Terence tried to get around Francesca. He wanted to take Ivy riding with him, and she fled to Francesca, who confronted him, told him that she knew all about him and what he had done. He denied it, of course. He swore that Ivy was making it all up. Francesca went to my parents with Ivy and told them everything. And my parents…my parents sided with Terence. As they had always done. They would not believe Ivy. Francesca begged them to let Ivy come live with her, but they refused. They said it would reflect badly on them. They were afraid that Ivy would spread her ‘lies’ about Terence, about them.”

Dominic released Constance and sprang to his feet, as though unable to sit still any longer. He paced away from her and back, and she watched helplessly, seeing his pain and wishing that she could take it from him somehow.

“Francesca assured Ivy that all hope was not lost. When I arrived, she told her we would get her out of there. But Ivy did not believe her.” His mouth twisted, and moisture glimmered in his eyes. “And why should she have? All of us had failed her already. For two years she had been subjected to Terence and his attacks, and we had done nothing.”

“You didn’t know!” Constance cried out, jumping to her feet. “You couldn’t be expected to know.”

“I knew what he had been like. I should have paid more attention when I was home. I should have asked Ivy. Dear Lord, surely if I had just looked at her more closely, I would have seen her unhappiness! But I did not. I was having far too much fun cutting a swath through London.” He swung around, staring off into the distance as he said, “Ivy killed herself shortly before I arrived. She stole my father’s dueling pistol, and went out into the woods and shot herself in the head.”

“Oh, Dominic!” Constance went to him, her heart aching with pity. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek against his back. “I’m so sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”

He crossed his hands over hers, holding her tightly to him. “That is why I attacked Terence at her gravesite. No doubt someone has filled your ear with that story. It will not surprise you, I am sure, to hear that my father again sided with Terence. He threw me out and told me never to come back. I told him I had no desire ever to set foot in the house again. I left. My uncle, my mother’s brother, bought me my commission, and I went to the Peninsula. I never saw or spoke to my brother or my parents again until Terence died in a riding accident. My father had to take me back then. I was the heir. And I had to return. I never wanted anything less.”

Constance squeezed herself more tightly against him, as though she could force some of his pain out of him. Dominic turned, wrapping his arms around her, and they stood that way for a long time. Constance could hear the steady thud of his heart beneath her ear; his warmth enveloped her. Her body was alive to him, as it always was, but she pushed such wayward feelings out of her mind. She wanted to comfort him; she wished she could somehow leach his sorrow from his body.

Dominic curved his head down over hers. She felt the brush of his cheek against her hair. He squeezed her gently, and his lips pressed into her hair for an instant.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“I only wish I could make it better,” she answered, rubbing her hand against his back in a soothing circular motion.

“You do. Believe me, you do.” He hesitated, tensing slightly, and Constance went still in response, waiting.

Then a fat raindrop plopped upon her shoulder, followed by another on her back.

“What the devil?” Dominic released her and moved back, looking up at the sky.

They had been so wrapped up in their conversation that they had paid no attention to their surroundings. The pillowy white clouds that had made the day cooler had massed into a gray, lowering cover.

“We had better get back.” Dominic grasped her arm, and they started back down the hill, raindrops splattering on them with greater frequency.

The rain made the stony ground slicker, and they slipped again and again as they retraced their steps, slowing their speed. When they reached the trees, the branches provided more cover, but the wind and rain increased at such a rate that it scarcely mattered. Constance let out a little shriek and clutched at her head as the wind tore at her hat. She was too late, and the hat went sailing off through the trees.

She slipped and would have fallen but for Dominic’s hand on her arm. His fingers tightened painfully and they stayed upright, but in two more steps, the smooth sole of his riding boot went sliding on the wet leaves. He slipped, and they staggered. He grabbed for a tree branch, and then they were on the ground, flat on their backs, sliding along until they were stopped by a knobby tree root.

Dominic sat up and looked down at her. Constance let out a giggle and reached up to pluck the twig that had caught in his hair. He grinned, then laughed, too. The rain, coming faster now, sluiced down his head and face. He shoved his hair back with his hands and got to his feet, reaching down to pull Constance up. They scurried down the hillside to where their horses were tied. The rain was pounding down harder now. The horses jittered at the sound of thunder.

Dominic pointed toward the little cottage. “Go inside. We’ll wait it out. It’s getting worse. I’ll put the horses in that shed.”

Constance nodded, not eager to lead their horses down the rest of the hill and then ride for the summer house with the rain still pelting them. As Dominic untied the horses and led them to the shed, she ran for the cottage, keeping her skirts up as best she could. She didn’t know why she bothered, she thought. Her velvet riding habit was already sodden with rain, and not only splattered with mud about the hem but also liberally striped with it down her side and back from their fall. And that wasn’t even to mention leaves and twigs that had adhered to it as she slid along the ground.

She turned the latch and pushed, and for an instant the door stuck, but then it gave way with a creak, and she stepped into the room. She left the door open despite the rain; for there was little light inside the tiny one-room house. It was cool, too, in her wet clothes, and a shiver shook her. Constance wrapped her arms around herself and advanced farther into the room, looking around.

There was not much to see—it was a plain and sparsely furnished place. The entire house was but a single room. Two small windows, one almost completely overgrown with ivy outside, provided what light there was. A bed was pushed up against one wall, and there was a small table in the center of the room. A stool sat beside the table, and closer to the small fireplace, there was a wooden rocking chair. A braided rug lay on the floor beside the bed. Over everything, there was a layer of dust. She wondered how long it had been since the cottage had been inhabited. Years and years, it appeared.

Dominic entered the cottage on the run and stopped, taking in the place in a glance. “Not much here, I fear.” He looked at Constance. “You’re shivering.”

“Just a little. It’s the damp.”

“Damp?” He raised an amused eyebrow. “You are soaked through.”

Constance thought of how she must look, and she blushed, her hands going to her hair. Strands of it had come loose during their dash down the hill, almost a third of it on one side, and the locks straggled wetly around her face and down her back. Leaves and twigs had caught in it, as well, when they went sliding across the ground. Her riding habit was thoroughly wet and clinging to her, as well as being bedaubed with mud and stray leaves and twigs. She must look, she thought, a complete fright.

Dominic went over to the fireplace and dropped down to one knee in front of it. “Hope this still works,” he commented as he felt for the flue handle.

He began to build a fire with the small stack of logs beside the hearth. Constance busied herself with removing all the twigs and leaves she could find from her hair, while Dominic roamed the cottage and outside, collecting enough small dry twigs and bits of wood to use for kindling. It took some time, but eventually he got a small fire started in the fireplace, and, miraculously, it drew well enough to keep the smoke from flooding back into the room.

She took the remaining pins from her hair and set them on the table, then squeezed the water from her locks. Combing her fingers through her hair as best she could, she watched Dominic coax the little flames into a steady fire.

He turned toward her. “Here, come sit by the fire.”

Constance went closer, stopping beside him. He smiled down at her and reached out to take an errant leaf from her hair.

“I must look a mess,” she murmured.

“You look like a wood nymph,” he replied, and his smile widened. “A very wet wood nymph.”

“I
am
very wet,” Constance admitted, and another shiver shook her.

“You should get out of your clothes,” he told her. Their gazes locked. His words seemed to hang in the air.

Constance felt suddenly breathless. “I…um…”

Her mind was crowded with images of pulling off her clothes in front of Dominic, and, bizarrely, the heat that washed through her at the thought was less from shame than anticipation. She thought of Dominic’s fingers on the buttons of her bodice, peeling back the material, and the tremors that raced across her skin were no longer caused by cold.

He turned away abruptly and glanced around, then walked across the room, his moves a trifle jerky. A small trunk lay at the foot of the bed, and he opened it. Reaching in, he pulled out a blanket. He shook it out.

“Here, this should be a good bit cleaner than what’s on the bed. Take off your dress and wrap this around you. We shall spread your things out on the chair to dry.”

He slid off his jacket as he spoke, as though demonstrating, and hung it on the back of the rocker. His fingers went to the buttons of his waistcoat, and Constance found her eyes following their movements. She watched his long, supple fingers undo the buttons; it seemed as though she could not look away.

“Come,” he said, his voice husky. “You must. You will catch cold. I—I will go outside while you undress.”

“No, you’ll get wet. It is raining even harder,” Constance protested.

“I am already wet through,” he pointed out.

He was right, of course. Her gaze went to his white shirt, which clung to his chest, the thin lawn almost transparent. She could see the dark circles of his nipples, the lines of his musculature, the faint shading of hair in a V across the center of his chest. His riding breeches were molded just as wetly to his legs, suggestively outlining every taut muscle of his thighs and buttocks. It was almost worse, she thought, than if he had actually been naked, since she could think of nothing else but what her imagination was picturing beneath the clothes.

She realized that she was staring, and a hot flush spread up her neck and stained her cheeks. She had to say something, she thought, but her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth. “I-If you will turn your back…”

He nodded and swung around, going back to the chest at the foot of the bed and digging in it for another cover. Constance turned back to the fire and began to unbutton the bodice of her riding habit with unsteady fingers. Then she unbuttoned the skirt; it was heavy with water and slid swiftly downward, landing on the floor with a wet plop. She grasped the sides of her bodice and started to pull it off.