The Marriage Wager (3 page)

Another, smaller corridor took her past a set of double doors that stood partly open. She saw that it was a library. A smile touched her lips, and she stepped inside. It was a grand library, with bookshelves up to the ceiling filling all four walls except for the space occupied by windows. With a sigh of pure pleasure, she gave herself up to looking at the rows and rows of books.

Her father had been a scholarly man, far more inclined to keep his nose in books of this sort than in the books of accounts for his estate. Their library at home had been crammed full of volumes of every description, but that room had been much smaller than this one and could not have held a third of the books here.

She strolled over to the shelves on the opposite wall and was reading through the titles when she heard the clatter of hurrying footsteps in the marble-tiled hallway outside. A moment later a man burst into the room, looking harried. He checked for an instant when his eyes fell upon Constance, who was standing watching him in surprise.

He laid his forefinger against his lips in a gesture of silence, then slipped behind the door, out of sight.

C
ONSTANCE BLINKED IN
surprise, not sure what to make of this peculiar entrance. She hesitated, then started toward the open doorway. There was the sound of short, quick steps in the hallway, and Constance came to a halt as a woman now appeared in the doorway.

The new visitor was short and square, a startling vision in a puce overdress of sheer voile above a satin rose gown. Neither the material nor the fashionable color suited the woman’s middle-aged body. And the heavy frown she wore did nothing to improve her looks.

She glared somewhat accusingly at Constance and barked, “Have you seen the Viscount?”

“Here? In the library?” Constance raised her eyebrows in a skeptical way.

The other woman looked uncertain. “It does seem unlikely.” She glanced back into the hallway and then into the library. “But I am positive I saw Leighton come this way.”

“There was a man running down the hall only a moment ago,” Constance lied cheerfully. “He probably turned into the main corridor.”

The woman’s gaze sharpened. “Headed for the smoking room, I’ll warrant.”

She turned and bustled away in pursuit of her quarry.

When the sound of her footsteps had receded, the man emerged from behind the door, pushing it halfway closed, and let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

“Dear lady, I am eternally in your debt,” he told her with a charming grin.

Constance could not keep from smiling back. He was a handsome man, his looks enhanced by his smile and easy manner. He was a little taller than average, topping Constance by several inches, and slender, with a wiry body that hinted at hidden strength. He was dressed well but not meticulously in a formal black suit and white shirt, his ascot tied in a simple but fashionable style, with none of the fusses and frills of a dandy. His eyes were a deep blue, the color of a lake in summer, and his mouth was wide and mobile, accented by a deep dimple on one side. When he smiled, as he did now, his eyes lit up merrily, beckoning everyone around him to join in his good humor. His hair, dark blond sunkissed with lighter streaks, was worn a trifle longer than was fashionable and tousled in a way that owed more to carelessness than to his valet’s art.

He was, Constance thought, someone whom it was difficult to dislike, and she suspected that he was well aware of his effect, especially upon women. The unaccustomed visceral tug of attraction she felt inside was proof of his power, she thought, and firmly exercised control over the jangling of nerves in her stomach. She had to be immune to flirtatious smiles and handsome men, for she was not, after all, marriage material, and any other option was unthinkable.

“Viscount Leighton, I presume?” she said lightly.

“Alas, I am, for my sins,” he responded, and swept her a very creditable bow. “And your name, my lady?”

“It is merely miss,” she answered. “And it would be highly improper, I think, to give it to a stranger.”

“Ah, but not as highly improper as being alone with said stranger, as you are now,” he countered. “But once you tell me your name, we will no longer be strangers, and then all is perfectly respectable.”

She let out a little laugh at his reasoning. “I am Miss Woodley, my lord. Miss Constance Woodley.”

“Miss Constance Woodley,” he repeated, moving closer and saying confidentially, “now you must offer me your hand.”

“Indeed? Must I?” Constance’s eyes danced. She could not remember when she had last engaged in light flirtation with any man, and she found it quite invigorating.

“Oh, yes.” He made a grave face. “For if you do not, how am I to bow over it?”

“But you have already made a perfectly proper bow,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but not while I was so lucky as to be in possession of your hand,” he replied.

Constance extended her hand, saying, “You are a very persistent sort of fellow.”

He took her hand in his and bowed over it, holding it a bit longer than was proper. When he released it, he smiled at her, and Constance felt the warmth of his smile all the way down to her toes.

“Now we are friends, so all is proper.”

“Friends? We are but acquaintances, surely,” Constance replied.

“Ah, but you have saved me from Lady Taffington. That makes you very much my friend.”

“Then, as a friend, I feel I am free to inquire as to why you are hiding in the library from Lady Taffington. She did not seem fearsome enough to send a grown man into popping behind doors.”

“Then you do not know Lady Taffington. She is that most terrifying of all creatures, a marriage-minded mama.”

“Then you must take care not to run into my aunt,” Constance retorted.

He chuckled. “They are everywhere, I fear. The prospect of a future earldom is more than most can resist.”

“Some would think it is not so bad to be so eagerly desired.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps…if the pursuit had aught to do with me rather than my title.”

Constance suspected that Lord Leighton was sought after for far more than his title. He was, after all, devastatingly handsome and quite charming, as well. However, she could scarcely be so bold as to say so.

As she hesitated, he went on, “And for whom is your aunt hunting husbands?” His eyes flickered down to her ringless wedding finger and back up. “Not you, surely. I would think that it would be an easy task if that were the case.”

“No. Not me. I am well past that age by now.” She smiled a little to soften the words. “I am here only to help Aunt Blanche chaperone her daughters. They are making their come-out.”

He quirked one eyebrow. “You? A chaperone?” He smiled. “You will forgive me, I hope, if I say that sounds absurd. You are far too lovely to be a chaperone. I fear your aunt will find that her daughters’ suitors call to see you instead.”

“You, sir, are a flatterer.” Constance glanced toward the door. “I must go.”

“You will abandon me? Come, do not leave just yet. I am sure your cousins will survive a bit longer without your chaperonage.”

In truth, Constance had little desire to leave. It was far more entertaining to exchange light banter with the handsome viscount than it would be to stand with her cousins watching others talk and flirt. However, she feared that if she stayed away too long, her aunt would come looking for her. And the last thing she wanted was for Aunt Blanche to find her closeted here with a strange man. Even more than that, she had no desire for her aunt to meet Lord Leighton and become another of the pack of mothers who hounded him.

“No doubt. But I am neglecting my duty.” She held out her hand to him. “Goodbye, my lord.”

“Miss Woodley.” He took her hand in his, smiling down at her. “You have brightened up my evening considerably.”

Constance smiled back, unaware of how her enjoyment had put a sparkle in her eye and a flush in her cheeks. Even the severity of her gown and hairstyle could not mask her attractiveness.

He did not release her hand immediately, but stood, looking down into her face. Then, much to Constance’s surprise, he bent and kissed her.

Startled, she froze. The kiss was so unexpected that she did not pull away, and after a moment she found that she had no desire to do so. His lips were light and soft on hers, a mere brushing of his mouth against hers, but the touch sent a tingle all through her. She thought he would pull away, but to her further surprise, Leighton did not. Instead, his kiss deepened, his lips sinking into hers and gently, inexorably, opening her lips to him. Her hands went up instinctively to his chest. She should, she knew, thrust him away from her with great indignation.

But without any conscious thought, her hands instead curled into the lapels of his jacket, holding on against the swarm of sensations assaulting her. His hand went to her waist, wrapping around her and pulling her into him, and the other hand cupped the nape of her neck, holding her as his mouth worked its way with her.

Frankly, Constance was glad for his steadying support, for her knees seemed about to give way. Her entire body, in fact, suddenly was weak and melting and seemingly beyond her control. She had never felt anything like this before, not even when she was nineteen and in love with Gareth Hamilton. Gareth had kissed her when he asked her to marry him, and she had thought nothing could be as sweet. It had made things even harder when she had to turn him down in order to nurse her father through his last illness. But Lord Leighton’s embrace was not sweet at all; it was hard and demanding, and his kiss seared her. And though she scarcely knew the man, her body was trembling and her thoughts scattered to the winds.

He lifted his head, and for a long moment they stared at each other, more shaken than either cared to admit. Leighton drew a breath and stepped back, releasing Constance. She gazed at him, eyes wide, unable to speak. Then she turned and hurried from the room.

T
HERE WAS NO ONE IN THE
hallway outside the library, for which Constance was very grateful. She could not imagine how she must look. If it was anything like the way she felt inside, then she was sure that anyone who saw her would stare. Her heart was galloping in her chest, and her nerves were thrumming.

There was a mirror on the wall halfway down the corridor, and Constance walked to it to take stock of herself. Her eyes were soft and lambent, and her cheeks were stained with color, her lips reddened and soft. She looked, she realized, prettier. But was it as obvious to anyone else as it was to her what she had been doing?

With hands that trembled slightly, she tucked a stray hair or two back into the neat bun at the nape of her neck, and she drew several deep breaths. Her thoughts were not so easily brought out of turmoil. Thoughts and sensations tumbled madly about in her, resisting all attempts to bring them into order.

Why had Lord Leighton kissed her? Was he nothing but a rake, a vile seducer seeking to take advantage of a woman in a vulnerable position? She found it hard to believe. He had been so likeable, not only handsome, but with that charming twinkle in his eye, that easy sense of humor. But then, perhaps that was how rakes were. It would make sense. It would be far easier to seduce someone, no doubt, if one were charming.

Still, she could not quite believe it about Lord Leighton. And there had been that look of surprise on his face when he had pulled back from her, as though he had not quite expected what had happened, either. And he had not gone forward with any seduction—even though she would certainly not have put up any resistance, as lost in his kiss as she had been. Surely his breaking off the kiss was proof that he was too gentlemanly to press the advantage.

He had meant to kiss her, of course, even if it had been an impulsive gesture. But she remembered how the kiss, a light touch at first, had deepened into passion. Had he meant only a mischievous little kiss, but then desire had overtaken him, just as it had her?

That thought brought a small, satisfied smile to Constance’s lips. She would like to think that she had not been the only one swept away by ardor.

She looked again at her image in the mirror. Could it be that Viscount Leighton had found her pretty in spite of her plain clothes? She studied her face. It was a pleasant oval shape and her features were even. She did not think she looked much older than she had at twenty. And there had even been a man or two besides Gareth who, when she was young, had called her gray eyes beautiful and her dark brown hair lustrous. Had Leighton seen past her current dullness to the pretty girl she had once been?

She would like to think so, that he had found her attractive, even desirable, that he had not simply thought her an easy target for his attentions.

Of course, how was she to know what Lord Leighton felt, she thought, when she did not even know how she felt herself! She had liked the man immediately. He had made her laugh, and she had enjoyed talking to him. But there had been something more…something she had felt as soon as he entered the room. The way he had looked at her, the way he had smiled, had set up an unusual warmth inside her, an odd fizz of interest, even excitement. And when he had kissed her, she had been prey to feelings she had never had before, never even dreamed of having. What she had felt, she thought, was lust, the very passion that young women were forever being warned about, the thing that would lead them down the path to ruin.

She had never felt it before. She had assumed she never would. She was, after all, twenty-eight, long past the possibility of romance. But, she thought with another little secretive smile, apparently she was not past the age to feel desire.

Constance started back down the corridor and slipped into the great room. The crowded room was stifling, and the noise was loud and grating on her ears. She wound her way through the people, coming at last back to her aunt and uncle.

To her surprise, her aunt did not take her to task for the length of time that she had spent away. Instead she beamed at Constance and wrapped her hand around her arm, pulling her closer.

“What did she say?” Aunt Blanche asked eagerly, leaning close to hear above the noise. Then, without waiting for a response, she charged on. “To think of Lady Haughston taking notice of us! I could have dropped dead in my tracks when Lady Welcombe introduced her to us. I’d no idea that such a one as she had even noticed us, let alone wanted to make our acquaintance. What did she say? What was she like?”

It took a little effort for Constance to pull her mind back to her stroll about the room with Lady Haughston. What had happened afterward had driven it completely out of her head.

“She was very nice,” Constance said. “I liked her a great deal.”

She wondered whether she should tell her aunt about Lady Haughston’s offer to take her shopping the next day. It seemed, in retrospect, unlikely that the woman had actually meant what she said. The conversation had been pleasant, but it was absurd, surely, to think that a woman of Lady Haughston’s position in the Ton would make such an effort to befriend her. Constance came from a respectable family, certainly, one that could trace its ancestors back to the Tudors, but her father’s title had been merely that of a baronet, and her family was not wealthy. She and her father had lived a quiet life in the country; she had never even been to London before this Season.