The Marriage Wager (7 page)

They took time out for tea, which they had in the shade in the pleasant little garden in back, then went back inside to begin their preparations for the party. They chatted and laughed as Maisie helped them into their clothes and did their hair. Constance could not remember when she had enjoyed herself so much. This, she thought, must be what it was like to have a sister—or what it might be like getting ready with her cousins if she did not spend all her time helping them into their clothes or putting up their hair or finding their lost gloves and fans.

Then, at last, Maisie was done and they were ready. As Francesca beamed at her like a proud mother, Constance went to the mirror for one last look at herself.

“Oh, my.” She could not hold back the soft exclamation.

Her hair was pulled up and caught in a cluster of curls, and feathery wisps curled softly around her face. Her dark brown tresses gleamed in the soft glow of the candles, warm and lustrous, the red highlights catching the light. The spray of tiny blue silk rosebuds that Francesca had bought for her the day before was pinned into her hair at the base of the cluster of curls.

The blue dress fitted her perfectly, the bodice cupping her breasts, then falling from the high waist in graceful folds that swayed with her movements as she walked. Excitement stained her cheeks with color and glowed in her large gray eyes. She knew that she had never looked lovelier.

“Ah, I think I hear Dom’s voice downstairs,” Francesca said, and they left the room, walking down the curved staircase together.

Lord Leighton stood in the entryway at the foot of the staircase, and he turned at the sound of their approach, looking up the stairs. He stiffened, and his eyes widened as he saw Constance.

Unconsciously, he took a step closer, and the slightly stunned expression on his face was everything that Constance could have hoped for.

“Miss Woodley,” he said, recovering himself and sweeping her a bow. “You take my breath away.”

Francesca laughed and said lightly, “Watch out for this one, Constance. He can charm the birds from the trees.”

“I am well aware that he is a terrible flatterer,” Constance replied in the same light vein.

“You wrong me, both of you,” Leighton retorted, taking the hand his sister held out and bowing over it, then doing the same with Constance. A thrill sizzled through her at the brush of his lips against her hand, even through the cloth of her glove.

She could feel the color rising higher in her cheeks. She stole a look at Dominic and found him gazing at her. There was a look in his dark blue eyes that set her heart thumping madly in her chest.

“Remember that you have promised the first dance to me, Miss Woodley,” he said quietly.

“I would not forget, my lord,” Constance replied, and swept out the door before him, anticipation swelling in her chest.

Tonight, she thought, unsure whether her words were of prayer or dread, was the start of a different life.

C
ONSTANCE WAS VERY AWARE
of Leighton’s hand around hers as he helped her up into the carriage. He was watching her, she knew, despite the dimness of the light, as the coach rolled away from the house and started up the street.

“Are you going to Redfields next week, Dom?” Francesca asked.

The grimace he gave her in response did not indicate that that was a very likely prospect, Constance thought.

“Not if I can find anything better,” he replied, adding, “And I shouldn’t think that would be difficult.”

“You should go. You have a duty to the estate, you know. Now that you are the heir.”

He shrugged. “I doubt I will be missed.”

“Of course you will be. Everyone always asks about you.”

Leighton raised one eyebrow skeptically. “The earl and countess?”

Weren’t the earl and countess Leighton’s parents? Constance wondered. It seemed odd that he should refer to them so formally. She supposed that he could be inheriting the estate from an uncle, but, no, she was certain that Francesca had said that Leighton had become the heir when their elder brother died. It did not, she thought, seem that there was much love lost between Dominic and his parents, especially given the fact that Francesca responded to his question with an uncomfortable silence.

Leighton sent his sister a faint twist of a smile. “I cannot imagine why you go, frankly.”

“I have a dreary tendency to do what is expected of me.”

“And you wish to make me do the same?” he asked lightly.

“No. I wish to make my own time there more lively,” she told him, a grin dimpling her cheek. “You know Mother and Father invite the most dreadfully dull group of people. I merely attempt to liven it up.”

Her eyes lit up, and she turned to Constance excitedly. “You must come with me.”

Constance looked back at her, surprised. “To visit your parents?”

“It isn’t just a family gathering,” Francesca assured her. “They have a large party at Redfields every year. That’s our country house. It’s a huge, old rambling place, and they have dozens of guests.”

“Our father and mother and a dreadfully dull guest list hardly make it sound appealing, Francesca,” her brother pointed out, grinning.

“Oh, but it won’t be dull,” Francesca told Constance earnestly. “You mustn’t think that. I will make sure to invite a number of interesting people.”

Her eyes were bright; one could almost see the thoughts spinning through her head. Constance had the suspicion that what Francesca meant by “interesting people” was marriageable men.

Her suspicion was confirmed when Francesca added, “It will be a perfect opportunity for you to meet people.”

“But your parents do not even know me,” Constance protested automatically, although the prospect of attending a country party was quite alluring.

“That won’t matter. And there will be people you know. I will attend, and my friend, Sir Lucien Talbot. I will introduce you to him tonight. And Dominic will be there.”

“I will?” he repeated, sounding amused.

“Yes, of course, you will. You have avoided them long enough. It is high time you went to visit them, and you know it. Far easier, don’t you think, with a house full of people?”

“You may have a point.”

Constance wondered what trouble lay between Lord Leighton and his parents. It sounded as though he had been avoiding them for some time, and she could not help but be curious about what manner of thing could have so separated his father from the heir.

Their barouche drew up behind a line of carriages that were disgorging their finely dressed occupants. Leighton stepped out and handed first his sister, then Constance, out of the carriage. A woman from another vehicle immediately swooped down upon Francesca, pulling her along as she talked animatedly.

Lord Leighton offered his arm to Constance, and they followed at a more leisurely pace. She hoped that the viscount could not feel the slight trembling of her fingers upon his arm. Being this near to him did funny things to her insides, she found, and her mind was peculiarly blank.

The silence grew, and Constance felt awkward. She cast about anxiously for something to say. “Will you go then to the party at Redfields?”

“Perhaps.” She could feel his shrug. He looked down at her and smiled, a wicked light gleaming in his dark blue eyes. “If you will be there, the idea of going has much more appeal.”

Constance felt a little breathless at his words, but she struggled to appear nonchalant. “I fear, sir, that you are a terrible flirt.”

He chuckled. “You misjudge me, Miss Woodley.”

She noticed that he had not actually denied her words, and that fact made her feel a little downcast. She told herself not to be foolish. It was clear what sort of man Lord Leighton was. She had known it from the moment he kissed her at the party the other night. Even his own sister had warned her of it, however lightly Francesca had said it.

But that was precisely what she wanted, after all—fun and flirtation. That was the purpose of her one Season. To dance and laugh and enjoy herself. Whatever Francesca thought, Constance did not intend to look for a husband. She wanted only to have something to remember.

They caught up with Francesca at the door to the Simmingtons mansion, and the other woman turned to them with relief, leaving her voluble companion. They joined a line of people snaking up the stairs and into the grand ballroom. Francesca and her brother were greeted by the people around them, and there was a steady stream of guests coming up to say hello before returning to their places in line. Constance was aware of the multitude of curious glances turned in her direction.

Francesca introduced her to a dizzying number of people. Constance was sure she would never be able to remember all the names. Francesca turned to her and leaned closer to whisper, “You are causing quite a stir tonight.”

“I am?” Constance looked at her in surprise. She knew she had received a number of looks, but she had assumed that people were simply curious about why someone as unknown as she was with Lady Haughston and Lord Leighton.

“Oh, yes.” Francesca nodded with a satisfied little smile. “They are wondering who that beautiful woman is with us.”

Constance chuckled. “I am sure not.”

“It’s the truth!” Francesca protested. “Why do you think so many people have felt the need to stop to say hello? They are all hoping to meet you.”

Constance suspected that Francesca was exaggerating, but she could not help but feel a little pleased at her words.

“Ah, look, there is Lucien.” Francesca waved to a man who had just entered the house.

He smiled and made his way over to them, pausing to chat with people on the way. He was, Constance thought, the epitome of the world-weary, fashionable gentleman, from the top of his brown locks, carefully styled in the Brutus fashion, to the tips of his black shoes made of butter-soft leather. His ascot was exquisitely tied; his suit jacket had been cut to fit him perfectly. And Constance was certain that everything on him, from the heavy onyx ring on his right hand to the silk stockings below his formal black breeches, had been chosen by him for just the right effect.

Francesca introduced him to Constance and he swept her an elegant bow. Next to Sir Lucien, Constance thought, Lord Leighton looked a trifle thrown together—his hair too long and unstyled, his long, strong fingers devoid of any ornamentation, his ascot tied in a simple manner, and his clothes, though of excellent cut and quality, not so perfectly coordinated as Sir Lucien’s. But Constance could not help but prefer Leighton’s unstudied masculine good looks and easy-going manner. Leighton was clearly not a man who spent much of his life in front of his mirror, and he seemed all the more compelling because of that.

“Well, Lady Simmington is living up to her reputation,” Sir Lucien commented, casting a glance around them.

The house had been decorated beautifully, with garlands of ivy and ribbons twining up the banisters of the stairs, fragrant flowers nestled here and there among the leaves. Flowers were massed in colorful clumps in great urns at the top of the stairs, and everywhere candles blazed, burning in sconces along the walls and in chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, as well as in tall stands of candelabras. The glow of the candlelight caught on the jewels that glittered at the throats and wrists of the women, casting back their brilliance, and in its golden warmth, the colors of the gowns seemed deeper and richer and the lines softened. From the ballroom beyond came the strains of music rising above the babble of voices, faint and inviting.

“The cream of the Ton is here tonight,” Sir Lucien went on. “Of course, no one dares not accept—people might think they were not invited.”

At the top of the stairs, Lady Simmington bid them welcome in a grave way, as though she were bestowing an honor. Francesca introduced Constance to her, but Constance felt sure the woman barely heard her name as she smiled and regally gestured with her hand toward the ballroom, moving the line along.

“Is she always so…?” Constance struggled to think of the right word to describe Lady Simmington.

“Arrogant?” Leighton supplied with a smile.

Francesca and Lucien chuckled.

“Oh, no,” Sir Lucien replied. “Sometimes she is far worse. Lady Honore was old Montbrook’s youngest daughter.”

“The Duke,” Francesca elaborated.

“The old codger who sleeps in his chair at White’s all day?” Leighton asked.

“I don’t know about that, but he’s marvelously old and deaf as a post, and I understand he still wears white wigs and shoes with diamond buckles,” Francesca said.

“Yes. He looks as if he’s about to be presented at Court every day,” Leighton told her. “Must take him two hours to get dressed.”

“My dear fellow,” Lucien stuck in, “it takes
me
two hours to dress in the morning.”

“Anyway, Lady Honore expected to marry a duke herself and was mightily disappointed that there were none available when it came time for her to come out. She had to settle for an earl, and I can tell you that she feels it was quite a comedown. Fortunately, however, Simmington is enormously wealthy, which allows her to spend as though she were a duchess—a royal duchess, even. So between those two things—her family line and Simmington’s money—she is of the opinion that almost everyone in the Ton is beneath her. Although I believe she would admit that the Prince outranks her.”

“Really?” Leighton countered. “I distinctly remember her referring to the royal family as those German upstarts.”

Her attention only partially on her companions’ conversation, Constance glanced around the enormous ballroom. It was far larger than the great hall in which Lady Welcombe had held her rout. Like the staircase and entryway, it was lavishly decorated with flowers, garlands and candles. Tall windows, framed with plush velvet drapes, lined one wall and chairs were placed along the opposite long wall. At the far end of the room, on a small raised platform, was a small orchestra. Overhead hung three large glass chandeliers, blazing with the reflected light of their candles. People were clustered around the edges of the room, talking and watching the dancers, while in the middle of the room, lines of dancers went through the opening quadrille.

Over by the wall of windows, Constance caught sight of her aunt and uncle and their daughters, looking awed. It was, she thought, quite different from the small assemblies and balls that she and her family were used to in the country. And none of the other parties they had attended since they moved to London had prepared them for this.

As Constance and her companions stood watching, the quadrille ended, and Lord Leighton turned to her. “I believe this dance was promised to me.”

Her heart beating fast, Constance put her hand on his arm and walked with him out onto the dance floor as the orchestra struck up a waltz. Her stomach was clenched with nerves. She had danced the waltz before, but not often. Assemblies and balls in the country were more conservative than those in London, and the waltz was still regarded somewhat askance there. Certainly she had not danced it with anyone but men whom she had known since childhood. She was afraid that she would make a mistake, that she would slip or stumble or tread on Leighton’s toe, and he would think her oafish.

He turned to face her, putting his hand on her waist and taking her other hand in his. Constance’s mind went suddenly blank, and she realized that she had quite forgotten the steps. Then he swept her out onto the floor, and all thoughts and fears fell away. He moved with a grace and strength that was missing in most of Constance’s usual partners, guiding her expertly about the floor. It felt heavenly and natural to be in his arms, and she moved without thinking, feeling only the joy of the music, the excitement of his closeness.

She looked up into his face and smiled, unaware of how her smile dazzled. He drew in a sharp little breath, and his hand tightened for an instant on her waist.

“I cannot think why I have not seen you before the other night,” he said. “Did you just recently come to town?”

“We have been here for three weeks.”

He shook his head. “I could not have seen you and not noticed.”

Constance felt sure that he could have; until tonight, she had always been in the background, drab and unnoticed in her spinsterish clothes. But she did not want to point that out, so she said only, “Perhaps we attended different parties.”

“Clearly I have been in the wrong places.”

She laughed. “You are too smooth-tongued by half, sir.”

“You are unjust,” he responded, his eyes twinkling. “I have only spoken the truth to you.”

She cast him a cynical glance. “You forget, my lord, I know—from your own words—how much you are pursued. Can you expect me to believe that among all those girls, you would notice each and every one?”

“Not each and every one,” he replied. “Only you.”

Constance tried to suppress the warmth that flooded her at his words, but she could not. When he smiled at her like that, it made it difficult to remember that she needed to keep her head around him. Yet how could she not smile and flush when he said such things to her?