The Marriage Wager (8 page)

Forcing a certain tartness into her voice, she countered, “And all the ones with whom you try to dally in the library—do you remember all of them?”

“Ah.” He cast her a knowing glance. “I see that you are holding my sins against me. Please, believe me when I tell you that I do not, in fact, usually dally with young ladies—in the library or elsewhere.”

“Indeed?” She arched an eyebrow.

“No. The truth, Miss Woodley, is that there is something about you which makes me act…out of the ordinary.”

“I am not sure whether you are complimenting me or disparaging me,” she told him.

“’Tis no disparagement, I assure you.”

Constance could think of nothing to say. There was a warm look in his eyes that did strange things to her insides. It was difficult to be witty or aloof; all she wanted was to dance in his arms, to gaze into his eyes, to live in the moment and the music.

But all too soon the music was over. They whirled to a stop. There was the briefest of hesitations, then Leighton dropped his arms from her and stepped back. Constance drew a shaky breath, glancing away from him as she pulled herself back into the real world.

She took his arm, and he walked her back to where his sister stood waiting. As soon as they arrived, Sir Lucien asked Constance to dance and led her out to the floor. When they returned, Constance saw to her disappointment that Lord Leighton was no longer with Francesca.

However, she was far too busy for the rest of the evening to miss his presence. There were always a number of men dancing attendance upon Lady Haughston at any party, but tonight their number doubled. Francesca was besieged with young gentlemen seeking an introduction to her new companion, and she was happy to oblige. Before half the evening was over, Constance’s dance card was filled. She was certain that the reason for her sudden popularity lay in the fact that Lord Leighton and Sir Lucien had asked her to dance. There was nothing that established a woman’s desirability like the attention of other men.

Constance, however, was enjoying the evening far too much to quibble about the reasons behind it. As she danced and talked and flirted, she did not feel at all like a chaperone—or even like a spinster. She felt young and as attractive as her admirers were telling her, and she could not remember when she had enjoyed herself as much. It had been years, she thought. Since her father’s death, in fact.

While she could not accuse her aunt and uncle of cruelty or mistreatment, there was no love for her in their house; she was less a loved member of the family than a sort of high-class servant. Nor did she, frankly, enjoy their company. Her happiness came from small things—a walk in the spring, a visit with a friend in the village or an hour spent alone reading. It did not spark and fizzle as it did tonight, making her want to bubble over with laughter. She had not realized until now just how gray her world had become. She would, she thought, always be grateful to Francesca for this feeling, and she knew that, whatever happened, she had been right to join in Francesca’s scheme.

The only thing that marred her happiness was a moment when she glanced to the side and found a woman staring at her with an intense look of dislike. Startled, Constance stared back at her for a moment. The woman was tall and dark-haired, with very light blue eyes. Constance took her to be a few years younger than herself, and she would have been attractive if it had not been for the cold, disdainful expression on her face. She stood beside an older woman who looked so much an older version of her that Constance assumed they must be mother and daughter. The mother, as much as the daughter, was gazing at Constance with a venomous look.

Constance turned away, shocked and uncertain. She was sure that she did not know either woman. Indeed, she did not think she had ever even seen them before, though she supposed she might have come across them at some other party and not remembered them. But she could not imagine why the two would have taken such a dislike to her.

She turned to ask Francesca who they were, but Francesca was chatting with a young man, whom she promptly introduced to Constance. By the time he left, the women Constance had seen were no longer standing there. With a mental shrug, she dismissed the thought of them and took the floor with her next dance partner.

F
RANCESCA SPENT MOST OF
the evening watching Constance like a proud mother. She had asked Sir Lucien to dance with Constance, as Constance had suspected, but she was pleased to hear him say, after the dance was over, that her protégé was both pretty and charming.

“What are you about with this girl, anyway?” he went on, looking at Francesca shrewdly. “I know she is not one of those chits whose parents ask you to establish them. From what I have heard, she is a poor relation of that dreadful Woodley woman.”

“Why, Lucien, you wound me,” Francesca teased him. “Do you think me entirely mercenary?”

“My dear girl, I know you are not. You could have had your pick of a wealthy husband any time these last five years, and you have not snapped one up. But I cannot understand why you came to choose this girl. She is long past the age of coming out. I believe she is a veritable ape-leader.”

“She is younger than I, so let us not talk of age, sir. But if you must know, it is because of Rochford.”

“Rochford!” Lucien looked surprised. “What has he to do with it?”

“He challenged me.”

“Ah.” Lucien smiled faintly. “You could not, of course, fail to take up the glove with him.”

She cast him a dampening look. “A sapphire bracelet rides on my success, and I should rather like to have it.”

“I see.” He paused, then went on. “And what have you committed yourself to do?”

“Find Constance a husband this Season.”

“Ah, a mere trifle, then.” He made an airy gesture. “She has no fortune. Her relations are clearly not an advantage. And she is older than most of the marriageable girls by five years, wouldn’t you say? That should be wonderfully easy, no doubt. And what does it matter that almost a month of the Season has already passed? I feel no doubt you will be able to pluck out an earl from somewhere…or, at the very least, a baron.”

“I did not say it had to be a brilliant marriage,” Francesca retorted. “Only an acceptable one.”

“Ah, well, then.” Sir Lucien favored her with a smirk.

“All right, I will admit that it may prove something of a difficulty. But that is precisely why it was so important that you showed her favor tonight,” Francesca went on, smiling at him. “It will take at least two weeks off the time to establish her since
you
have approved of her.”

Her friend looked at her suspiciously. “What do you want from me?”

“Lucien! As if I must want something from you to pay you a compliment.”

He said nothing, merely waited, one brow raised.

“Oh, very well. I thought you might accompany me to Redfields next week.”

He looked pained. “To the country? Francesca, dear, you are the love of my heart, but to travel into the country?”

“It’s in Kent, Lucien. It isn’t as if I am asking you to trek off to the wilds.”

“No, but a house party? It’s bound to be dreadfully dull.”

“No doubt it will be, since my parents are giving it. But that is why I particularly need you to go—so it will be more interesting.”

“But why?”

“Because I decided that this house party would be the perfect thing to introduce Constance to a number of eligible men. Because she has no fortune, I must make sure that several men have a chance to spend a goodly amount of time with her, and fall in love with her wit and her smile.”

“I don’t know why you would need me for that. I would just be taking up space that could go to one of your bachelors.”

“Because I need to get the bachelors to come. How many young gentlemen are going to want to attend if they think that they will be sitting around with Father and Lord Basingstoke and Admiral Thornton, drinking port and decrying the state of today’s youth? Or playing whist with the Dowager Duchess of Chudleigh?”

“Good Gad, is
she
going to be there?”

“She is my mother’s godmother, and I have never known her to miss it. So I need to reassure them that there will be someone livelier there. I think Dominic may attend. He seemed somewhat more amenable to it tonight.”

“Then you don’t need me.”

“I daren’t count on him. Even if he comes, there is nothing to say he and Father won’t have a row the first night, and Dom will ride back to London. Besides, it would be better to have more than one man who is interesting. Dom will provide good sport, and you will provide entertaining conversation.”

“My dear Francesca, I suspect that your fair face and form will be more than enough to ensure that an adequate number of bachelors will be happy to attend,” Sir Lucien told her. “However, I will come, as well. It will provide some amusement, after all, to watch your machinations.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

“And what about your—I scarce know what to call him—your nemesis? Your friend?”

Francesca looked puzzled.

“The deliverer of your challenge,” Sir Lucien clarified. “Rochford.”

“Oh.” Her expression cleared. “Him.” She shrugged. “I suppose he will drop by at least for the ball, if he is at home at Dancy Park,” she said, naming the Duke’s country house, one of many, which lay not far from the house in which she had grown up.

“And do you expect him to try to thwart your efforts?”

“Sinclair?” Francesca laughed. “I cannot imagine him bothering to attempt to influence events. He prefers to observe in a godlike manner as we petty mortals scurry around trying to direct our lives.”

Sir Lucien raised his brows at the touch of bitterness in her tone. “Well, it appears as though he has descended from Mount Olympus for the moment, at least.”

He nodded, and Francesca turned to look in the direction of his nod. The Duke of Rochford was moving toward them, his passage winding and desultory as he paused to speak to this person or that. But he looked up, and his eyes met Francesca’s, and she felt certain that she was his ultimate destination. She pivoted back to watch the dancers, the picture of indifference.

But she knew immediately when he drew close, and she did not even turn her head when he stopped beside her and gazed out onto the dance floor, too.

“Quite a swan you have made out of your duckling, my lady,” he said after a moment, amusement curling through his voice.

Francesca glanced at him then. His saturnine face was, as always, unreadable. “It required little effort on my part, I assure you. I am afraid, Rochford, that you may have chosen the wrong subject for your bet.”

A thin smile touched his lips. “Expect to have an easy time of it, do you?”

“Not easy, no,” Francesca responded. “But she has far more possibilities than the other two.”

“Mmm. I may have chosen rashly,” he admitted. He looked at her, and Francesca thought there might be a hint of laughter in his eyes. It was always so hard to tell with him. “No doubt you will take advantage of my weakness.”

“But of course.”

The dance had ended, and Constance and her partner made their way across the floor to where Francesca stood between Sir Lucien and the Duke. Francesca saw Constance’s eyes go somewhat apprehensively to Rochford.

Francesca introduced Rochford to her protégée. She presumed that was why he had come over to her. But she was a little surprised to hear the Duke, after bowing to Constance, ask her for the next dance. Constance’s eyes widened, and she glanced over at Francesca, then back at Rochford.

“I, um, I fear the dance is already taken, Your Grace,” she said, looking more relieved than regretful.

“Ah, I see.” His eyes flickered over to the man who was walking toward them, and he went on, “To Micklesham?”

Constance looked confused. “What?” She turned to look in the direction Rochford indicated. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Mr. Micklesham.”

Rochford’s smile was a trifle vulpine as he greeted the new arrival. “Ah, Micklesham. I’m sure you would be willing to give up your claim to Miss Woodley’s hand for the next dance, wouldn’t you?”

Micklesham, a short, rather pudgy young man with carefully styled ginger-colored locks and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, looked startled at being addressed by the Duke. He flushed, his expression changing to one of awe. “Oh. Um…to you? Why, y-yes. Of course.” He bowed to the Duke. “My pleasure. That is, I mean…well…beg pardon, Miss Woodley.” He looked somewhat entreatingly at Constance.

“Very good, then. Miss Woodley?” Rochford extended his arm to Constance, who hesitated, then put a smile on her face and accepted.

Francesca watched the pair walk out onto the dance floor.

“Now what the devil is he up to?” she murmured.

“Perhaps he means to frighten your little bird away,” Sir Lucien offered.

“No, Rochford would not try to hinder my plans,” Francesca said. “I was quite correct when I said he would consider it beneath him to try to influence the outcome.”

She watched the Duke put his hand on Constance’s waist and sweep her into the steps of the waltz. He was smiling down at her. Francesca felt a distinct twinge of irritation.

“The devil take the man,” she said and turned away.

Sir Lucien cast a measuring look at her. “What do you think he is doing, then?”

“In all probability, just trying to annoy me,” Francesca responded.

“Then it appears he has succeeded.”

“Oh, hush, Lucien,” Francesca said crossly, “and ask me to dance.”

“Of course, my love,” he replied with a bow.

C
ONSTANCE FELT AN ICY
trickle of perspiration snake down her back. Never in her life had she expected to dance with a duke. Indeed, she had not even thought she would ever so much as
meet
a duke.

Lord Leighton would be an earl someday, of course, but his infectious grin and easy-going manner made one quickly forget about his title and his lineage. But Rochford was every inch a duke. His demeanor was not exactly stiff, but his spine was as straight as a board, and he carried himself with the kind of confidence that came only from generations of aristocratic breeding. His angular countenance was every bit as intimidating as his demeanor—high, swooping cheekbones and black slashes of brows, beneath which his deeply set black eyes looked out upon the world watchfully. He was not, Constance thought, a man with whom it would be easy to feel comfortable.

Certainly
she
did not feel comfortable with him. He did not speak for some time, and she was glad, for she was concentrating upon her steps, feeling that it would be far worse to stumble or make a wrong move with this man than with any of the others who had partnered her this evening.

He, apparently, did not find the silence unusual. She supposed he was accustomed to the effect he had on people. Nor did he make any effort to ease the situation; he simply watched her with that vaguely unsettling black gaze.

“I see that Lady Haughston has taken you under her wing,” he said at last.

His words startled Constance a little, as she had grown accustomed to their lack of conversation.

“Yes,” she answered somewhat cautiously. “Lady Haughston is quite kind.”

Constance did not understand why the Duke was dancing with her. Surely he must realize that his asking her to dance would raise her social standing immeasurably, which could only help Lady Haughston’s plan for her and therefore increase the possibility of his losing the bet. Perhaps he was simply curious about her, or maybe the bet was, for him, such an insignificant amount that he did not care. But she could not help but worry that he had some ulterior motive in dancing with her, that he hoped to gain some knowledge from her or trick her into doing something that would ruin her chances in Society.

A faint smile touched his lips, and Constance had the suspicion he knew the direction of her thoughts. “Indeed,” he said, a wry twist in his voice. “I have heard that she is.”

Constance glanced at him, wondering a little at his tone. She was unsure whether the Duke and Francesca were friends, mere acquaintances or perhaps even enemies. It was difficult to tell; she had quickly discovered that in the
beau monde,
the most vicious of enemies often smiled at one another like the dearest friends. Even the ladies who ruled Almack’s together often made mercilessly unkind remarks about each other.

The Duke asked her then where she was from, and she told him, explaining that she lived with her aunt and uncle.

“And are you enjoying your time in London?” he went on.

“Yes, thank you. Very much. It has been a great deal more fun since I met Lady Haughston.”

“That is generally the way.”

It was, Constance thought, the most prosaic conversation one could imagine. She still could not understand why he had asked her to dance. Certainly it had not been for a scintillating discussion.

“If you follow her ladyship’s advice, you will do quite well, I am sure,” the Duke continued.

“I hope so,” Constance replied, adding, “I would not think that would suit Your Grace, however.”

She was surprised at her own daring, but frankly, she was growing a little tired of the way they had tiptoed about the subject that connected them.

He raised his brows in a way that she was sure dampened most pretensions. “Indeed? And why would you think I wished you ill, Miss Woodley?”

“Not ill, precisely. But I am aware of your bet with Lady Haughston.”

“She told you?” He looked surprised.

“I am not entirely stupid,” Constance retorted. “And it is a trifle difficult to make a new woman out of someone without revealing what you are about.”

“I suppose it would be,” he commented. Constance was almost sure that she had seen the flash of a smile in his eyes. “And you are agreeable to her plan?”

“I do not expect that Lady Haughston will win her bet,” Constance told him. “I am not counting on that. However, I found the idea of a Season…appealing.”

It definitely was a smile this time, for it touched his lips, if only briefly. “Then I hope it will turn out to be so for you, Miss Woodley.”

They finished the dance in silence, though Constance thought that it did not seem so uncomfortable anymore. When the waltz ended, the Duke escorted her back to Francesca. Francesca, however, was about to take the dance floor herself. Constance glanced around, thinking that she should seek out her aunt. She had been having far too enjoyable a time to even think about her aunt and cousins, and she felt a trifle guilty about that fact.

As she looked over the room, she caught sight again of the young woman whom she had seen staring at her so balefully earlier in the evening. She was no longer standing with her mother but was walking out onto the dance floor on the arm of Lord Leighton.

Could it be that the young woman had been looking at her with such dislike because Lord Leighton had danced with her earlier? It seemed rather absurd, Constance thought; they had, after all, merely danced one waltz together. Still, she could not deny that she was feeling a certain pinprick of jealousy herself as she watched Leighton take the floor with another woman.

In any case, there was nothing that she could do about the matter, she thought, and she tried to put it out of her mind as she continued looking for her aunt and cousins. She strolled through the room, winding her way around the small clumps of guests. She was vaguely surprised at the number of people who nodded to her or bowed. Some were men whom she had met and danced with earlier, and she recognized a few women who had come up to talk to Lady Haughston, as well, but there were several others whom she was rather sure she did not know at all. It was amazing, she thought, the influence that Lady Haughston’s friendship brought.

As she circled around a large group of people standing and talking at the edge of the dance floor, she saw her uncle’s family at last. She made her way over to them, noting that her aunt was watching her with a grim expression. Constance sighed inwardly. It was clear that Aunt Blanche was not pleased with her; she presumed that the woman was still smarting from their argument the day before about Constance’s attending the party with Lady Haughston. Aunt Blanche had not tried to stop her, wisely realizing how foolish it would be to cross Lady Haughston, but Constance was sure that she had thoroughly disliked not being in control of her niece’s actions.

Constance greeted Aunt Blanche with a smile, but the older woman was having none of it.

“Well, so you have decided to grace your family with your presence at last,” Aunt Blanche said sourly. “But then I suppose we are not nearly important enough for you now. Lady Haughston and her friends are all you care about.”

“That’s not true, Aunt,” Constance said, striving to maintain her calm. “But as Lady Haughston was kind enough to favor us with an invitation to the party and to bring me here herself, it seemed only proper that I should remain with her during the ball.”

Aunt Blanche greeted this sensible reply with a disapproving sniff. “Oh, yes, very proper indeed—making a show of yourself. Dancing with half the men here. Acting as if you were a green girl instead of a grown woman. Dressing like that. I am sure that everyone was laughing at you, the way you are behaving.”

Constance’s cheeks flamed—whether from embarrassment or anger, she was not sure. “Aunt Blanche! You wrong me. How have I been making a show of myself? I was properly introduced by Lady Haughston to every gentleman with whom I danced. I am sure there was nothing wrong with my dancing with them if Lady Haughston approved of it. And as for my dress…”

She cast a glance down at herself, then looked pointedly at her aunt’s gown, which exposed more bosom than her own. “There is nothing indecent about my dress.”

“It is far too young a color for you,” Aunt Blanche said flatly. “You are not a girl anymore, Constance. A woman of your age dancing so, flirting with men the way you have been…well, it’s disgraceful.”

“I was not aware that one could not dance past a certain age,” Constance responded coolly. “I am sure there are a number of women on the dance floor whom you should inform of that rule.”

“I am not speaking of married women,” Aunt Blanche told her. “Of course, if one is married it is perfectly proper to dance with one’s husband or a friend. But for a spinster, it is simply not the thing.”

“Why?” Constance asked.

Her aunt looked startled. “What do you mean, why?”

“Exactly that,” Constance responded, her eyes flashing now with temper. “Why is it not the thing to dance if one is unmarried? At what age does a woman have to stop dancing if she has not married? Twenty? Twenty-five? And does that apply to men, as well? Are bachelors not allowed to dance?”

“Of course not. Don’t be foolish.” Aunt Blanche bridled. “There are no hard-and-fast rules. It is simply understood that if a woman has not married, she—”

“Ceases to exist?” Constance asked. “Really, Aunt Blanche, you make it sound as if a woman must retire from life ashamed if she has not caught a husband.”

“Well, if you have not caught one by your age, there is little likelihood you will now,” her aunt retorted, scowling. “You came to London to help me with Georgiana and Margaret, but instead you are—” She made a gesture toward the floor with her fan, apparently too overcome by emotion to speak. “You danced with all those men, and you introduced none of them to your cousins. Not a single one.” Lady Woodley had now, apparently, reached the crux of the matter. “You danced with the Duke of Rochford—a duke!—and you did not make the slightest push to bring my daughters to his notice.”

“Oh.” Constance glanced at her cousins, who were regarding her with pouting expressions, and she felt a twinge of guilt.

Her aunt was right in saying that she had not spared a thought for her cousins. She had been too caught up in her own excitement. She could have returned to her aunt’s side after dancing and introduced her family to the men with whom she had danced. It was not the girls’ fault, after all, that their mother stuffed them into dresses so bedecked with ruffles and bows that they resembled over-decorated wedding cakes. They would need every bit of help they could get, and Constance knew that she could at least have brought them into the proximity of some eligible bachelors.

“Yes, we would have liked to talk to a duke,” Georgiana whined.

“Jane Morissey would have been ever so jealous of us then,” Margaret added, and the two girls giggled together at that thought.

Of course, Constance reminded herself, bringing a gentleman within the girls’ orbit would scarcely guarantee them any success. A few minutes of Margaret and Georgiana’s vapid conversation was apt to send any gentleman with wit hurrying away.

“I am sorry,” Constance apologized. “I should have introduced you. I will introduce my next partner to Margaret and Georgiana. However, the Duke, Lady Haughston told me, is quite the confirmed bachelor.”

“Well, the man has to marry someday, doesn’t he?” Lady Woodley countered. “He has to have an heir. And it might as well be one of my girls as anyone else, eh?”

Wisely, Constance refrained from answering. It was this sort of baseless reasoning that was the hallmark of Aunt Blanche’s thought processes, and she had learned long ago that any attempt to point out the errors and inconsistencies in something her aunt said was not only useless but also tended to arouse her ire.

“It is a beautiful party, is it not?” Constance asked cheerfully, deciding that the best course of action was to steer the conversation in a new direction.

Lady Woodley looked as though she would have liked to pursue the subject of Constance’s neglect of her proper duty to her cousins, but after a moment she gave in to her even greater love of gossip and began to relate to Constance each influential member of the Ton whom she had seen tonight and what she knew about each one.

Constance listened with more attention than she normally did in an effort to placate her aunt, but it was not long before her thoughts began to wander. She cast a look about the room, hopeful that she could find something to distract Aunt Blanche.

It was with some relief that she saw Francesca strolling toward them, and she straightened, smiling at her. “Lady Haughston.”

Aunt Blanche turned and beamed at Francesca, her voice raised as she said, “Lady Haughston! I am sorry to have missed you earlier tonight. So many people, you know. Girls, say hello to Lady Haughston.”

Georgiana and Margaret obediently chorused a hello to Francesca, who acknowledged them all with a smile and a nod. “How do you do, Lady Woodley? It is so nice to see you again.”

They exchanged a few pleasantries, remarking on the warmth of the June evening, the excellence of the punch and the loveliness of the ballroom. Aunt Blanche, Constance thought, could go on all night about such commonplaces. However, when she reached the subject of her daughters’ gowns, calling upon Lady Haughston to note the fine French lace that adorned the bodices, Francesca cut into the flow of Lady Woodley’s speech.

“Has Constance told you that I have invited her to Redfields next week?” Francesca asked as Lady Woodley paused to take a breath.

Aunt Blanche looked at Francesca blankly. “What? Where?”

“It is my father’s estate in Kent. They hold a house party there every summer. It is not far from London, only a few hours’ drive. I asked Constance to go with me. I hope you will not mind. It is for two weeks, and I vow I shall be quite bored without her company.”

Aunt Blanche turned toward Constance, and Constance could see the deep dislike in her eyes. She was going to refuse to allow her to go, Constance thought, and she wondered what she would do in response. If she were to defy her aunt and go without her permission, she feared that her aunt would have no qualms in casting her adrift.