The Marriage Wager

by Candace Camp

  “I believe the Woodley name is good enough for anyone,” Constance said stoutly. “I cannot believe that you think differently.”

  Her aunt looked nonplussed. “I did not mean…The Woodleys are as fine a family as one could find.” She stopped and scowled at Constance. “I don’t know why we are standing here talking about such things. We had better get back to packing.”

  She cast a last sour look at the garments on the bed and left the room.

  Constance finished packing, doing her best to put her words with her aunt out of her mind. She was going to enjoy this visit, and she was determined not to let her aunt spoil it for her.

  They left the next day, after spending a trying morning getting the luggage loaded onto the post chaise. It was not a long journey, which was fortunate, as Georgiana was not a good traveler, and they had to stop often to allow her queasy stomach to subside.

  They arrived at Redfields in the late afternoon, driving through a pleasant park of old spreading chestnuts and pink-flowered hawthorns, emerging at last to see the main house spread out before them.

  “Oh!” Constance sucked in a quick breath of admiration, leaning her head out the carriage window to get a better view.

  The setting sun washed the redbrick house in a warm glow, sparkling on the glass of its many windows. Three stories tall, with a peaked roof and three tall pinnacled gables jutting out from the front in a classic E pattern, it was a house that was at once both stately and welcoming. A multitude of chimneys adorned the steeply pitched roof of the central section, and a long wing, only one story in height, ran off the east side of the house, topped by a balustraded walkway.

  It was a beautiful home. How, Constance wondered, could Lord Leighton be so reluctant to visit it? She thought that if she were heir to such an inviting home, she would spend all her time here.

  Their vehicle pulled to a stop before the central gable, which jutted out a little more than those on either side of it, forming an enclosed porch leading to the heavy wood door. They disembarked, looking up in some awe at the house, which was even more impressive up close. Three sets of coats of arms were carved into the stone above the porch, and more carvings adorned the stone archway leading to the front door.

  The door was opened immediately by a liveried footman, who led them through the large entryway to the drawing room. Constance walked along the marbled hallway, following the stiff back of the footman, her stomach tightening with nerves. What if Francesca was not here to greet them? She did not even know Lord and Lady Selbrooke, and even though their daughter had invited Constance and her family, she could not help but wonder if they resented the intrusion of a group of people whom they had never even met before.

  She was much relieved to see Francesca sitting on a sofa in the drawing room, conversing with an older woman who resembled her enough that Constance knew it must be Francesca’s mother. Constance’s gaze traveled across the room. There, standing by the window, was Lord Leighton. He had turned at their entrance, and the light from the window fell across his handsome features. Constance’s heart gave a thud as he smiled at her.

  Francesca jumped up with a little cry when she saw them and hurried forward to take Constance’s hand. She turned, leading Constance to the woman with whom she had been talking, and began her introductions.

  Lady Selbrooke—for Constance had been accurate in her guess as to the older woman’s identity—was, up close, still quite similar in looks to her daughter, though her blonde hair was streaked with gray, and tiny lines fanned out beside the blue eyes and bracketed her mouth. There was, however, none of the animation in her features that so brightened Francesca’s face; her expression was carefully controlled—even, Constance thought, a trifle icy. Lady Selbrooke nodded to Constance and her family politely, and murmured a welcoming comment, but there was no real interest in her features.

  Lord Selbrooke rose from his chair to greet them, as well. His manner was as reserved as his wife’s, and though he was a handsome middle-aged man, there was none of the laughter in his eyes or the ease of manner that made his son so appealing.

  “Are you acquainted with Lady Rutherford and Miss Muriel Rutherford?” Francesca went on, turning toward the other occupants of the room. “Lady Rutherford, Miss Rutherford, may I present Sir Roger and Lady Woodley? Miss Constance Woodley.”

  Constance turned in the direction Francesca indicated and saw a dark-haired middle-aged woman, and a younger woman with equally black hair sitting beside her. They regarded Constance coolly. She realized, with some shock, that they were the two women who had stared with such dislike at her at the dance the other evening.

  Constance gave them her curtsey, murmuring a polite greeting, and discreetly looked them over as Francesca went on to introduce her cousins. Muriel Rutherford was sitting, spine straight and not touching the back of the chair, her hands folded in her lap. She was dressed in an afternoon frock of sprigged muslin, ruffled at the hem and around the neckline, its soft, girlish lines at odds with the rather severe set of her face. Her eyes were a very pale blue, adding to the icy quality of her demeanor. She was a younger version of her mother, down to the narrow nose and straight mouth.

  “Miss Woodley!” Lord Leighton’s voice jolted her from her study of Miss Rutherford, and she turned to face him as he came forward from his position near the window. His lips were curved and his eyes twinkling in that slightly mischievous way he had. He reached her and bowed over her hand, holding it for a moment longer than was necessary.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Constance saw Muriel Rutherford’s lips thin with displeasure.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again,” Leighton told her.

  Constance promptly forgot all about the Rutherford women as she smiled up at him. “Lord Leighton. Pray allow me to introduce you to my aunt and uncle.”

  He turned to the other members of her family, smiling with an easygoing charm. “Sir Roger. Lady Woodley. Miss Woodley. Miss Woodley. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

  Georgiana and Margaret promptly fell into blushes and giggles at his smile, and Aunt Blanche looked to be equally susceptible to his charm.

  “Oh, yes, indeed, thank you, my lord,” Aunt Blanche said, her manner almost coquettish. “So good of you to ask.”

  “I am sure you must be exhausted, however,” Francesca said. “Shall I take you to your rooms now?”

  Francesca swept them upstairs, her arm linked companionably through Constance’s. “Purlew could have shown you to your rooms,” she said, leaning in confidentially. “But I wanted to get away from there. I suppose dryer conversation could be had somewhere, but I would not like to hear it. I do feel a bit guilty, though, about leaving poor Dom to endure it.”

  Constance smiled. “I suspect that if he wishes, Lord Leighton will have little trouble extricating himself from the conversation.”

  Francesca chuckled. “So soon you know him.”

  Constance was grateful to discover that her room was next to Francesca’s and thus half the length of the hallway from the two rooms belonging to her aunt and uncle, and her cousins. She suspected that Francesca had seen to that arrangement, and she blessed her silently. It would be far easier to avoid assisting her cousins with their wardrobe if she was not right next door.

  Her trunk had already been brought up to her room, and there was a maid pulling clothes out of it and putting them away in the dresser. She bobbed a curtsy to Constance, saying, “I’m Nan, miss. If you want anything, just call me.” She gestured toward the bellpull hanging beside the door. “Lady Haughston said her Maisie would be doing your hair, but I’m to help you with your clothes. Supper is at eight. Would you like a little lie-down first?”

  Nan helped Constance out of her pelisse as she talked, inspecting it for any spot that might need cleaning, and hung it up in the large mahogany wardrobe, then took her bonnet and gloves, as well. She dug through Constance’s trunk for the dress that she would wear that night and hurried off to press the wrinkles from it whil
e Constance washed the dust of travel from her face and hands. She took down her hair, as well, and brushed it out, feeling the slight headache that had built during the journey fade now into nothingness.

  She stretched out on the bed, not really meaning to sleep, just thinking how blissful it was to have utter peace and quiet after the journey filled with rattles and shakes and unceasing chatter. She did not even realize that she had fallen asleep until she awoke sometime later, drawn from her slumber by the sound of the maid reentering her room. Nan carried the gown Constance had chosen to wear that night, freshly pressed. It was a white lace dress over a white satin slip, with a bodice of rose and white satin in broad vertical stripes. The neckline was low and square, trimmed in the same white lace.

  Nan helped her into the new dress, and she was just finishing buttoning it up the back when there was a knock on the door and Francesca bustled in, followed by her maid.

  “Oh, Constance!” Francesca drew a breath of admiration. “It is lovely. Madamoiselle Plessis did a beautiful job. How pretty you look. Now sit down and let Maisie do your hair.”

  Constance did as she was bade, and Maisie began to work her usual magic with her hair, pinning and twisting until it fell in a profusion of curls about Constance’s face. While Maisie worked, Francesca pulled up a chair and watched, talking all the while.

  “There will be more interesting company this evening,” she promised Constance, then paused for a moment before letting out a little sneeze. “Goodness. Excuse me. Cyril Willoughby—you remember him—you danced with him at Lady Simmington’s ball—is here. And Alfred Penrose. Lord Dunborough.”

  Constance listened with only half an ear as Francesca rattled on, detailing all their visitors, especially the eligible males, and describing their looks and personalities. Constance’s thoughts were on the evening ahead and, especially, on seeing Lord Leighton again. Excitement bubbled inside her, combined with a nervous uncertainty. This party seemed to her a time set apart, a special moment in which she could live a different sort of life—not the unmarried niece with whom her aunt and uncle were burdened, striving to please and to help them out of gratitude for their charity, but an attractive woman enjoying the sort of life she had been born to, the life she would have had, had her father not fallen ill when she was eighteen.

  Yet she could not keep from her mind a certain degree of worry. What if she was being an embarrassment, as her aunt had said? What if the others looked at her and thought that she should not be here, or that she was too old to be acting and dressing like a young woman?

  “There!” Francesca exclaimed, beaming at her. “You look beautiful. Absolutely perfect. Just look at yourself.”

  Constance did as Francesca told her, going to the cheval glass standing in the corner of the room. She could not keep from smiling as she looked at her reflection, for the woman who gazed back at her was not only pretty, but sophisticated looking, as well. No one, she thought, would mistake her for a chaperone.

  Francesca came to stand beside her, looping her arm about Constance’s waist. “Ready?”

  Constance nodded. “Yes. I think I am.”

  “Good. Then let’s go downstairs and capture some hearts.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EVERYONE HAD GATHERED IN what Francesca told Constance was the anteroom to the formal dining room. It was a smaller room than the drawing room, in which the family had sat earlier, but it was empty of furniture, except for a few chairs around the edges of the room. The anteroom was full of people, conversation rising in a buzz. Constance halted at the doorway, startled by the number of guests. The room seemed a blur of unknown faces.

  “Don’t worry. It won’t be long before you know everyone,” Francesca assured her. “Come. We must first introduce you to the Dowager Duchess of Chudleigh. She is the eldest lady here and my mother’s godmama. She cannot hear a thing, so she will just look at you disdainfully and nod, like this.” Francesca demonstrated, raising her chin to look down her nose at Constance and then lower her head fractionally. “She does it to everyone, so you must not take offense.”

  The Duchess was seated beside Lady Selbrooke against the far wall, surveying the people before her with a sour expression on her face. Her hair was iron gray and swept up in a high, old-fashioned style, though not powdered. Her black dress, too, seemed to be from another era, boned and hooped in a way that had not been fashionable in fifteen years or more. Her reaction when Francesca curtsied to her and introduced Constance was so much what Francesca had predicted that it was all Constance could do not to laugh.

  Then Francesca swept Constance away on a tour of the room, introducing her to everyone. It was dizzying, and Constance feared she would not remember half the names she was told. It was a relief to see Cyril Willoughby, whom she remembered from the dance, and there were two more men whom she had danced with at the Simmington ball, though she did not remember who they were and was grateful when Francesca greeted them by name. There were several young women who seemed far pleasanter than Muriel Rutherford, for which Constance was also grateful. With luck, she thought, she might be able to avoid spending much time in the company of Miss Rutherford or her mother.

  As they made their way around the room, she saw Lord Leighton enter and, as she and Francesca had done, go to his mother and her companion, the Duchess, to pay his respects. She turned away, not wishing to be caught staring, but a few moments later she glanced up and found Leighton’s gaze on her. He smiled at her before turning back to the man beside him and murmuring something to him, then breaking away from him.

  Leighton’s journey was slow and meandering, with many a pause to greet this guest or that, but Constance was sure that he was making his way to where she stood. Though she continued to talk to Francesca and a rather languid young man named Lord Dunborough, she was aware every moment of where Leighton was, and she had a great deal of trouble keeping her mind on Lord Dunborough’s account of his journey from London.

  She felt Leighton’s presence beside her an instant before he spoke. “Dunborough. Ladies.”

  “Leighton!” Francesca turned to greet her brother with an expression of relief.

  Lord Dunborough nodded. “Hallo, Leighton. Didn’t expect to see you here. Lady Rutherford told me this morning you were coming, but I said I was sure you were not. ‘Saw him Saturday a week ago,’ I said to her, ‘when I took a toddle down to White’s, and I’m certain he said he would not be here.’ She would have none of it and insisted that she had it from Lady Selbrooke herself, who should, of course, know, as it’s her house and you’re her son.”

  “Quite,” Leighton broke into the other man’s story with the expertise of long practice. “It happens that I changed my mind.”

  “One does,” the other man agreed. “I did so this morning. Thought I would wear my blue jacket down here, told my man to lay it out, and so he did. But then, this morning when I got up, I thought, no, it should be the brown. Better for traveling, don’t you see?”

  “Of course it is,” Leighton agreed quickly. “Just what I would have done. Have you spoken to Mr. Carruthers yet? He is interested in a pair of grays for his carriage, and I know you looked at that pair Winthorpe’s trying to sell.”

  “Really?” Lord Dunborough’s eyes lit with interest. “Wouldn’t advise him doing it. No, not at all.” He glanced around. “I should speak to him.”

  “No doubt you should,” Francesca agreed.

  It took him several more sentences to excuse himself from their presence, but at last he started across the room toward Mr. Carruthers.

  Francesca let out an enormous sigh. “Thank you, Dom, you are our savior.”

  “Was Dunny entertaining you with the tale of his broken wheel?” Leighton asked, his eyes dancing in amusement.

  “Yes, though we had scarce reached the actual breaking point,” Constance told him.

  “Quite true,” Francesca agreed. “We spent ten minutes on loading the carriage. If his journey was as dull as his recounting of it, it
is a wonder he did not expire on the way.”

  “What possessed you to inflict him on Miss Woodley?” Leighton asked.

  “I have avoided him for so long I had forgotten how horridly longwinded he is,” Francesca admitted. “Please forgive me, Constance. We shall cross him off the list.” She looked toward the door and said, “Ah, there are your aunt and uncle. I should make introductions. Keep Miss Woodley company, will you, Dom?”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Leighton assured her.

  Francesca left them, and Lord Leighton turned to Constance. “List? What list are you and Francesca keeping?”

  Constance blushed a little under his regard. “’Tis nothing. Lady Haughston has taken me on as her newest project. She is determined to find me a husband.”

  “And are you seeking a husband?” he asked quizzically, raising one brow.

  Constance shook her head. “No. You need not worry that I have been added to your bevy of pursuers. I have no interest in achieving the married state.”

  “You prefer not to marry, then?”

  “It is not that. But I prefer not to marry where I do not choose. And a woman with little dowry has equally little choice.” She gave a shrug and a smile to take the sting from her words.

  “Ah, then we are compatriots, Miss Woodley,” he said with a smile. “Fellow fugitives from the marriage mart.”

  “Yes. Though I do not have to hide from my pursuers,” she countered teasingly.

  “I can scarce believe that. Are there so few men of discernment among us?”

  “Perhaps, like you, they have no interest in marriage,” she pointed out. “And interest of any other kind is dangerous for a woman.”

  She was enjoying their repartee, the light feint and thrust of social discourse, but she glanced away at that moment and encountered the icy gaze of Miss Rutherford. The woman’s antagonism deflated some of the buoyant feeling. What was it about her that the woman so disliked? She could not help but think that it had something to do with Lord Leighton, and she wondered if there was some sort of attachment between him and Miss Rutherford.