The Marriage Wager

by Candace Camp

  Constance glanced back up into Leighton’s face. He was watching her, and his face showed nothing but the same lighthearted enjoyment in their conversation that she felt. Surely this was not the look of a man attached to another woman. Nor did his joking comments about escaping from the marriage mart give any indication that he was engaged or even close to that state. She must be wrong about the reason for Muriel Rutherford’s dislike of her, or else Muriel was this disagreeable about possible competition for any man she happened to favor. Whatever the reason, Constance made the firm resolve to ignore the woman in the future.

  Leighton started to speak again, but at that moment supper was announced, and he had to excuse himself to escort his mother in to dinner. Lord Selbrooke was leading the way to the double pocket doors at the far end of the room, now slid back into the wall to reveal the large dining room beyond. The Dowager Duchess of Chudleigh tottered along on his arm. After them came Lord Leighton and Lady Selbrooke, and the rest of the company fell in behind them.

  Sir Lucien, whom Constance had not seen until this moment, appeared beside her to offer his arm, and she smiled at him gratefully. Without Francesca around, she felt a bit lost among all the strangers. She was seated near the end of the table, at some distance from either Francesca or Lord Leighton, who were seated near the other end. Fortunately, however, she was between Sir Lucien and Cyril Willoughby, a pleasant man in his thirties with intelligent brown eyes. She had been a little worried about making conversation at dinner, but Sir Lucien, she knew, was capable of making enough entertaining conversation for both of them, and she had spoken with Mr. Willoughby before, and found him both well-spoken and kind.

  The meal, therefore, a protracted affair with so many courses and choices that it lasted well over an hour, was pleasantly spent. Sir Lucien supplied her with a murmured social history of everyone at the table, and during the gaps when he turned to entertain Miss Norton on his other side, Constance and Mr. Willoughby discussed one of her father’s favorite periods of history, the long and tangled War of the Roses.

  Mr. Willoughby, she found, was an admirer of Edward IV and, like her father, an avid student of history. He owned a small manor house in Sussex, he told her, describing with obvious affection the sleepy village of Lower Boxbury near which it was located. Constance enjoyed her talk with him, and she could easily see why Francesca had included him as a potential suitor. Intelligent, well-read and refined, he was a man of substance—the sort, Constance thought, that any woman should be pleased to marry.

  The problem, of course, was that she felt not the slightest speck of attraction to him. She could see that his features were without exception, his form and dress just as they should be. His manner was polite and polished, and if he was not possessed of the sort of biting wit that characterized, say, Sir Lucien, he was, at least, not without some sense of humor—and his comments were far kinder than those of Sir Lucien. But the realization of all these attributes did not give rise in her to even a fraction of the sort of sizzle and excitement that pulsed through her whenever Lord Leighton approached.

  Of course, she expected nothing of Lord Leighton, and she had no intention of making the mistake of falling in love with him; for she was well aware of how forlorn any hope of marrying him was. But she could not conceive of marrying a man for whom she did not feel any sort of passion. Her friend Jane was fond of saying that love required nurturing and care, but Constance felt that there must be something there in the first place in order to nurture it. Likeable though Mr. Willoughby was, Constance could not see herself spending her life with him.

  And though she had not spent much time with any of them, she suspected that the same would prove true of all the men whom Francesca had invited to this house party. Alfred Penrose was another whom she remembered from Lady Simmington’s ball, and though he was an excellent dancer, most of his conversation had been about horses, hounds and hunting. And Lord Dunborough! Well, she had not been able to bear ten minutes in that gentleman’s company, let alone a lifetime. There were three other men, of course, whom she had met tonight; two whose names she could not remember at the moment. Perhaps she would feel a spark of something for one of them if she got to know them better, but knowing herself as well as she did, she had the lowering suspicion that she would not. She sincerely hoped that Francesca would not be too disappointed when Constance did not become engaged.

  She had warned her, after all. Constance knew that she was considered to be insufferably particular when it came to men, a quality that was difficult enough in a marriageable woman but almost impossible to overcome when one was a portionless spinster. Her cousins were apt to wax enthusiastic over nearly every man they met, overlooking such trifles as a lack of conversation or a predilection for port. However, what Constance had come to think was not that she was so unreasonable about what she wanted in a man—she would admit, after all, that Mr. Willoughby would make a good husband—but that she simply was not one who fell in love easily. Or, when she was feeling especially low, she thought perhaps that she might not be one who could fall in love at all.

  She had been in love once. It had been after her father’s illness had overtaken him, and they had removed to Bath for a few months in the hopes that the waters there might banish, or at least mitigate, his illness. While they were there, she had met Gareth Hamilton. There had been a few bright weeks of happiness as he courted her, and for a time she had been filled with eagerness and hope. But that had foundered upon the shoals of reality. He had asked her to marry him, and she had had to say no, not while her father still lived. Her duty was to him, and she could not leave him while he was so ill. And so they had parted.

  Jane liked to say, with a romantic sigh, that Constance had been pining for her lost love ever since. Constance did not really think so. She did not still yearn for Gareth, did not, in fact, ever think of him in the normal course of things. But she did wonder if perhaps the experience had wounded her in some way, cutting her off from the ability to love.

  After dinner, while the gentlemen retired to the smoking room for port and cigars, the women moved into the music room. Lady Selbrooke suggested that Miss Rutherford entertain them on the piano, and the dark-haired girl obliged, going to the piano and searching through the sheet music, then sitting down to play.

  Muriel Rutherford was an accomplished player, Constance had to acknowledge. But her playing, while technically perfect, was without passion, and the piece she chose was dark and slow. Given the music and the heavy meal they had all just consumed, Constance found herself battling to keep her eyelids open. The Duchess, she saw, had lost the battle already; her eyes were closed and her head nodding. The two dyed plumes the Dowager Duchess wore in her hair bobbed with the motion of her head, and periodically she jerked awake, her head flying up, and stared wildly about her for an instant before closing her eyes again and returning to slumber.

  Beside Constance, Francesca sighed, wafting her fan gently. She raised her fan to cover the lower half of her face and murmured, “Mother keeps early hours. I think she likes to encourage her guests to do the same, and so she has Muriel play.”

  A smile twitched Constance’s lips, and she quickly bowed her head to hide it. Raising her face, she answered, “You are wicked.”

  “But truthful. What I would not give to be a man right now, just to escape this.”

  “Will they stay in the smoking room until this is over?” Constance asked, surprised.

  “If they know Muriel is playing, they will,” Francesca retorted. “And since Mother always asks her to…” She trailed off, sneezing. She sneezed twice more in quick succession, doing her best to muffle the sounds. “Blast! I keep doing that. I hope I have not come down with a cold.”

  Lady Rutherford, who was seated in front of them in a chair close to the piano, turned around, frowning, to see who was interrupting Muriel’s performance with her sneezes. Francesca smiled at her apologetically. A moment later, she straightened suddenly and cast a glance over at Constance
, a look of mischief in her eyes.

  Raising her fan again, she leaned closer to Constance, whispering, “Follow my lead.”

  Constance nodded, mystified. Francesca settled back into her chair, wafting her fan and looking suspiciously angelic. Then she began to cough. First it was one cough, then a series and after that a sneeze, followed by a veritable paroxysm of coughing. It was done so realistically that even Constance felt a stab of worry.

  “Are you all right?” Constance asked in a hushed voice, leaning closer to her in concern.

  Francesca, covering her mouth, could not answer, only shook her head. She started to stand up, and Constance quickly moved to help her, taking her arm. Murmuring their apologies, Constance led Francesca, still stifling her coughs, from the room.

  Once outside, Francesca coughed a few more times for effect as she hurried off down the hall, glancing back at Constance with a grin. Constance suppressed her laughter and hastened after her friend.

  “Are you all right?” she asked again as they reached the bottom of the staircase.

  Francesca grinned wickedly, then hastily covered her face with her handkerchief as she sneezed again. “I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “The coughing was pretense. But this sneezing…” She cleared her throat and dabbed delicately at her eyes. She sighed. “Oh, dear, I hope I shall not be forced to miss the outing tomorrow.”

  “What sort of outing?” Constance asked as they climbed the stairs.

  “Only a trip to the church in the village.” Francesca wrinkled her nose. “The rector is going to give a little talk about its history. It is, apparently, a very good example of a Norman tower—Oh, and there are a number of other things that I cannot remember. Deadly dull, I’m sure, but at least it is an outing, and the Duchess, my mother and Lady Rutherford will not be there, which should make it more appealing.”

  Constance chuckled, and Francesca smiled, adding, “However, your aunt volunteered to my mother that she would be happy to chaperone the party, never having seen the church, which Mother was quick to take her up on. Still, I think there should be some opportunity for talking and, perhaps, a little flirting?”

  She cast a sideways glance at Constance that was at once both hopeful and questioning.

  “I am not averse to that,” Constance answered.

  “I saw you were seated next to Mr. Willoughby,” Francesca went on. “How did you like him?”

  “He is very nice,” Constance replied, then paused.

  “But…?” Francesca supplied.

  “I hope you will not think me ungrateful, Francesca, but I must tell you that I think there is little hope that he—that I—well, I am sure that it will seem quite vain of me even to say this, for we have scarcely met and I doubt that he would ever actually offer for me, but I truly do not think that if he did, I could accept. He is a very nice man, but I do not feel that I could love him, and—”

  “Hush, now, do not look so anxious,” Francesca told her, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I shall not be upset with you if you do not become engaged. And certainly I would not expect it to happen in the next two weeks! There is ample time before us—and many more men in the world besides Cyril Willoughby. Why, he is only one of several men here—there are Alfred Penrose and Mr. Kenwick and Mr. Carruthers. Sir Philip Norton. Not Lord Dunborough, of course—I cannot imagine why I thought he might do. And when we return to London, there are hundreds of eligible men there.”

  The clutch of anxiety in Constance’s stomach eased considerably. “It is good of you to say so. I know how much you have done for me, and, indeed, I am very grateful.”

  “Nonsense. I have been having worlds of fun. Why, what have I done except go shopping with you and cast about a few invitations? I should be the one thanking you for giving me something to enliven this house party. It is always excruciatingly dull.”

  They had reached Francesca’s room by now, and she decided to ring for her maid and get undressed. “Given my little performance downstairs, I suppose I had better go on to bed.”

  So Constance went on to her own room. Its peace was preferable to listening to Muriel Rutherford play the piano, but she was not ready to go to bed yet, and she had nothing to do. She decided to go down to the library and find a book to read. She had noticed the library on her way to supper with Francesca, and it was a large room with hundreds of books. She was sure that she could find something with which to pass the evening.

  After lighting a candle, she slipped back down the stairs and along the hallway to the library, careful to move as quietly as a mouse. The last thing she wanted was for anyone in the music room to hear her and look out, for then courtesy would require her to rejoin them. It was fortunate, she thought, that the music room lay beyond the library, so she would not have to pass it on her way.

  There was an oil lamp burning low on a table just inside the library. Constance stepped inside, closing the door silently behind her, and turned up the lamp. She went to the shelves on the right, holding up her candle to better see the spines, and began to trail along the wall, studying the titles.

  There was a noise behind her, and she whirled, her heart pounding furiously. She gave a start and let out a squeak when she saw a man sitting on the sofa and gazing over the back of it at her. In the next instant she recognized the man as Lord Leighton, and she sagged with relief, letting out a sigh, her hand going to her heart.

  “We simply have to stop meeting like this,” he told her lightly. “Someone is sure to talk.”

  “You scared me to death,” Constance retorted, the rush of fright making her cross. “Where were you? I didn’t see you when I came in.”

  “Lying down,” he told her, sliding off the sofa and crossing the room toward her. “Hiding out again, are we? Who is it this time? The dread aunt? No, wait, I know the answer. No doubt it is the same reason I am here. Muriel is torturing the piano.”

  Constance let out a giggle, though she tried to adopt a stern look as she said, “She is an excellent pianist.”

  “No doubt. But you are right. I misspoke. It is actually her listeners she tortures.”

  “Surely you were safe in the smoking room with the other men,” Constance said.

  “Oh, no, for my father was there,” he pointed out.

  Constance raised her brows a little at this statement. Clearly there was some sort of estrangement between Leighton and Lord Selbrooke, as she had suspected from the formal way by which he referred to his parents and the fact that he apparently rarely visited Redfields. She wondered why, but, of course, it would be terribly rude to ask, so she did not.

  “I am sorry to have intruded on you,” she said instead.

  “Your presence could not be an intrusion,” he assured her gallantly. “Come. Stay and talk with me.” He gestured toward the sofa and chairs grouped in the middle of the room.

  Constance glanced at the closed door. It was scarcely proper to be alone at this time of night with a man, with the door closed, even if they were in so public a room as the library.

  He came closer to her, saying teasingly, “Afraid to be alone with me? I promise not to compromise your virtue.”

  Constance’s pulse beat a little faster. She remembered the last time that she had been alone with Leighton and what had happened then. She looked up into his eyes and saw them light suddenly, and she knew that he had thought of that kiss, as well.

  He reached up, skimming his knuckles along the line of her jaw. “I know. I could not resist you last time, so how can you trust me now? That is what you think, is it not?”

  “A valid question, surely,” she retorted a little breathlessly. Her skin felt warm where his fingers had touched it, and her heart was hammering so hard it seemed a wonder that he could not hear it.

  “That time was a lark,” he replied softly. “I did not know you, never thought to see you again. It was just…a foolish moment, a bit of pleasure.”

  “And now?” Constance could not pull her eyes away from his. She felt strangel
y both bold and filled with trepidation.

  “Now it is different, isn’t it?” He brushed back a stray curl from where it clung to her cheek, and his eyes traveled over her face, coming to rest on her mouth. His eyes were a dark, velvet blue, so intent and warm she could almost feel them upon her skin.

  As though he had actually touched her, her flesh tingled, and some wild, primitive heat blossomed in her abdomen. It seemed suddenly difficult to breathe; Constance was aware of the flow of air as she took a breath, and she realized that her lips had parted slightly.

  “Because I am your sister’s friend, you mean?” she asked, struggling to sound unaffected by his gaze.

  “Because it would mean something.”

  They stood for a long moment, looking into each other’s eyes. Constance thought that he might kiss her again. It was a little shocking, she thought, just how much she wanted exactly that. Her breasts were full and heavy, aching, the nipples prickling, and suddenly her mind was filled with the image of his hands on her breasts. She flushed with heat, unsure whether the blood rushed up through her in embarrassment or desire.

  The very air seemed to sizzle between them. Then Dominic dropped his hand and stepped back.

  Constance swallowed, turning aside. “I—I had better return to my room.”

  “But you have not chosen a book,” he pointed out.

  “Oh.” She turned back to the shelves and blindly pulled out a volume. Holding it tightly against her chest, almost like a shield, she murmured, “Good night, my lord.”

  “Good night, Miss Woodley. Sleep well.”

  There was little chance of that, Constance thought to herself as she hurried away down the corridor and trotted up the stairs toward her bedchamber. She was so thrumming with nerves, so aware of her senses, her mind filled with thoughts of what had just happened, that she was sure she would not be able to go to sleep for hours.