The Marriage Wager

by Candace Camp

  Because it would mean something. What had he intended by that? What would it mean? Love? Marriage? No, clearly that was absurd; they barely knew one another. Yet it would not, presumably, mean something shallow and fleeting, not “a lark.” Then would it, in contrast, mean something deep and profound? Or at least a step in the direction of something deep and profound?

  Constance entered her room and closed the door, going over to the window to gaze out into the darkness. Perhaps what he had meant had simply been that if they kissed again, she would be taking a step down a road that could lead only to her social ruin.

  The heir to an earldom did not marry the penniless daughter of a baronet. She had noticed tonight that when Francesca had been listing the available suitors at Redfields, she had not mentioned Lord Leighton. Francesca liked her, Constance knew, but clearly she did not consider Constance an acceptable bride for her brother. Certainly the stiff and formal Lord and Lady Selbrooke would not.

  So his words had likely been a warning to her, she thought. Yet they had not sounded like a warning. They had sounded, quite frankly, like an invitation.

  She leaned her head against the frame of the window, closing her eyes, and she remembered their kiss—the touch of his breath against her skin, the full, firm feel of his lips on hers, the heat and hunger that had swirled through her.

  She shook her head as though to clear the tangle of thoughts from it and turned away from the window. She noticed that she still clutched the book against her chest, and she lowered her hand to look at the title.

  It was Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes. A relaxing little bit of nighttime reading, she thought, and a bubble of laughter escaped her lips.

  She laid the book aside on the dresser and with a sigh began to unbutton her dress. The maid, Nan, had told her to ring for her help, but Constance had no desire for anyone else’s company right now. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. They might keep her awake too long, but that was all right. For the first time in a long time, she felt vividly alive. And she meant to enjoy the feeling to the fullest.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING WHEN Constance went down to breakfast, Francesca was not there. She had a pleasant conversation with the Misses Norton, a pair of excitable young sisters who had come with their brother Philip from their estate in Norfolk. They were, as best as Constance had been able to make out, some sort of relation to Lady Selbrooke. Living under the somewhat haphazard guardianship of their older brother, who was as placid and introspective as they were outgoing, they had not yet made their debuts, though at seventeen and eighteen they were of an age to do so. It was clear that they regarded their visit to Redfields as a sophisticated treat compared to the county assemblies and small local parties that had constituted their social life heretofore, and they were bubbling with speculation about the outing into the village scheduled for today.

  There would be an open air landau for the older ladies and those who did not ride, they told Constance, but those who wished to ride would be provided with horses. This, they agreed, was what they intended to do.

  “Though, of course, we shall doubtless look quite gauche compared to Miss Rutherford,” Miss Elinor Norton told her with a smile that showed how little she cared.

  “She is an excellent horsewoman, I understand. Why, she brought her own mount,” added her sister, Lydia.

  “She told us yesterday evening that she could not bear to ride any horse but her own.”

  “I would expect nothing else,” Constance replied dryly.

  “Do you ride, Miss Woodley?” their brother Philip asked, surprising Constance by showing that he had actually been listening to his sisters’ chatter.

  She smiled. “I am no expert such as Miss Rutherford, but, yes, I have been known to ride. It has been many years, however, and, sadly, I did not think to bring a riding habit.”

  Indeed, she had left her riding habit at home, not even bringing it to London, as she had not dreamed of needing it. So, she imagined, she would be consigned to the open air landau along with the “older ladies.” Ah well, at least she would not have to be part of the group with Muriel Rutherford, which was some comfort, she thought.

  When the meal was over, she went up to Francesca’s room, as she found her friend’s absence worrisome. Unfortunately, she discovered that her uneasy premonition was correct, for when she knocked upon Francesca’s door, a voice croaked for her to come in, and she stepped inside to see Francesca, swathed in a shawl over her bedgown, sitting propped against her pillows, her face flushed, and her eyes red and watering.

  “Oh, Constance,” she wailed—if so gravelly a sound could be termed a wail. “I am so sorry. It seems I’ve caught this wretched cold.”

  “Heavens, no, don’t be sorry,” Constance assured her. “It’s scarcely as if you caught a cold on purpose.”

  “I cannot go to the church,” Francesca lamented, then paused to sneeze several times.

  “Of course not,” Constance agreed. “You must stay right here and get better. I shall stay and look after you, why don’t I?”

  “Oh, no! You mustn’t do that!” Francesca cried. “Maisie can fetch my tea and put cooling rags on my forehead. Promise me you’ll go!”

  Francesca looked so alarmed that Constance hastened to assure her that she would do just as she asked. “But I hate to leave you here, feeling so ill.”

  Francesca coughed, but shook her head firmly. “No. I didn’t bring you here to nurse an invalid. You go and have fun.”

  Constance felt rather selfish, abandoning her friend, but Maisie entered the room with a bowl of steaming water in which aromatic herbs were floating and placed it by her mistress’s bed, then assured Constance that Francesca would prefer that she go.

  “Truth is, miss,” Maisie told her confidentially as she ushered Constance to the door, “she hates for anyone to see her looking like this. She’s used to me, and I know just what to do.”

  Constance reflected that Francesca’s devoted maid had been caring for her for years and doubtless was far better than she would be at nursing Francesca back to health. So it was with a clear conscience that she went downstairs to join the others.

  She could not deny that she suffered a pang of envy when she saw Muriel Rutherford mounted on an elegant bay mare, her narrow figure shown off to advantage in her mannishly-cut charcoal-gray riding habit, with a rakish little hat that resembled a military shako perched on her black hair. Miss Rutherford controlled her dancing mount with ease, her eyes almost warm. It was clearly the milieu that suited her best.

  Leighton, too, was on horseback, as were most of the young people, and Constance could not help but notice what a striking figure he cut. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked born to the saddle. She remembered that Francesca had told her that he had been in the Hussars, and she could certainly imagine him on horseback, leading a charge.

  Constance resigned herself to riding in the carriage with her aunt and her cousin Georgiana, who could not abide horses, as well as Miss Cuthbert, a solemn, quiet girl who was, if Constance remembered correctly, a grandniece of the Duchess. The ride was exactly what Constance had feared it would be, with Aunt Blanche dominating the conversation, chattering about the excellence of the food, the accommodations and, of course, the entertainment provided last night by Miss Rutherford. She could not, apparently, contain her admiration for that young woman’s skill on the pianoforte.

  Constance, only half-listening to her aunt’s paean of praise to Lady Muriel, was astonished to see Lord Leighton detach himself from the riding party and fall back to ride beside the open carriage, sweeping off his hat and bowing toward them in gallant greeting. Georgiana and Aunt Blanche straightened, greeting him effusively, and Constance noticed that even Miss Cuthbert became somewhat more animated in his presence.

  He looked at Constance. “I am sorry, Miss Woodley, to see that you are not riding today.”

  “Indeed, sir, I wish that I was, but I did not think to bring a riding habit,” she resp
onded candidly.

  “That can be remedied, I am sure,” he told her. “There is bound to be one around the house that will suit you. We must ride out some afternoon. I should like to show you the estate.”

  “I would enjoy that very much,” Constance replied, and from the corner of her eye she could see her aunt and cousin glowering at her.

  “I understand you have a very lovely summer house,” Aunt Blanche put in. “I am sure it would be a treat for the young ones to see it. Wouldn’t you like to, Georgiana?”

  “Oh, yes, Mama,” Georgiana replied eagerly.

  “I shall mention that to my mother,” Leighton said smoothly. “Perhaps she will set up an outing to the summer house, if, indeed, she does not already have one planned. We have often picnicked there, as I recall.”

  Constance smothered a smile at his adept avoidance of the implied request to take Georgiana to see the place. “A picnic sounds lovely,” she commented, tilting her parasol a little to look at him.

  He continued to ride beside their landau, chatting about the upcoming tour of the church and sundry other mundane matters. Constance did not really care about the topic; it was enjoyable just to ride with him. Even the presence of her aunt and cousin was made more enjoyable by his being there.

  Constance noted that more than once Muriel Rutherford glanced back at them, her expression icy. Constance felt sure that Miss Rutherford was less than pleased that Leighton was not spending the time with her. She wondered if she was being foolish to feel that Miss Rutherford had taken an especial dislike to her. Perhaps the young woman looked at all other women with such disapproval.

  Finally, when the carriage rolled across a small stone bridge over a serene creek and they stopped to admire the view, Miss Rutherford pulled to a halt, then turned and trotted back to join them.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked as she rode up, though her voice expressed little tone of concern. “Do you need to return to the house?”

  Constance felt sure that Muriel hoped that her surmise was correct. She found herself quite happy to dash her hopes. “No, we simply stopped to look at the view. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  Muriel gave her a look down the length of her nose, as if faintly surprised that Constance would address her. She glanced indifferently out over the water, lined with gracefully bending willows along its west bank.

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She turned toward Leighton. “I am amazed to find you lagging behind, Dominic. Is Arion hurt?”

  “No, he’s healthy as ever,” Leighton replied easily, patting his horse’s neck.

  “He must be chafing at this slow pace,” Muriel commented, a contemptuous smile touching her lips.

  Dominic quirked an eyebrow, looking faintly amused. “Are you criticizing my handling of my horse, Muriel?”

  Even Miss Rutherford had the grace to blush at his question. “Good heavens, no, of course not. Everyone knows you ride like a centaur. I was merely…surprised at your setting such a slow pace.”

  “I was simply enjoying a conversation with these lovely ladies,” Leighton replied easily. “Perhaps you would like to join us.”

  Miss Rutherford glanced at the carriage. Constance suspected that riding alongside the landau ranked very low on her list. However, after a brief mental struggle, she offered a smile to Leighton and said, “Certainly. Why not?”

  The remainder of the ride was far less enjoyable, for Muriel did her best to engage the viscount in conversation about people, places and events with which the other women were unfamiliar. Though Dominic time and again brought the conversation back to the others as best he could, Miss Rutherford quickly switched it to another equally unknown topic. It made for a disjointed and boring exchange. However, it was clear to her that Muriel was not interested in conversing so much as in showing Constance and the others that Lord Leighton and she were close friends, part of a group to which the other women did not belong.

  The remainder of the ride was mercifully short. Not long after the bridge, they rolled into the quiet village of Cowden. The square stone, battlemented tower of the church was visible above the trees, and they soon pulled to a stop beside the churchyard. A lych-gate led into the graveyard behind the church.

  The other members of the party had already dismounted and were standing in the shaded side yard of the church, chatting amongst themselves, having handed over their mounts to the two grooms who had accompanied them.

  Leighton dismounted and turned to help the ladies down from the carriage. When they reached the others, they saw that their group had been joined by the black-clad rector, a white-haired, well-rounded gentleman who beamed at them.

  “Well, well, welcome to St. Edmund’s,” he said cheerfully, bouncing a little on his toes. “It is not often that we have so many distinguished visitors. Lord Leighton.” He bowed toward Leighton, his smile broadening even more.

  He led them into the church, pointing out the Norman tower, which dated from the thirteenth century, and the charming metalwork on the ancient wooden doors. Inside, he continued extolling the historic and architectural virtues of the church in a rich, rolling voice that doubtless stood him in good stead when delivering his sermons. He pointed out the fifteenth-century octagonal font made of brass, and the Flemish stained-glass east window through which the sun filtered, throwing jewel-like colors across the stone floors.

  They walked past tombs covered with the effigies of this or that lord or lady, including the apparent focal point of the church, a highly detailed stone rendering of a thirteenth-century Sir Florian FitzAlan, the precursor of all the other Lords Leighton and Earls of Selbrooke whose tombs and memorials lined the east wall of the church. He lay, sword strapped to his side, his hands folded prayerfully on his chest and his feet propped on his faithful staghound.

  They admired the medieval wall painting, now faded almost into nothing, of the twelve apostles, as well as the gothic arches, and the Jacobean black walnut pews and high pulpit, the latter topped with a flat sounding board. The enclosed pew belonging to the Earl’s family was, Constance noticed, far roomier than any of the others, and its back rose so high as to make the family virtually invisible to the other parishioners behind them.

  As the priest led them to the chancel at the front of the church, describing the carved rood screen and the marble altar, Constance trailed along behind the others, looking at the effigies and memorials. Though she admired the unexpectedly fine artistic points of the church, it was these reminders of the departed humans who had lived and worshipped here that most intrigued her.

  “The FitzAlans are a disgustingly self-satisfied lot, are we not?” murmured a wry voice behind her, and Constance turned to see Leighton standing there. He nodded toward the brass memorial touting the virtues of the First Earl of Selbrooke.

  Constance smiled. “I suspect most tombs and memorials describe their subjects in rather glowing terms.”

  “Hmm, no doubt. But I have seen the portrait of that fellow, and I can tell you that he looked more like a tyrant than a ‘kinde and gentle’ father and ‘just master.’ This one, on the other hand—” he pointed to a brass plaque a few feet ahead of them on the wall “—had a decidedly weak chin and a rather hunted look. It was said that his lady was a virago, which perhaps explains the fearful expression.”

  Constance chuckled, rebuking him in a playful tone, “I think you are too severe with your ancestors.”

  “You would not say that if you had seen the gallery of their portraits. I will show it to you tomorrow, and you will understand.”

  They strolled along slowly, looking at the statues and markers. Dominic pointed out certain phrases and names that had caught his fancy over the years, murmuring sardonic comments about many of them.

  “Stop,” Constance told him with mock severity. “You will have me laughing most improperly in church.”

  He cast a glance over at their group, who were clustered in the small side chapel, listening to the priest expound on the perpendicular style of the w
indows. He took her arm and nodded toward the back of the church. “Then let us walk outside, where we won’t disturb the sanctity.”

  Constance went with him out the side door of the church and into the old graveyard behind. The cemetery was green and cool, shaded by oaks and ancient yew trees, and there was a charmingly unkempt look to it. Aged tombstones were covered with lichen, and some of them listed in one direction or another, often leaning comfortably against another marker. Ivy covered much of the iron bars of the fence and grew over the curved roof of the lych-gate. Flowers were bursts of color in stone urns, and here and there a rose bush had grown wild over a low fence enclosing a few graves.

  They strolled along companionably, not talking much, winding through the old graves and monuments, looking at the statuary that marked them, pausing now and then to read an inscription. Some were so old and covered with lichen that they were almost impossible to read. Some were poignant, even heartbreaking, such as a cherub watching over the tiny grave of a child, while others provided wry commentary on life or death.

  Constance felt easy and comfortable with Dominic. They talked about the graves and the occupants whose names he recognized. They talked about the church, the village, about Redfields itself. He asked about her parents, and she found herself telling him about her mother, whose death and life she could not remember, and about the father who had raised her, the bond they had shared.

  “You sound as if you loved him very much,” he commented.

  “Yes. I miss him still. We spent many hours together, talking or reading. I know the vicar’s wife often despaired of him. She felt he ought to have made more of a push to get me settled in life. I heard her once scold him for being selfish. But he could not know that if he delayed a year or two taking me to London for a Season, he would fall ill and be unable to do so. And once he fell ill, I could not have left him.”

  “It must have been painful,” Leighton said sympathetically, taking her arm to help her over a rough patch of ground.