by Candace Camp
The music came to a close, and Constance made her curtsy to him. She took his arm, but he did not lead her back to her companions, turning instead toward the open doors leading onto the terrace. She smiled and went with him.
Other couples had sought the fresh air outside, as well, strolling along the terrace and even descending the steps toward the garden. Dominic and Constance did not take the steps but stayed on the wide terrace, drifting along past the lighted windows and doors of the ballroom.
The heady scent of roses drifted upward from below, and shadows beckoned beyond the last window of the house. They stopped on the edge of the dark end of the terrace and gazed out over the garden. It was washed with the pale light of the moon, and Constance looked up to see the moon glowing in the velvety black sky, softer and warmer than the sharp white sparkle of the stars.
A breeze played across the bare skin of her neck and shoulders, lifting the stray hairs that curled around her face. She turned and looked up at Dominic.
He was very close to her, only inches away, his face thrown into sharp relief by the moonlight. Even in this light, the desire in his eyes was clear. She thought of the kisses they had shared the other day in the garden, the way his hands had caressed her body, arousing in her feelings she had never known before, even with the man with whom she had once thought herself in love. She could not help but wonder if the feeling that permeated her whenever she saw Dominic was not only desire but something much stronger, much larger. Could it be that she was falling in love with Dominic—indeed, had already taken that fall?
She wanted him to kiss her, no matter how improper that might be. She wanted to feel again the passion that had rushed through her body when he had kissed her before. She could not help but think of the life that awaited her after tonight. In a few days she would be leaving Redfields, and then, within weeks—she knew how the time would fly—her Season would be over. How many more times would she see Dominic once she left his family’s home? Once her time in London had ended, she would never see him.
Was she to spend the rest of her life never knowing the taste of his lips again? Would she never know passion? Would she grow older, watching others court and marry and have children, never knowing any of those joys for herself? It seemed to her in that moment a horribly bleak existence.
A thought crept in. Would it not be better to experience the full depths of desire at least once? If she was collecting memories, did she really want to exclude the grandest, most glorious one she could hold?
She thought of kissing Dominic again, of sinking into his embrace and melding with him. She wanted to discover all the pleasures that lay hidden in his hard body; she wanted to know, to feel, everything her own flesh was capable of. Perhaps it was wicked of her, Constance thought, but she wanted to know what it was like to lie with a man—no, not with a man, but with Dominic. She wanted it with a fervor that made her tremble. And she could not help but think that if she denied herself that pleasure, she would regret it for the rest of her life.
Once again Constance considered casting caution to the winds, defying the conventions and seizing her moment of passion. It was a frightening, tantalizing thought.
Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face, for Dominic let out a little half groan and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her tenderly, his lips gently pressing, nibbling at her lips, his tongue grazing the sensitive flesh, but as the heat rose between them, his mouth turned harder and more demanding, and his tongue entered her mouth, thrusting and hungry. His arms tightened around her, crushing her to him.
The growing fierceness of his kiss did not frighten Constance. Rather, it roused an equally fierce longing inside her, and she pressed up against him, her arms twining around his neck and holding him nearer, ever nearer. Desire clawed at them, sharp and insistent, and coiled hotly deep inside.
The soft murmur of voices penetrated through the haze of their passion, and hastily Dominic swept her back with him, deeper into the shadows. They turned and looked down the sweep of the long walkway, where a couple strolled, talking softly. Dominic released Constance, then took her hand and pulled her even farther back. She stood with him, waiting, watching the other couple, her heart thundering, her breath coming in quick pants.
The man and woman walked closer and lingered just beyond the edge of the shadows. Moments crawled by before finally they turned and strolled back the way they had come.
Dominic turned to her, his eyes glinting in the darkness. He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.
“We must go back,” he murmured hoarsely.
Constance nodded. There was nothing in her thrumming body that wanted to do what he said, but she was well aware of the dangers of remaining here. They had probably already caused talk by disappearing from the ball for as long as they had. Her hands went to her hair and gown, smoothing out any disarray she found. She only hoped the look on her face could be erased as easily.
She put her hand formally on his arm, and they strolled back along the terrace. Constance glanced up at him in the soft glow of the outdoor lanterns, and Dominic smiled down at her. She smiled back almost shyly, then looked away, afraid that too much of what she felt must show on her face.
He cleared his throat and said, “I would like to show you around the estate.”
His words were quite ordinary, but the husky quality of his voice sent a shiver through her.
“Yes, that sounds most pleasant,” she replied, fighting for an easy tone of voice.
They stepped inside, continuing to talk in a somewhat stilted way, making plans to go riding together. Constance hoped that the flush in her cheeks would cause no more comment than the pink in others’ faces, brought about by exercise and the large number of people in the room.
“Let me fetch you something to drink,” Dominic suggested, and she smiled at him.
“Thank you.” With any luck, a cup of punch would cool the heat rushing through her.
He left her at one of the chairs that lined the walls of the ballroom and started making his way around the dancers to the refreshments at the far end. Constance waited for him, idly watching the dancers as she fanned her face. She did not see the person approaching her from the side until the shadow fell across her.
“What do you think you are doing?” a woman’s voice hissed, sounding like drops of water hitting a hot stone.
Startled, Constance looked up to see Muriel Rutherford looming over her, a tall, slender column of cold fury. Her rail-thin figure was clothed in a simple, even girlish, white ballgown that did little for her looks. Constance presumed the style and color were meant to place Muriel among the young debutantes who made up the bulk of the marriage mart. However, she was clearly past the age of most of them, closer, Constance thought, to her own twenty-eight years than to eighteen or nineteen, and the girlish dress only emphasized the older set of Muriel’s face, stamped with lines from years of disdain. The color, moreover, was not flattering to Muriel’s very white skin, washing out her pallid tones even more.
She frowned at Constance, her face pinched in anger. Her light blue eyes were chips of ice. Her hands were curled so tightly into fists that Constance thought her fan might very well snap in her hand.
“I beg your pardon?” Constance asked coolly, rising to face the other woman.
“How dare you?” Muriel snapped. “I know my mother told you that Dominic and I have an understanding, yet still you chase after him. I saw you flirting with him, leading him out onto the terrace.”
Anger sliced through Constance at the other woman’s contemptuous words, and she was aware of a strong desire to box Muriel’s ears, but she kept her voice calm and quiet as she said, “Careful, Lady Muriel. You overstep your bounds.”
“Stay away from him!” Muriel shot back bluntly.
“If I were you, my lady, I would lower my voice. You would not want to create a scene in front of all these people.”
“I don’t care!” Muriel ret
orted rashly. “Let everyone know what you are up to!”
“I doubt that you would care to have everyone hear that you are not engaged to Lord Leighton despite what your mother has been saying,” Constance answered, gazing back at Muriel with a quiet, unmoving confidence.
Muriel’s eyes flashed, and Constance thought for an instant that the woman was actually going to slap her. But then Muriel seemed to gain control over herself, and she let out a harsh laugh that held no amusement at all.
“Do you actually think he will marry you?” Muriel asked, her voice dripping with scorn. “Gentlemen like Lord Leighton don’t marry pretty little nobodies like you. They dally with such women, that is all. They marry someone like me!”
“I suggest, Muriel, that you stop talking before you make more of a fool of yourself than you already have,” cracked out a masculine voice.
Both women started in surprise and whirled to find Dominic standing beside them. Neither had seen him approaching. Constance wondered how much of their conversation he had overheard.
He held a cup of punch in his hand, which he handed to Constance with a small, polite bow in her direction. His face was set in a cool, courteous mask, but there was a hard quality to his blue eyes that betrayed his temper.
“D-Dominic.” Muriel looked dismayed. “I did not see you there.”
“Clearly.” He looked at Muriel, and Constance felt a faint twinge of pity even for her, having to face Dominic’s stony gaze. “You and your mother appear to be laboring under a misapprehension, Lady Muriel. You and I are not engaged.”
Muriel looked as if she had sustained a blow, but she recovered quickly, letting out a little laugh and saying, “Of course we have not yet made the announcement….”
“There will be no announcement,” Dominic retorted bluntly.
Muriel sucked in her breath sharply, her eyes widening. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Perhaps my father and your mother should have consulted me before they made their arrangements. I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that my father encouraged you and Lady Rutherford to think that I was amenable to my parents’ plans for my future. However, I can assure you that I am not. I never gave the Earl any reason to think that I would marry as he directed. Nor have I at anytime said anything to you or your parents that would indicate that I had any intention of asking for your hand. That much, at least, I know you are aware of. I would have thought that fact would have restrained your mother or you from uttering the falsehoods that you have told Miss Woodley.”
Muriel gaped at him. She recovered enough to say in a low, harsh voice, “Dominic! Do not be a fool. You know that people such as you and I marry for larger reasons than some mawkish sentiment.”
“Muriel,” he replied impatiently, “I am not going—”
“No!” Muriel flung up a hand as if to stop him, pasting on a brittle smile. “Please. Do not. I will not stay here and listen to you say something I know you will later regret, when you have gotten over…this foolishness.” She cast a last dagger of a look at Constance, then whirled around and stalked off.
Dominic’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed with a dangerous light. Constance thought for an instant that he was about to start after Muriel, but at that moment Francesca swept up on Sir Lucien’s arm, smiling brightly.
“Dominic, my love, there you are!” she exclaimed as if she had not seen him only half an hour earlier, linking her arm through her brother’s and turning him away.
Dominic stiffened, then visibly relaxed his face and turned toward Constance. “I apologize, Miss Woodley.”
Constance was trembling, her stomach quivering with nerves, but she managed to shake her head, pasting a smile on her lips, and said, “No, please, do not worry about it, my lord. I am fine, I assure you. I am growing accustomed to Lady Muriel’s manner of speech.”
“Then you are a much braver person than I,” Sir Lucien told her. “Frankly, the woman terrifies me.”
The others smiled, the tension of a moment earlier eased. Sir Lucien turned to Constance, giving her a graceful bow, and asked her for the dance that was about to start.
Gratefully, she accepted. She needed to be away from Dominic for a moment, to have a chance to recover her temper and her composure, and a dance with as capable and entertaining a partner as Sir Lucien was perfect for her purpose. Constance laid her hand on his arm and nodded a polite goodbye to Francesca and Dominic.
Francesca watched her friends leave, waiting until they were on the dance floor and the music was starting before she turned back to her brother.
“Now,” she said, crossing her arms and fixing him with her dark blue gaze, so like his own, “just what do you think you are doing?”
Dominic stiffened, his eyes sparking with anger. “What? You, too?”
He whipped around and strode off. Francesca stared after him for a moment, then sighed and followed him. She caught up with him outside the ballroom, reaching to grab his sleeve.
“Dominic, wait.”
He pulled to a stop and turned to her, his face a polite mask. Francesca muttered an imprecation under her breath and, glancing around her, took his hand to drag him down the hall away from the music and the noise. Picking up a candlestick on one of the narrow tables along the hallway, she lit it from a sconce, then opened one of the closed doors along the hallway and whisked Dominic inside.
Francesca cast a quick glance around. They were in the small east-facing room that her mother used as a morning sitting room. It was empty of people, the only light in it the candle that she held. She set down the candle on a small table beside the door and turned to face Dominic.
“What do you want, Francesca?” he asked, his voice cold. “Do you also hope for Muriel Rutherford for a sister-in-law?”
“Good Gad, no,” Francesca retorted bluntly. “I should hope you would have good sense than to tie yourself to that icicle of a woman. I do not care whom you marry. But I warn you—I will not have you hurting Constance Woodley. I am very fond of the girl.”
He let out a short bark of laughter that contained little amusement. “You think I am not?”
“I fear that you are too fond of her,” Francesca replied. “I fear that you will lead her on, encourage her to fall in love with you, and then her heart will be broken.”
“Why do you assume that I would break her heart?”
“Because you and I both know that you must marry money,” she shot back.
“Why?” he responded, his voice laced with bitterness. “Why should I marry to please our wretched family? You and I both know how little our family is worth the sacrifice.”
“Yes, and I also know you,” Francesca told him. “You will do your duty. You always have, and you always will.”
He gazed at her levelly. “Would you condemn me to that? You, of all people, know how it is to marry where one does not love.”
Tears sprang into Francesca’s eyes, and she turned away quickly.
“Oh, bloody hell!” Dominic crossed the room and took his sister’s shoulders in his hands, saying in a softened voice, “The devil curse my tongue. I am sorry, Francesca. I should not have said that. You are the last person on whom I should take out my frustration. Please, forgive me.”
She turned and gave him a watery smile. “No, I should ask your forgiveness.” She slid her arms around him and laid her head against his chest. “Oh, Dominic, I do want you to achieve happiness. I truly do. I don’t care about the family or Redfields or any of it, if only you are happy. You should not have to be the one to pay for all the foolish ways our ancestors wasted their money.” She pulled back and looked up into his face. “Do you love Constance? Do you want to marry her?”
Dominic looked at her, his face torn. “I—I don’t know. I am not sure if any of us are even capable of such an emotion. The FitzAlans are a sorry lot.”
Sadly, Francesca nodded. “I fear you are right.” She walked away from him, sitting down in the nearest chair. She smoot
hed down the material of her dress, saying in a low voice. “The truth is, I married foolishly—we both know that. I did not help myself or the family, either one. I do not wish to see you in such a marriage. I would be most happy if you married Constance. I cannot think of anyone I would more like to have as a relative.”
Dominic shook his head. “No. You are right. I would be a cad to pursue Miss Woodley.” He strolled over to the window and pushed aside the curtain, looking out into the dark night. His face was shadowy and unreadable in the dim light. “I know where my duty lies. I shall marry as I must.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
CONSTANCE DID NOT SEE Dominic again that night, though she glanced discreetly around the ballroom several times. Francesca seemed preoccupied, and more than once Constance saw her frowning.
Constance felt sure that Francesca must be upset over the scene with Muriel. She feared that Francesca regretted bringing Constance into her family home. Dominic’s parents expected him to marry Miss Rutherford; perhaps Francesca had expected that, too. Dominic had said that the family needed money, and Constance could not help but remember Francesca’s skill at saving pennies when they were purchasing her own wardrobe. Perhaps Francesca, as much as any of them, needed Dominic to marry well.
What if Francesca, like Muriel, felt that Constance was to blame for Dominic’s refusal to marry the other woman? Constance could not detect any change in Francesca’s attitude toward her, but neither could she shake the feeling that Francesca was worried.
Constance went to bed feeling uneasy, and the next morning, as she dressed for the day, she wondered whether she should offer to leave Redfields and return to London. She did not want to; her heart felt as if it would tear from her chest if she did. But she could not bring harm to Francesca. She could not repay all Francesca had done for her by being a part of the ruin of her family’s fortune.