by Candace Camp
So she looked at Francesca, pretending to listen, but hearing not half of what she said. The smile on her face felt frozen. Lord and Lady Selbrooke remained in the small circle of conversation, which surprised Constance. She imagined that they found the exchange as stilted and uncomfortable as she did. But after a while she realized that they, too, must be hoping to avoid talking to anyone else—or to let Constance talk to anyone. She suspected that they reasoned the less said about the surprise engagement, the better their chances were of somehow disposing of the awkward matter.
Of course, marooned there with his parents and Francesca, there was no opportunity to broach the subject of ending their engagement with Dominic. She knew that she would have to wait until after the meal was over.
At last they were called in to supper, and Constance was able to leave Dominic and his parents. Of course, she was now also away from the protection of their presence, which meant that the other guests would be free to ask her questions.
She took some comfort in the fact that at least Lady Rutherford and Lady Muriel were not there; for surely they would have asked the more penetrating and embarrassing of questions. The Norton sisters would merely want to hear all the details of the engagement, and since she knew none, that would doubtless prove to be difficult, but at least with them there would be no intent to wound her.
Mr. Willoughby, much to Constance’s relief, was as polite and gentlemanly as ever, and after murmured felicitations, did not bring up the subject of the engagement again. Nor did he mention this afternoon. Sir Lucien, on her other side at the table, had clearly been instructed by his friend Francesca, for he talked wittily and at length about almost everything but the engagement.
But the gentlemen, of course, left after the meal was over, and Constance had to face the other women.
“It is so exciting!” Miss Elinor Norton said, coming up and linking her arm through Constance’s as the women trailed out of the dining room. Her sister posted herself on Constance’s other side.
“I had no idea that there was any understanding between you and Lord Leighton,” Miss Lydia added. “How long have you been engaged? How did he ask you? Did he go down on bended knee?”
Constance felt herself coloring. “Please, it isn’t really…I mean, I have known Lord Leighton for only a short time.”
“How romantic!” Elinor exclaimed, pressing a hand to her bosom. “Did you look at him and know immediately that you loved him?”
“Um, well…” Constance looked around a little desperately, wishing that Francesca or Calandra would save her.
“Oh, Elinor, you are embarrassing her,” Lydia scolded her sister. She squeezed Constance’s arm, saying, “Don’t mind Elinor. She is quite mad at the moment about weddings and betrothals.”
As Constance could see scarce a ha’penny’s difference between the two sisters’ interest, she was unsure how to respond. Finally she said, “It is really much too soon to say anything. Lord Leighton should not have brought it up.”
“A secret engagement,” Elinor contributed breathlessly.
Constance was not sure but what she was making things worse. A secret engagement sounded a little haveycavey. “Well, um, I don’t know that it was secret, exactly.”
“Well, of course your aunt and uncle knew,” Lydia offered. “Lady Woodley was telling me all about it.”
“She was?” Constance asked, rather alarmed at this news. Heaven only knew what Aunt Blanche might take it upon herself to say.
At that moment Francesca joined them, saying, “Miss Norton, you must play for us, as Lady Muriel is not with us this evening.”
The sisters were diverted momentarily from their interrogation by a discussion over which of them should play. Francesca suggested, beaming, that each of them play several tunes, adding, “And your sister may turn the pages for you.”
The girls bade Constance a quick farewell, and Francesca took her place at Constance’s side. “I am dreadfully sorry,” she apologized. “I could not get away from the Duchess. And if I offend her, I will never hear the end of it from my mother.”
Constance smiled. “You need not apologize. Indeed, I should beg your pardon for putting you in this position.”
“It will not last much longer, I hope,” Francesca said. “Once you and Dominic have a chance to confer, you will know what to say in answer to their questions.”
They sat down near the door of the music room, and Constance was relieved when Calandra came over to take a seat on her other side.
“At least we will not have to listen to Lady Muriel’s playing tonight,” Calandra remarked cheerfully.
“Or at all,” Francesca added. “I understand that she and her mother are leaving at dawn tomorrow.”
“Really?” Constance asked.
“She can hardly stay,” Calandra pointed out. “Not after what she did this afternoon. I heard Lady Rutherford talking to her when I went past their room coming down to supper.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “I almost felt sorry for Lady Muriel. Her mother was shrieking at her like a fishwife. She said that Lady Muriel had ruined all her chances.”
“She never had a chance with Dominic,” Francesca stuck in. “But she has chased off a number of other suitors. She will have to find someone whose pockets are completely to let.”
“And marry him posthaste before he has an opportunity to get to know her better,” Calandra added.
Francesca smiled, saying only, “Callie, you are unkind.”
Calandra shrugged. “Muriel threw her cap at Sinclair, you know.”
Francesca’s eyebrows vaulted up. “Indeed. When?”
Calandra shrugged. “I am not entirely certain. When I was much younger. Well, you can imagine how she would enjoy snaring a duke. But of course she hadn’t the slightest chance. I remember her discoursing to Sinclair on how a child should most effectively be reared. Of course, in her opinion, I was growing up in the worst way.”
A grin flashed across Francesca’s face. “I am sure Rochford took that well.”
“You can imagine. He gave her such a set down that even Muriel turned scarlet with embarrassment.”
Miss Lydia began to play at that moment, and they fell silent. Her skill at the piano did not approach Muriel Rutherford’s, but the tune was livelier, and when the two sisters began to sing, it was altogether more enjoyable.
The men rejoined the women more quickly than was usual. Constance, seeing the way Dominic and his father studiously ignored one another, suspected that the atmosphere in the Earl’s smoking room had been rather chillier than the guests liked.
Constance felt another pinprick of guilt. Because of Dominic’s decision to marry her, the tension between father and son was worse than ever.
After another song or two, the party began to break up, with several of the older guests retiring. Lady Selbrooke, looking not so much tired as unhappy, was among the first to leave. The people who were left in the music room began to drift into groups, several of them gathering around a table for a card game, and Mr. Carruthers and some others hanging about the piano with the Norton sisters. With their singing and the chatter from the card players, there was ample noise to cover a private conversation. So when Dominic made his way over to where Constance sat, she seized the chance to talk to him.
They took a stroll about the long rectangular room, and she pulled him to a halt at the farthest end. “Dominic, we must talk.”
“Yes, we have to decide when and where I asked you to marry me,” he said, smiling faintly.
“No. No, that is not what I meant. Dominic, you must not do this.”
He looked at her quizzically. “Mustn’t I?”
“Yes. Don’t be difficult. You know as well as I do that marrying me is the last thing you should do.”
“It is precisely what I should do,” he countered. “You must see that.”
“I will not let you sacrifice yourself just because Muriel Rutherford caused a scene this afternoon.”
“Constan
ce, I’m not sure you understand what the consequences of that scene are. Your name will be besmirched if we do not marry. I realize that this is perhaps not what you would wish for.”
Not wish for it? Constance thought. If only Dominic knew, marriage to him would be exactly what she would most wish for. But not under these circumstances. Not with him forced to marry her.
Dominic went on. “Certainly the style of my proposal lacked romance, but I thought it vital that I act quickly to forestall any further comments from Muriel.”
“I do not care about the style of it,” Constance retorted. It was exasperating the way Dominic was turning this conversation around, implying that it was Constance who did not want to marry, who must be convinced of the necessity. “I know that my reputation will suffer from it, but that is not important, either.”
“It is important to me,” Dominic told her quietly. “Do you honestly think that I would act so dishonorably? After what happened in the cottage?”
Constance’s cheeks flooded with color. “I did not…do that to get you to marry me!”
His face softened. “I know you did not. But that fact does not alter my responsibility. I have spoken to your uncle, and he has given me permission to ask for your hand.”
“You did not actually ask for it,” Constance pointed out.
He smiled faintly. “I know. I must apologize for that omission. Shall I go down on my knee to you now?”
He started to move, and Constance quickly grasped his arm, whispering, “Dominic, no!” He chuckled, and she snapped, “Well, I am glad that you at least find amusement in this predicament!”
“It has to be done,” he said, his face sobering. “If you mislike the idea, I am sorry. But if you do not care how you will be seen by the world, I do. I will not play the cad.”
“You would not have to,” Constance replied. “Surely if we just stop talking about the engagement, people will after a time forget about it. There has been no announcement, after all. If someone questions you, you could say it was a…a misunderstanding.”
“There would always be a cloud over you,” Dominic told her firmly.
“Then you are adamant?”
“I am. I have spoken to my parents. We will have another ball at the end of this week, the night before all the guests leave. And we will make the formal announcement then.”
Constance sighed. Clearly there was no budging Dominic. Of course he would do what any honorable gentleman would. She should have expected nothing less of him, really.
But she could not bear to put this burden upon him. The family, the estate, would suffer because of their momentary indiscretion. It would be entirely different if he had wanted to marry her, she knew. If he had chosen love over the money the estate needed, she would have agreed in an instant. She would have been happy to live with him in penury, if that was the consequence of their marrying. If he had but once spoken of love, if he had told her how happy it would make him to marry her, she would have been overjoyed.
However, it was quite clear that he had acted out of honor, not love. She was his “responsibility.” He would not “play the cad.” How could she marry him, spend the rest of her life with him, loving him so much that she felt her heart might burst with it, when all that time he did not love her? When he had married her only because he was too honorable not to?
She wished that she knew what to do. It would be easiest, of course, to simply stop resisting, to agree to the announcement and the marriage. It was what everyone wanted. She would not have to face the ruin of her reputation. And perhaps, over time, Dominic would come to love her as she loved him. Did not people grow into love sometimes? Surely there had been couples who had married because their families had arranged it, yet afterward they had fallen in love.
But, no, Constance could not deceive herself. There was a vast difference between marrying because it was expected of one and marrying because one had been forced into it. Especially when marrying that person meant going against one’s family. When it meant that one would be living the rest of one’s life in straitened circumstances…and condemning one’s family to live that way, as well.
In Dominic’s situation, she thought, the marriage would be a constant source of irritation to him. Each time he saw her, he would be reminded of the fact that he had not done his duty by his family, that he hadn’t the money to free his lands from their debts, that he could not provide as he would want to for his children—and all because of Constance. He could hardly grow to love her under those circumstances. Indeed, in all probability, he would come to hate her.
She could not give in and marry him, Constance decided. She had to be firm. But what could she do? If she remained, Dominic would stubbornly go ahead with his plans to announce the engagement at the end of the week; she could not stop him. And once it was announced, it would be much more difficult to turn back. People might overlook his hasty remark today in the face of Muriel’s accusations, but one could not overlook a formal announcement. It would be a scandal if either of them refused to go through with the wedding after that.
Constance knew that she needed to keep him from announcing their engagement, and the only way she could think of to do that would be to leave Redfields. Clearly, talking with him had not worked. But he could not very well announce the engagement if she were not there. He would realize then how serious she was about not wanting him to have to marry her.
The problem, of course, was how she was to get away. Her aunt and uncle had refused to take her back to London; they were much too eager for the wedding to do that. And Constance did not have enough money to lease a carriage to take her there. She had spent all but a few pennies on the clothes and accessories she had purchased in London. To get anything more, she would have to access some of the money she had invested in the Funds, and to do that would require several days. She considered borrowing the money from Francesca; it would not cost too much, surely, if she took the mail coach instead of hiring a post chaise.
But she had the niggling suspicion that Francesca would not be eager to help her. Had she not said only a few hours ago that she should trust Dominic on this issue?
Calandra had been very friendly with her, of course, but Constance could not imagine asking the girl to lend her money to run away. The same was true of anyone else visiting Redfields.
She excused herself from the evening early. It was difficult to be friendly and polite when her mind was running over her problems, and she was getting tired of smiling and avoiding everyone’s questions.
To her surprise, as she started toward the stairs, one of the footmen intercepted her. “Miss…?”
She paused, looking at him inquiringly.
“His lordship requests your presence in his study,” the fellow told her, bowing slightly.
“Lord Leighton?” Constance asked, confused. She had left him in the music room, talking with Sir Lucien and Francesca.
“Oh, no, miss, beg pardon. Lord Selbrooke, I should say.”
Constance gaped at him, even more surprised. “I—yes, of course. Thank you.”
Some of her confusion must have shown on her face, for he then asked, “Shall I show you the way, miss?”
“Yes, thank you.” Constance followed the liveried footman down the hallway, her thoughts in a tumble. What could Dominic’s father want with her?
The footman knocked and opened the door for Constance, then withdrew, closing the door behind him. Constance looked across the room to where Lord Selbrooke sat behind a large mahogany desk. He rose and gestured toward one of the straight-backed chairs that faced his desk.
“Miss Woodley, please sit down.”
Constance did as he said, her stomach knotting. The room was imposing, all dark wood and massive furniture, and she could not help but think that the Earl had meant her to feel that way. He was equally imposing, his face stern and his demeanor haughty. After she took her seat, he sat down once again behind his desk, leaving the large expanse of wood between them.
&nbs
p; Perversely, the thought that the man purposely sought to intimidate her stiffened Constance’s back. Even if her insides were jittering, she was not about to let him see it.
He did not speak for a long moment, letting the silence sink between them. She maintained a polite expression, waiting.
“No doubt you know why I wished to see you,” the Earl began at last.
“No, my lord, I am afraid that I do not,” Constance answered evenly.
“You must realize that this is a match that I would not wish for my son.”
“Yes.”
“Dominic is headstrong, as always,” he went on.
“He is a man of strong principle,” Constance agreed.
“Phrase it how you like,” the Earl said with a shrug. “I think it will be easier to deal with you than with my son. You, I trust, will be more understanding about where your best interests lie.”
He was, she thought, going to try to talk her out of marrying Dominic. It seemed ironic that he intended to convince her to do what she had already decided to do. She should agree, she thought, and ask him for the use of his carriage back to London. However, his manner, both toward her and regarding Dominic, had the effect of making her want to do the opposite of what he asked.
“I realize that you stand to gain a great deal from this marriage,” he said, resting his elbows on his desk and steepling his hands together. “Of course, I would not expect you to give that up without some compensation. I am prepared to provide it.”
Constance gaped at him. “I beg your pardon? Are you offering to pay me not to marry Dominic?”
“Naturally.” He pulled a small leather pouch from a drawer and plopped it down on the desk in front of him. Pulling the drawstrings apart, he poured a handful of gold coins out on the desk.