Читать книгу The Marriage Wager - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 5

CONSTANCE BLINKED IN surprise, not sure what to make of this peculiar entrance. She hesitated, then started toward the open doorway. There was the sound of short, quick steps in the hallway, and Constance came to a halt as a woman now appeared in the doorway.

The new visitor was short and square, a startling vision in a puce overdress of sheer voile above a satin rose gown. Neither the material nor the fashionable color suited the woman’s middle-aged body. And the heavy frown she wore did nothing to improve her looks.

She glared somewhat accusingly at Constance and barked, “Have you seen the Viscount?”

“Here? In the library?” Constance raised her eyebrows in a skeptical way.

The other woman looked uncertain. “It does seem unlikely.” She glanced back into the hallway and then into the library. “But I am positive I saw Leighton come this way.”

“There was a man running down the hall only a moment ago,” Constance lied cheerfully. “He probably turned into the main corridor.”

The woman’s gaze sharpened. “Headed for the smoking room, I’ll warrant.”

She turned and bustled away in pursuit of her quarry.

When the sound of her footsteps had receded, the man emerged from behind the door, pushing it halfway closed, and let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

“Dear lady, I am eternally in your debt,” he told her with a charming grin.

Constance could not keep from smiling back. He was a handsome man, his looks enhanced by his smile and easy manner. He was a little taller than average, topping Constance by several inches, and slender, with a wiry body that hinted at hidden strength. He was dressed well but not meticulously in a formal black suit and white shirt, his ascot tied in a simple but fashionable style, with none of the fusses and frills of a dandy. His eyes were a deep blue, the color of a lake in summer, and his mouth was wide and mobile, accented by a deep dimple on one side. When he smiled, as he did now, his eyes lit up merrily, beckoning everyone around him to join in his good humor. His hair, dark blond sunkissed with lighter streaks, was worn a trifle longer than was fashionable and tousled in a way that owed more to carelessness than to his valet’s art.

He was, Constance thought, someone whom it was difficult to dislike, and she suspected that he was well aware of his effect, especially upon women. The unaccustomed visceral tug of attraction she felt inside was proof of his power, she thought, and firmly exercised control over the jangling of nerves in her stomach. She had to be immune to flirtatious smiles and handsome men, for she was not, after all, marriage material, and any other option was unthinkable.

“Viscount Leighton, I presume?” she said lightly.

“Alas, I am, for my sins,” he responded, and swept her a very creditable bow. “And your name, my lady?”

“It is merely miss,” she answered. “And it would be highly improper, I think, to give it to a stranger.”

“Ah, but not as highly improper as being alone with said stranger, as you are now,” he countered. “But once you tell me your name, we will no longer be strangers, and then all is perfectly respectable.”

She let out a little laugh at his reasoning. “I am Miss Woodley, my lord. Miss Constance Woodley.”

“Miss Constance Woodley,” he repeated, moving closer and saying confidentially, “now you must offer me your hand.”

“Indeed? Must I?” Constance’s eyes danced. She could not remember when she had last engaged in light flirtation with any man, and she found it quite invigorating.

“Oh, yes.” He made a grave face. “For if you do not, how am I to bow over it?”

“But you have already made a perfectly proper bow,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but not while I was so lucky as to be in possession of your hand,” he replied.

Constance extended her hand, saying, “You are a very persistent sort of fellow.”

He took her hand in his and bowed over it, holding it a bit longer than was proper. When he released it, he smiled at her, and Constance felt the warmth of his smile all the way down to her toes.

“Now we are friends, so all is proper.”

“Friends? We are but acquaintances, surely,” Constance replied.

“Ah, but you have saved me from Lady Taffington. That makes you very much my friend.”

“Then, as a friend, I feel I am free to inquire as to why you are hiding in the library from Lady Taffington. She did not seem fearsome enough to send a grown man into popping behind doors.”

“Then you do not know Lady Taffington. She is that most terrifying of all creatures, a marriage-minded mama.”

“Then you must take care not to run into my aunt,” Constance retorted.

He chuckled. “They are everywhere, I fear. The prospect of a future earldom is more than most can resist.”

“Some would think it is not so bad to be so eagerly desired.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps…if the pursuit had aught to do with me rather than my title.”

Constance suspected that Lord Leighton was sought after for far more than his title. He was, after all, devastatingly handsome and quite charming, as well. However, she could scarcely be so bold as to say so.

As she hesitated, he went on, “And for whom is your aunt hunting husbands?” His eyes flickered down to her ringless wedding finger and back up. “Not you, surely. I would think that it would be an easy task if that were the case.”

“No. Not me. I am well past that age by now.” She smiled a little to soften the words. “I am here only to help Aunt Blanche chaperone her daughters. They are making their come-out.”

He quirked one eyebrow. “You? A chaperone?” He smiled. “You will forgive me, I hope, if I say that sounds absurd. You are far too lovely to be a chaperone. I fear your aunt will find that her daughters’ suitors call to see you instead.”

“You, sir, are a flatterer.” Constance glanced toward the door. “I must go.”

“You will abandon me? Come, do not leave just yet. I am sure your cousins will survive a bit longer without your chaperonage.”

In truth, Constance had little desire to leave. It was far more entertaining to exchange light banter with the handsome viscount than it would be to stand with her cousins watching others talk and flirt. However, she feared that if she stayed away too long, her aunt would come looking for her. And the last thing she wanted was for Aunt Blanche to find her closeted here with a strange man. Even more than that, she had no desire for her aunt to meet Lord Leighton and become another of the pack of mothers who hounded him.

“No doubt. But I am neglecting my duty.” She held out her hand to him. “Goodbye, my lord.”

“Miss Woodley.” He took her hand in his, smiling down at her. “You have brightened up my evening considerably.”

Constance smiled back, unaware of how her enjoyment had put a sparkle in her eye and a flush in her cheeks. Even the severity of her gown and hairstyle could not mask her attractiveness.

He did not release her hand immediately, but stood, looking down into her face. Then, much to Constance’s surprise, he bent and kissed her.

Startled, she froze. The kiss was so unexpected that she did not pull away, and after a moment she found that she had no desire to do so. His lips were light and soft on hers, a mere brushing of his mouth against hers, but the touch sent a tingle all through her. She thought he would pull away, but to her further surprise, Leighton did not. Instead, his kiss deepened, his lips sinking into hers and gently, inexorably, opening her lips to him. Her hands went up instinctively to his chest. She should, she knew, thrust him away from her with great indignation.

But without any conscious thought, her hands instead curled into the lapels of his jacket, holding on against the swarm of sensations assaulting her. His hand went to her waist, wrapping around her and pulling her into him, and the other hand cupped the nape of her neck, holding her as his mouth worked its way with her.

Frankly, Constance was glad for his steadying support, for her knees seemed about to give way. Her entire body, in fact, suddenly was weak and melting and seemingly beyond her control. She had never felt anything like this before, not even when she was nineteen and in love with Gareth Hamilton. Gareth had kissed her when he asked her to marry him, and she had thought nothing could be as sweet. It had made things even harder when she had to turn him down in order to nurse her father through his last illness. But Lord Leighton’s embrace was not sweet at all; it was hard and demanding, and his kiss seared her. And though she scarcely knew the man, her body was trembling and her thoughts scattered to the winds.

He lifted his head, and for a long moment they stared at each other, more shaken than either cared to admit. Leighton drew a breath and stepped back, releasing Constance. She gazed at him, eyes wide, unable to speak. Then she turned and hurried from the room.

THERE WAS NO ONE IN THE hallway outside the library, for which Constance was very grateful. She could not imagine how she must look. If it was anything like the way she felt inside, then she was sure that anyone who saw her would stare. Her heart was galloping in her chest, and her nerves were thrumming.

There was a mirror on the wall halfway down the corridor, and Constance walked to it to take stock of herself. Her eyes were soft and lambent, and her cheeks were stained with color, her lips reddened and soft. She looked, she realized, prettier. But was it as obvious to anyone else as it was to her what she had been doing?

With hands that trembled slightly, she tucked a stray hair or two back into the neat bun at the nape of her neck, and she drew several deep breaths. Her thoughts were not so easily brought out of turmoil. Thoughts and sensations tumbled madly about in her, resisting all attempts to bring them into order.

Why had Lord Leighton kissed her? Was he nothing but a rake, a vile seducer seeking to take advantage of a woman in a vulnerable position? She found it hard to believe. He had been so likeable, not only handsome, but with that charming twinkle in his eye, that easy sense of humor. But then, perhaps that was how rakes were. It would make sense. It would be far easier to seduce someone, no doubt, if one were charming.

Still, she could not quite believe it about Lord Leighton. And there had been that look of surprise on his face when he had pulled back from her, as though he had not quite expected what had happened, either. And he had not gone forward with any seduction—even though she would certainly not have put up any resistance, as lost in his kiss as she had been. Surely his breaking off the kiss was proof that he was too gentlemanly to press the advantage.

He had meant to kiss her, of course, even if it had been an impulsive gesture. But she remembered how the kiss, a light touch at first, had deepened into passion. Had he meant only a mischievous little kiss, but then desire had overtaken him, just as it had her?

That thought brought a small, satisfied smile to Constance’s lips. She would like to think that she had not been the only one swept away by ardor.

She looked again at her image in the mirror. Could it be that Viscount Leighton had found her pretty in spite of her plain clothes? She studied her face. It was a pleasant oval shape and her features were even. She did not think she looked much older than she had at twenty. And there had even been a man or two besides Gareth who, when she was young, had called her gray eyes beautiful and her dark brown hair lustrous. Had Leighton seen past her current dullness to the pretty girl she had once been?

She would like to think so, that he had found her attractive, even desirable, that he had not simply thought her an easy target for his attentions.

Of course, how was she to know what Lord Leighton felt, she thought, when she did not even know how she felt herself! She had liked the man immediately. He had made her laugh, and she had enjoyed talking to him. But there had been something more…something she had felt as soon as he entered the room. The way he had looked at her, the way he had smiled, had set up an unusual warmth inside her, an odd fizz of interest, even excitement. And when he had kissed her, she had been prey to feelings she had never had before, never even dreamed of having. What she had felt, she thought, was lust, the very passion that young women were forever being warned about, the thing that would lead them down the path to ruin.

She had never felt it before. She had assumed she never would. She was, after all, twenty-eight, long past the possibility of romance. But, she thought with another little secretive smile, apparently she was not past the age to feel desire.

Constance started back down the corridor and slipped into the great room. The crowded room was stifling, and the noise was loud and grating on her ears. She wound her way through the people, coming at last back to her aunt and uncle.

To her surprise, her aunt did not take her to task for the length of time that she had spent away. Instead she beamed at Constance and wrapped her hand around her arm, pulling her closer.

“What did she say?” Aunt Blanche asked eagerly, leaning close to hear above the noise. Then, without waiting for a response, she charged on. “To think of Lady Haughston taking notice of us! I could have dropped dead in my tracks when Lady Welcombe introduced her to us. I’d no idea that such a one as she had even noticed us, let alone wanted to make our acquaintance. What did she say? What was she like?”

It took a little effort for Constance to pull her mind back to her stroll about the room with Lady Haughston. What had happened afterward had driven it completely out of her head.

“She was very nice,” Constance said. “I liked her a great deal.”

She wondered whether she should tell her aunt about Lady Haughston’s offer to take her shopping the next day. It seemed, in retrospect, unlikely that the woman had actually meant what she said. The conversation had been pleasant, but it was absurd, surely, to think that a woman of Lady Haughston’s position in the Ton would make such an effort to befriend her. Constance came from a respectable family, certainly, one that could trace its ancestors back to the Tudors, but her father’s title had been merely that of a baronet, and her family was not wealthy. She and her father had lived a quiet life in the country; she had never even been to London before this Season.

Constance could not imagine what had driven a woman like Lady Haughston to seek her out. She had not seemed inebriated, but Constance could only think that she had tippled too much punch. Whatever the reason, by tomorrow, Constance suspected, it would be forgotten…or, if remembered, it would be regretted. In any case, she doubted that Lady Haughston would call on her the next day, and she did not want to tell her aunt that Lady Haughston wanted to take her shopping and then be proven wrong.

“But what did she say?” Aunt Blanche asked in some irritation. “What did you talk about?”

“Commonplaces, mostly,” Constance said. “She asked if I had been to London before and I told her no, and she said that I must be sure to enjoy myself while I was here.”

Her aunt gave her an exasperated look. “Surely you did not keep all the conversation on yourself.”

“No. Lady Haughston said that it was kind of you to bring me here,” Constance told her, hoping that Aunt Blanche would be well enough pleased with that information that she would cease her questioning.

But Constance’s words only seemed to cement Aunt Blanche’s determination to discuss Lady Haughston. She continued to talk about the woman the rest of the time they were at Lady Welcombe’s rout and all the way home in their hired carriage, extolling Lady Haughston’s looks, lineage and virtues—though what her aunt could have known about the latter, Constance could not imagine, since she had talked to the woman for no more than three or four minutes.

“Such a lady,” Aunt Blanche said enthusiastically. “There are some would say she is a trifle showy. But I would not. Not at all. Her appearance is exactly what is pleasing. Her dress was clearly sewn by the best modiste. I have heard that she favors Mlle. du Plessis. She is always in the forefront of fashion. Her family is the very finest. Her father is an earl, you know.” She paused, looking almost starry-eyed. “And to take an interest in us…well, it is just the most complete luck. When I think of what her patronage will do for Georgiana and Margaret!”

Constance had not noticed any particular interest on Lady Haughston’s part in Georgiana and Margaret. Indeed, it had been Constance herself whom she had singled out, though she had no idea why. But she thought it prudent not to point this out to her aunt.

Aunt Blanche looked at her eldest daughter, Georgiana. “You were in your best looks tonight, my dear. No doubt that is why she noticed us. That dress is the loveliest we bought. Although I do think it would have been better with that extra ruffle the dressmaker would not put on.”

Again Constance held her tongue. As far as she was concerned, Georgiana’s dress was far too ruffled as it was, and if it had drawn Lady Haughston’s attention, it would only have been because that elegantly dressed woman had been appalled. Her aunt and cousins were given to flounces, ruffles and bows, bedecking the girls’ frocks with far more ornamentation than was attractive. It seemed to Constance that the ruffles usually served to make Georgiana look stouter than she was, just as the fussy curls she wore around her face only served to draw attention to its roundness.

But Constance had learned long ago that any attempt to convince the girls and Aunt Blanche that a little more simplicity would favor them had only ended up with all three of them vexed with her and certain that Constance spoke only out of jealousy.

So she said nothing as Aunt Blanche and the two girls happily speculated upon what knowing Lady Haughston would do to improve their status and on how they might improve their gowns for their next outing. Indeed, she scarcely listened to them all the ride home, for her own thoughts were far away from the carriage and her family. Nor did she think of the mystery of Lady Haughston’s interest in her, or whether she would in fact call on her the next day, though under normal circumstances she would have wondered about these things a great deal.

But tonight, as she left the carriage and climbed the stairs to her small room in their rented house, as she undressed for bed and brushed out her long, thick hair, her mind was on the laughing blue eyes of a certain viscount, and the question that would not let her sleep for a good hour after she had retired was whether she would ever see him again.

CONSTANCE DRESSED WITH some care the following morning. Though she refused to let herself get carried away by the thought that Lady Haughston had said she would call on her, neither was she going to ignore the possibility and therefore possibly wind up riding out with the woman in her second-best day dress. So she put on her best afternoon dress, made of brown jaconet muslin. And though she wore the little spinster’s cap her aunt assured her was suitable for her age and station in life, she pulled a few strands out from it and twisted them into curls to frame her face. Her pride would not allow her to be seen at Lady Haughston’s fashionable side looking like a dowd.

At one o’clock, when Lady Haughston had not arrived, Constance tried not to be too disappointed. After all, she had known that the introduction last night had been a fluke. Perhaps Lady Haughston had assumed she was someone else or had taken pity on a poor wallflower of a girl, but this morning she would have had no interest in actually pursuing the relationship.

Still, it was difficult not to feel somewhat downcast. Constance had liked Lady Haughston and, she was truthful enough to admit, she had felt a degree of pride at being singled out for attention by one of the leaders of the Ton. But most of all, meeting her had enlivened the boredom of life in London.

In truth, Constance was finding that she preferred life in the country to the glittering world of the capital. The parties, it was true, were far grander and more lavish, but she knew scarcely anyone at them, and she spent most of her time simply standing or sitting with her aunt and cousins. As a chaperone, she was paid no more attention than the furniture or the wallpaper. She was not asked to dance, and she was rarely even included in the conversations that her aunt or cousins conducted with others. Had her relatives been attentive to her, then she supposed that others would have talked to her, as well. But what few people the Woodley women knew they guarded jealously, hopeful that these relationships would help them in their quest for husbands.

Constance therefore found little pleasure in the parties except to look at the beautiful rooms and lovely dresses, or to observe the foibles of the various partygoers. It was an amusement that wore thin, and she often grew bored and wished she were at home reading.

During the days, she was equally bored. She had become accustomed from an early age to running her father’s household. When his estate passed to Sir Roger, while Aunt Blanche had been happy to assume the titular reins of the household, she was equally happy to leave most of the actual work of seeing that everything ran smoothly to Constance. But the house and the number of servants here were much smaller, and the housekeeper whom they hired in the city ran the place with such efficiency that Constance had very little to do with its daily operation. Nor did she have any of the social chores to occupy her that had taken up part of her days in the past. She had been wont to pay duty calls to her father’s tenants and various people in the village, such as the vicar and his wife, and the now-retired attorney who had in the past handled her father’s affairs. She was accustomed, as well, to visiting with her friends and neighbors. But here in London she knew no one besides her family, and, to be truthful, she usually found them poor company. Aunt Blanche, Margaret and Georgiana talked of little except husbands, marriage and dresses, and Uncle Roger talked little at all, spending most of his time at his club and, when he was at home, retreating to the study, where, Constance suspected, he passed the hours by napping.

Worst of all for Constance was the fact that in London she was not free to go on long rambles as she had at home. Here, her aunt and uncle ruled, it was far too unseemly, not to mention dangerous, to go walking out without a maid to accompany her, and they could not spare a maid for what her aunt and uncle considered Constance’s foolish and unladylike behavior.

Bored and restricted, Constance had looked forward to the prospect of Lady Haughston’s offer of an afternoon’s expedition with more eagerness than she would have admitted. Her spirits lowered greatly as the afternoon ticked away.

But then, shortly before two o’clock, just as Constance was thinking of going upstairs to escape the argument that Georgiana and Margaret were having over which of them was more favored by a certain baron—who had never shown the slightest interest in either of them that Constance had seen—the parlor maid announced the arrival of Lady Haughston.

“Oh, my!” Aunt Blanche jumped up as though someone had pinched her. “Yes, yes, of course. Show her ladyship in.”

She quickly patted at the cap that covered her hair and smoothed down her skirts, muttering that she wished she had worn a better dress. “Pin up that curl, Margaret. Stand up, girls. Constance, here, take my needlework.”

Constance moved over to pick up the embroidery hoop that had fallen from Aunt Blanche’s hands when she leapt up from her chair, and she neatly tucked it into her sewing basket. Because of that, she was leaning over and slightly turned away when Lady Haughston entered the room. Aunt Blanche hurried forward, reaching out eagerly to take Lady Haughston’s hands in both hers.

“My lady! What an honor. Do sit down. Would you care for some tea?”

“Oh, no.” Lady Haughston, a vision in a pomona green silk walking dress, smiled at the older woman as she pulled her hands back. She nodded vaguely toward Margaret and Georgiana. “I cannot stay. I am here for only a moment to fetch Miss Woodley. Where is she?”

She looked past Lady Woodley. “Ah, there you are. Shall we go? I must not leave the horses waiting long or the coachman scolds me.” She smiled at the absurdity of her statement, her blue eyes twinkling. “I hope you have not forgotten about our shopping expedition?”

“No, of course not. I wasn’t sure…well, that you meant it.”

“Whyever not?” Lady Haughston’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “Because I am late, you mean? You mustn’t mind that. Everyone will tell you that I am always shockingly late. I don’t know why that is so.”

She shrugged prettily, and Constance suspected that few people were ever able to sustain any annoyance at Lady Haughston’s tardy arrivals.

“You are going shopping? With Constance?” Aunt Blanche gaped at Lady Haughston.

“I hope you will not mind,” Lady Haughston replied. “Miss Woodley promised she would help me choose a new bonnet today. I am quite torn between a pair of them.”

“Oh.” Aunt Blanche blinked. “Yes, well, of course.”

She turned to Constance, the look on her face a mixture of confusion and annoyance, as she said, “It is very kind of you to invite my niece.”

Constance felt a trifle guilty for not having told her aunt about Lady Haughston’s invitation. However, she could scarcely explain her doubts with Lady Haughston standing right there. She said only, “I am sorry, Aunt Blanche. I quite forgot to tell you. I hope you do not mind.”

Aunt Blanche could do nothing but agree to the expedition if she hoped for Lady Haughston’s favor, and Constance was banking on it that she would realize that fact. Otherwise, her aunt would probably have refused out of irritation.

But Lady Woodley was wise enough to nod and say, “Of course, my dear. You deserve a treat.” She turned to their guest. “I scarcely know what we would do without dear Constance’s help. It is so good of her to come to London to help me chaperone the girls.” Aunt Blanche cast a fond glance at Constance’s cousins. “It is difficult to keep up with two lively girls—and so many parties!”

“I am sure it must be. Are you planning to attend Lady Simmington’s ball tomorrow? I hope that I will see you there.”

Aunt Blanche’s smile remained fixed on her face, though at Francesca’s words she looked as though she had perhaps swallowed a bug. Finally, she said, “I, ah, I fear that I have lost our invitation.”

“Oh, no, do not say so. Well, if you care to go, you may have mine,” Francesca replied carelessly. “I should hate not to see all of you there. “

“My lady!” Aunt Blanche’s face turned pink with happiness. Lady Simmington was a hostess of importance, and Aunt Blanche had spent much of the week bemoaning the fact that she had not received an invitation to her ball. “That is generous of you indeed. Oh, my, yes, of course, we shall be there.”

Her joy was such that she beamed at her husband’s niece with actual good will as she bade them goodbye. Constance quickly put on her hat and gloves and followed Lady Haughston out of the house before her aunt could think of some way to try to foist her two cousins on them.

However, glad as she was to make her escape, Constance could not help but wonder what Lady Haughston was doing. Francesca’s generous gift of an invitation to one of the most exclusive balls of the Season would, of course, result in no great loss on her part. No one, Constance was sure, would deny Lady Haughston entrance to a party without her invitation. But why, Constance wondered, had she done it? She seemed a friendly and kind person—she had, after all, pretended to believe her aunt’s face-saving fabrication about a lost invitation. But a friendly nature could not explain the odd interest she had taken in Constance’s family.

It seemed beyond belief she would have been so intrigued by the look of Constance, Aunt Blanche or her daughters that she arranged to be introduced to them. And Constance had barely spoken two words to her when the woman had asked her to stroll about the party with her, as if they were bosom friends, capping this extraordinary action with an invitation to take her on a shopping expedition. Even more bizarrely, she had actually followed through on her invitation, then had expertly put Aunt Blanche in her pocket by giving her an entrée to Lady Simmington’s ball.

What sort of game was Lady Haughston playing? And even more perplexing, really, was the question of why?