The Marriage Wager

Constance could not hold back a chuckle. “I am sure not, Francesca. But the truth is, I have given up hope of marrying.”

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life with your aunt and uncle?” Francesca asked. “I am sure you are quite grateful to them, but I do not think that you are…very happy with them.”

Constance cast her a rueful look. “It is that obvious?”

“The differences between you are clear,” Francesca told her flatly. “One could hardly expect to live a happy life with people with whom one has so few traits in common. Nor can I think that your aunt and uncle have done well by you. You told me last night that you did not have your come-out because of your father’s illness. That was a good and properly filial thing to do. But when your father passed on and you came to live with your aunt and uncle, how old were you?”

“Twenty-two. Too old for my coming out.”

“Not too old to have a Season,” Francesca retorted. “Had they done the right thing by you, they would have given you a Season. I am sure it is what your father would have wanted, and it is what you deserved. Oh, yes, I know, you were older than the silly little seventeen-and eighteen-year-old girls being presented to the Queen. But, really, it isn’t necessary to have the presentation. Many do not. You could have had a Season. There are still a number of girls who are unmarried at that age. I know I should not malign your relatives, but I must tell you that I think your aunt and uncle acted selfishly. They saved themselves the expense of a Season, and they kept you at their beck and call for the past few years. Looking after their children, no doubt, and running errands for them. Doing the little things that no one else wanted to do. Now instead of letting you enjoy yourself at these parties, your aunt has forced you into the role of chaperone, making you wear dull clothes and dull hair.”

She cast a shrewd look at Constance and added, “Of course, she would want you looking as plain as possible. You outshine her daughters as it is.”

Constance stirred uncomfortably in her seat. Lady Haughston’s description of her life with Aunt Blanche was uncannily accurate. Constance herself had thought the same things many times. Aunt Blanche had used Constance’s sense of duty and obligation toward her, taking advantage in countless ways of her gratitude and her good nature.

“You cannot want to spend the rest of your life with them,” Francesca said, pressing her advantage. “Besides, you seem to me to be a rather independently minded young woman. Do you not wish for your own house, your own life? A husband and children?”

Constance’s thoughts turned to that brief time, many years ago, with Gareth, when she had let herself believe, at least for a little while, that such a life might be hers.

“I have never wanted to marry just to achieve a position in life,” Constance told her quietly. “Perhaps you will think me foolish, but I would like to marry for love.”

Constance could not read the look in Lady Haughston’s eyes as she regarded her. “I hope you do find love,” she said gravely. “But whether one loves or not, marriage gives a woman independence. You will have a place in life, a status that one can never find even in the happiest of situations, living with loving and wealthy parents. There is certainly no comparison to living under the thumb of a selfish and demanding relative.”

“I know,” Constance answered quietly. She knew, she thought, better than the lovely Lady Haughston, the facts of such a life. “But I cannot tie myself to a man for life without love.”

Francesca glanced away. Finally, after a long moment, she said lightly, “Well, surely, there is no reason to believe that one cannot find a husband one loves during the Season. No one will force you to marry any man who asks you. But would you not like to have the chance? Don’t you think it is only fair for you to taste some of what you missed?”

Her words struck a chord with Constance. She had stayed with her father through his years of illness, and she had done her best not to pine for what might have been. But she could not deny that there had been times when she had wondered what would have happened if she had been able to have even one London Season. She could not help but yearn to experience a little of the glamour and excitement herself.

Francesca, seeing Constance’s hesitation, pressed her argument. “Would you not like to have a Season? To wear pretty dresses and flirt with your beaux? To dance with the most eligible bachelors in England?”

Constance’s thoughts went to Viscount Leighton. What would it be like to have a chance to flirt with him? To dance with him? She wanted, quite badly, to meet him again, this time wearing something pretty, her hair falling about her face in curls.

“But how can I have a Season?” she asked. “I am here to act as chaperone. And my clothes…”

“Leave it all to me. I will make sure that you receive invitations to the right parties. I will be there to guide you through the treacherous waters of the Ton. I will make you the most sought-after woman in London.”

Constance chuckled. “I do not think that I could be made into such a creature, no matter what your efforts.”

Francesca cast her another haughty look. “You doubt my ability?”

Constance could not imagine even Francesca pulling off what she promised. But if anyone could do it, she supposed, it would be Lady Haughston. And even if she did not make her the most popular belle of London, Constance had little doubt that she would enable Constance to have a far better taste of a real Season than what she was experiencing now. Aunt Blanche would dislike it, of course. That thought gave Constance a wicked little spurt of amusement.

“I will deal with your aunt,” Francesca went on, as if guessing Constance’s thoughts. “She, I think, will not complain. Your family will, after all, receive the same invitations. And she will not want to go against me. If I choose you as my special friend, I do not think she will fight it. As for the clothes, you may not believe it, but I am rather good at economizing. We will look over your dresses and see what we can add to make them more attractive. The gown you wore last night, for instance—a slightly lower neckline, a bit of lace and it will do well enough. My maid Maisie is a wonder with a needle. She could raise it in the front and add an underskirt. We would just have to buy some material. I will send my carriage for you tomorrow, and you must bring your best dresses with you. We will go over your things and see what can be done, and I will see what dresses of mine we can use.”

Constance felt excitement starting to bubble up in her. She thought of her small hoard of money. She had saved as much as she could every year from the income left her by her father, hoping one day to increase her principal enough that she would be able to live off it, no longer dependent on her aunt and uncle for a place to live.

She could use some of that money, she thought, to buy a pretty gown or two. Something that would bring a man—someone like Lord Leighton, say—rushing to her side from across the room. So what if it meant that she had to spend a few more months, even years, scrimping and scraping her money together? She might have to live with her aunt and uncle for longer than she’d hoped, but at least she would have had a wonderful summer to remember, a time that she could look back on and treasure always. A season of fun and excitement, memories that she could keep forever.

Constance turned to Francesca. “Would you really do all this just to win a bet?”

Francesca’s lips curved up in that little catlike smile, her eyes glinting. “This is more than simply a bet. It is with a gentleman I most particularly want to prove wrong. Besides, it will be fun. I have helped a young girl or two through their first Seasons. They ended up engaged, as well, before long. But with you…”

“It is more of a challenge?” Constance asked, smiling to take the sting out of her words.

“In a way, because with them I had free rein to spend any amount of money for gowns and balls and such. But then I had to worry so much about covering up this problem or that—dresses that brightened a sallow complexion or how to make a short, squat girl look taller and more willowy. With you, that aspect is much easier. We just need to show off what is already there.” She leaned a little closer. “Will you do it, then?”

Constance hesitated for a moment, then took a breath. “Yes. Yes, I want to have a real Season.”

Francesca grinned. “Wonderful. Then let us begin.”

CONSTANCE SPENT THE REST of the day in what was, for her, an absolute orgy of shopping. To Constance’s surprise, Lady Haughston turned out to be quite skillful at shopping for bargains. It took only her smile and a few words to her favorite modiste to have the woman quickly lowering her price on the dresses in which Constance was most interested. Mlle du Plessis also brought out a ball gown that had been ordered but never picked up or paid for, and which she was willing to sell to Constance for only a fraction of its original price.

When Constance quietly commented with surprise on the modiste’s willingness to discount her goods, Francesca merely smiled and replied, “Mademoiselle’s well aware of how much good it does her to have her wares shown on an excellent figure. It makes those less fortunately endowed believe that if they wear Mademoiselle’s dresses, they will look as tall and willowy in them as you do. Besides, she values my patronage. Now…this shawl. It is lovely, is it not? And look at this little flaw. I am sure Mademoiselle will reduce the price for that.”

Even at the discounted prices, the things that she bought at Mlle Du Plessis’s put a serious dent in Constance’s savings, so they moved on to less expensive means of supplementing her wardrobe. Their next stop was Grafton House, where they purchased laces, ribbons, buttons and such to enliven the dresses Constance already owned, as well as several yards of cambric and muslin from which, Francesca assured her, a talented seamstress whom she knew could whip up several quite respectable and attractive day dresses. There were, as well, gloves and dancing slippers to be bought, and they also made a stop at a fan shop, where they spent a good many minutes admiring a variety of fans before Constance reluctantly decided that the prices were too dear, and she would simply have to make do with the ivory-handled fan she already owned. Last, but certainly not least in importance, there were hair ornaments to be purchased, not to mention adornments such as silk flowers or a cluster of wooden cherries with which to brighten a plain, inexpensive bonnet.

By the time they finished late in the afternoon, Constance was exhausted but almost giddy with excitement. She could hardly wait to get home and go through all her purchases again.

“I feel positively decadent,” she told Francesca, smiling, as they left the shop and started toward their carriage. “I have never splurged so.”

“You should do it more often,” Francesca counseled, grinning. “I find that splurging is a wonderful restorative for the soul. I make sure to do it frequently.”

The coachman took Constance’s most recent purchase from her and stowed it up on the seat where he rode, for they had already filled up the rack behind the coach and had even taken up a good portion of the space inside the barouche. Francesca took his proffered hand and started up the step into the carriage when a masculine voice rang out behind them.

“Francesca!”

Lady Haughston paused in midstep and turned toward the voice. Her face lit up, and she smiled in welcome. “Dominic!”

“Francesca, my dear. Buying out Oxford Street again?”

Constance turned to the man who was walking toward them, sweeping off his hat and reaching out to take Francesca’s hand. He smiled down warmly at Lady Haughston, affection evident in his handsome face.

Constance stared, surprised. He loves her, she thought, aware of a sinking feeling of regret.

“Apparently it is the only way I can see you,” Francesca laughed. “Since you never call on me. You are the rudest man alive.”

He chuckled. “I am incorrigible, I know. I detest paying calls.”

“There is someone I want you meet,” Francesca told him, turning toward Constance.

The man followed her gaze, and his eyes widened when they fell on Constance. “Miss Woodley!”

“Lord Leighton.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“YOU KNOW EACH other?” Francesca asked, astonished.

“We met last night,” Constance told her, hoping that she sounded more natural than she felt. It was absurd that her spirits should be so lowered by the fact that Viscount Leighton and Lady Haughston were clearly close. It was not as if she had actually thought she had any chance of attracting him. Anyway, he was clearly something of a rake, going about stealing kisses from young ladies whom he scarcely knew.

“Miss Woodley is too modest,” Leighton said, his blue eyes alight with amusement. “She saved my life last night at Lady Welcombe’s rout.”

“Hardly that,” Constance murmured.

“Ah, but you did,” he insisted, turning toward Francesca and explaining. “Lady Taffington was in hot pursuit of me last night, and Miss Woodley was so kind as to throw her off the scent.”

Francesca chuckled. “Then I am doubly your friend, Constance. I fear my brother is often in need of such aid. He is entirely too softhearted and cannot bear to be rude. You should take lessons from Rochford, Dom. He is an expert at damping pretensions.”

Constance scarcely heard Lord Leighton’s reply to Lady Haughston’s jest. The Viscount was Francesca’s brother! She told herself that it was absurd to be swept with relief upon learning of their relation. It could make no difference to her that the familiarity and affection between Lord Leighton and Francesca came from family ties, not a romantic understanding.

“Come with us,” Francesca urged her brother. “We are done with our shopping, so you needn’t worry about being dragged into any stores.”

“In that case, I will accept your kind offer,” Leighton answered, extending his hand to help his sister up into the coach.

He then turned to Constance, offering her the same assistance. She slid her hand into his, very aware of his touch, even though their flesh was separated by both his gloves and hers. She glanced up into his face as she stepped up into the carriage. She could not help but remember that moment in the library when he had kissed her, and something in his eyes told Constance that he was thinking of it, too.

Heat rose in her cheeks, and she glanced away from him, quickly getting in and sitting down beside Francesca. Leighton climbed in and dropped into the seat across from them, laughingly shoving aside the profusion of boxes.

“I can see that you have had a successful afternoon,” he told them. “I trust that not all of these belong to you, Francesca.”

“No, indeed. Miss Woodley made a good accounting for herself, as well. We intend to dazzle everyone at Lady Simmington’s ball tomorrow evening.”

“I am sure that both of you will do that in any case,” Leighton responded gallantly.

Constance was painfully aware of how plain she must look beside Francesca’s elegant loveliness. She wished that she had put on her newly purchased bonnet for the remainder of their shopping trip and relegated her old hat to the box. At least then, however dull her dress might be, her face would have been becomingly framed, the blue satin lining complementing her skin and eyes.

“Are you attending Lady Simmington’s ball?” Francesca went on. “You should escort us. Constance is to come to my house tomorrow to prepare for it, and then we shall go together.”

“That would be a pleasant duty indeed,” Leighton responded easily. “I would be honored to escort you.”

“We shall guard you from matchmaking mamas,” Francesca teased.

Leighton answered her back in the same light vein, and their banter continued as the carriage made its slow way through the streets of London. Constance contributed little to the conversation. She knew few of the people of whom they spoke, and she was, in any case, quite content to watch and listen.

She had thought that perhaps she had remembered the viscount as handsomer than he actually was, that, in thinking about him, she had made his eyes a deeper blue or added a brightness to his hair or infused his smile with more charm. But, looking at him now, she thought that she had, if anything, imagined him less handsome than the reality.

He was not one who needed the soft glow of candlelight. Here in the bright light of daytime, his jawline was sharp and clean, his eyes an arrestingly dark blue, his hair glinting under the touch of the sun. Tall and broad-shouldered, he filled the barouche with his masculine presence. Constance was very aware of his knee only inches from hers, of his arm resting on the seat of the barouche, of the way the sun slanted across his face and neck.

It was not, she thought, surprising if matchmaking mothers—and daughters—were in pursuit of him. He was handsome and titled and no doubt wealthy, as well. If she remembered correctly what her aunt had said about Lady Haughston’s background, their father was an earl, and as viscount was typically a title given to the heir to the earldom, then he would someday possess the greater title of earl. For that title alone, he would have been sought after. To have good looks and charm, as well, must make him hunted like hounds after a hare.

It was all the more impossible, of course, that she should have any chance with him. Even if Francesca were right in her optimistic assumption that Constance could find a husband this Season, she knew that her patroness doubtless aimed lower than a title for her. And Lord Leighton’s kiss, however wonderful she had found it, was not anything on which Constance would be foolish enough to build her hopes. It had meant nothing to him, she was sure. At best it had shown that he was attracted to her; at worst that he simply was in the habit of kissing any young woman he caught alone. It did not mean that he had any serious interest in her; indeed, in all likelihood, it meant precisely the opposite. A gentleman, after all, did not make improper advances to a woman whom he would consider marrying. He made them to women he would not marry, but only dally with.

Of course, she had no intention of dallying with him. But a little light flirtation…now that was a different matter.

Constance turned her head toward the window to hide the secret smile that curved her lips. She was quite looking forward to tomorrow, she thought. It would be pleasant, indeed, to face Lord Leighton looking, for once, at her best.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a spacious redbrick house, and Leighton glanced out the window. “Ah, here we are.” He opened the door and stepped down, then leaned back in to say, “Thank you for a most enjoyable ride.” He made a general bow toward them. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.” His eyes went to Constance and he added, “I am very glad to have found you again, Miss Woodley. Promise you will give the first waltz to no one but me.”

Constance smiled back at him. It would be hard, she thought, not to return his smile. “I will.”

“Then I will bid you goodbye.” He closed the door and stepped back, and the carriage began to roll again.

“Your brother is a very personable man,” Constance said after a moment.

“Yes.” Francesca smiled fondly. “It is easy to like Dominic. But there is more to him than people assume. He fought in the Peninsula.”

“Really?” Constance looked at Francesca in surprise. “He was in the army?” It was an uncommon venture for the eldest son, the heir to the estate.

Francesca nodded. “Yes. The Hussars. He was wounded, in fact. But fortunately, he survived. And then, of course, when Terence died and Dom became the heir, he had to sell out. I think he misses it.”

Constance nodded, understanding now. It was common for younger sons to enter the military, or the diplomatic corps or the church, but if the oldest son died and the younger one became the heir, his future would change. He would one day inherit all the wealth and responsibilities of the estate, and the career he had been engaged on would have to be put aside. Besides, it would not do to have the heir to an estate risking his life in a war. Among noble families, the inheritance was all.

“And so now that he is the heir, he is fair game for all the marriageable young ladies.”

Francesca chuckled. “Yes, poor boy. He does not enjoy it, I can tell you. I suppose there are men who thrive upon that sort of popularity, but not Dom. Of course, he will have to marry someday, but I suspect he will put it off as long as he can. He is a bit of a flirt.”

Constance wondered if Francesca was giving her a subtle warning about her brother, telling Constance, in essence, not to endanger her heart with him. She looked at the other woman, but she could see nothing in Francesca’s lovely face to indicate any hidden meaning. Still, Constance did not need a warning. She was well aware that a man of Lord Leighton’s standing would not marry someone like her.

But, Constance told herself, as long as she was aware of that, as long as she knew not to give her heart to him, there would be nothing wrong in flirting a little with the man. She could dance with him, laugh with him, let herself have a little fun. And, after all, that was all she could reasonably expect from this Season.

When they reached the house that her aunt and uncle were leasing, Lady Haughston went inside with Constance. Aunt Blanche goggled at the sight of Lady Haughston’s coachman bringing in a number of boxes, with Constance carrying several more and even Lady Haughston herself helping out with the last few bags.

“My lady! Oh, my goodness. Annie, come here and take these things from her ladyship. What—” Aunt Blanche stumbled to a halt, looking from her niece to Lady Haughston in befuddlement.

“We haven’t bought out all the stores, Lady Woodley,” Francesca assured her gaily. “However, I do think that your niece and I put something of a hole in Oxford Street’s wares.”

“Constance?” Aunt Blanche repeated. “You bought all this?”

“Yes,” Constance replied. “Lady Haughston assured me that my wardrobe was sadly lacking.”

“Constance!” Francesca exclaimed, laughing. “I never said such a thing. You will have your aunt thinking that I am the most lack-mannered woman imaginable. I merely suggested that you add a few things here and there.”

Francesca turned toward Lady Woodley. “I find that girls rarely realize how many frocks they need for a Season. Don’t you agree?”

As she expected, Lady Woodley nodded her head, not daring to disagree with one of the foremost members of the Ton. “Yes, but I—well, Constance, this is a little unexpected.”

“Yes, I know. But I am sure I have enough room in my dresser for everything. And Lady Haughston has kindly agreed to help me sort through my gowns and decide what to do with them.”

At the news that one of the most elegant and highborn ladies in the land was going to be upstairs in her niece’s tiny room rummaging through her small store of decidedly ordinary dresses, Lady Woodley appeared torn between elation and embarrassment.

“But, my lady, surely…I mean, Constance should not have asked such a thing of you,” she said finally, stumbling over her words.

“Oh, she did not ask me,” Francesca assured her. “I volunteered. There is little I like more than dressing up one’s wardrobe. It is such a challenge, don’t you think?”

She swept up the stairs behind Constance, with Lady Woodley following them, babbling offers of tea and other refreshment, interspersed with admonitions to Constance not to impose on Lady Haughston.

At the door to Constance’s room, Aunt Blanche hesitated. The little room, barely large enough for the dresser, bed and chair that occupied it, seemed even smaller now with the piles of boxes and bags. There was hardly enough room for the three of them, as well, yet Lady Woodley clearly hated to leave Lady Haughston.