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The Marriage Wager
Candace Camp
No longer in the first blush of youth and without a marriage portion, Miss Constance Woodley could scarcely imagine why one of the leading lights of London society should take an interest in the likes of her. But under her benefactor's guiding hand she was transformed into a captivating creature who caught the eye of the handsome, charming and ever-so-slightly notorious Lord Dominic Leighton. And before the shocked eyes of the entire Ton, the "nobody" and the rakish viscount showed that even in the heartless world of the marriage mart, when love was at stake, all bets were off…



CANDACE CAMP
THE Marriage WAGER



CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE
LADY HAUGHSTON SURVEYED the throng of people below her, one hand resting lightly on the polished black walnut railing. She was aware that heads turned to look at her. Indeed, she would have been disappointed if they had not.
Francesca Haughston had been a reigning beauty of the Ton for over a decade now—at thirty-three, she no longer cared to be specific about the number of years since her coming out. She had been blessed with a naturally beautiful combination of features—light golden hair and large, deep blue eyes, skin that was as smooth and white as cream, a straight, slightly tip-tilted nose, and well-shaped lips that curled up a bit at the ends, giving her a faintly catlike smile. A small mole sat low on her cheek near her mouth, the tiny blemish only accentuating the near-perfection of her features. She was of medium height, with a lithe, slender form and an elegant carriage that made her appear taller than she actually was.
But even with the natural advantages Francesca had been given, she was always careful to show her looks to the best advantage. One would never find her dressed in anything less than the best, or with a pair of slippers on her feet that did not complement her dress or her hair arranged in a style that did not frame her face becomingly. While always in the forefront of fashion, she was not one to chase after foolish fads but chose only those shades that best suited her coloring and the styles that flattered her shape.
She was dressed tonight in her signature color of ice blue, the neckline of her satin dress low enough to show off her soft white shoulders and bosom in a way that was just a trifle dashing but not at all vulgar. Silver lace adorned the scoop neckline and ran around the hem of her gown, as well as cascading down the demi-train in back. A simple but striking diamond necklace encircled her slender white throat, a matching bracelet was on one arm, and more single diamonds winked here and there in the intricacies of her hair.
No one, she was certain, would have guessed that she hadn’t a feather to fly with. The truth was that her late, largely unlamented husband Lord Andrew Haughston, an inveterate gambler, had died leaving her with nothing but debts, a fact that she had been at great pains to conceal. No one was aware that the jewels adorning her were paste copies of the actual ones, which she had sold. Nor did even the most hawkeyed Society matron suspect that the kid slippers on her feet had been maintained with the utmost care so that they were now in their third season, or that the dress she wore had been cut from a different gown worn the year before and resewn by her talented maid into a newer style fresh off the most recent fashion doll from France.
One of the few who knew her true circumstances was the slender, elegant man beside her, Sir Lucien Talbot. He had joined the circle of her admirers during her first season, and though his romantic interest in Francesca was a pleasant fiction in which they both participated, his devotion to her was quite real, for over the course of the years, they had become fast friends.
Sir Lucien was both stylish and witty, facts that, given his perpetual bachelor status, made him a sought-after guest at parties. It was well-known that his pockets were frequently to let, as had always been the case with the Talbot family, but that did not mar his reputation as being “of very good Ton,” a quality that was held in far higher regard, at least by hostesses. He could always be counted upon to liven the conversation with an acerbic remark or two; he never created a scene; he was an excellent dancer and his stamp of approval could establish a party-giver’s reputation.
“Egad, what a crush,” he commented now, raising his quizzing glass to inspect the crowd below them.
“I believe Lady Welcombe adheres to the notion that a rout must have as many attendees as one has floor space,” Francesca agreed lightly. She opened her fan and waved it languidly. “I dread going down there. I know I shall get my toes trampled upon.”
“Ah, but is that not the point of a rout?” A deep voice came from slightly behind her and to her right.
Francesca knew that voice. “Rochford,” she said before she turned her head. “I am surprised to find you here.”
Both Lucien and Francesca turned to face the new arrival, and he sketched a bow to them, replying, “Indeed? I would think that you could reasonably expect to find almost everyone you know here.”
His mouth tightened in that familiar way that was almost, but not quite, a smile. His name was Sinclair, the fifth Duke of Rochford, and if Lucien’s presence was sought after by a hostess, the attendance of Rochford was the star in her crown.
Tall, lean and broad-shouldered, Rochford was dressed in the impeccable black-and-white of formal wear. A discreet ruby nestled in the folds of his snowy cravat and was echoed in the cuff links at his wrists. He was easily the most powerful and aristocratic man in the room at any gathering, and if there were those who did not care for his dark, saturnine good looks, they were rarely heard to say so. His manner, like his dress, was elegant without a hint of showiness, and he was as much admired by men for his excellent horsemanship or his dead aim as he was pursued by women for his fortune, high cheekbones and thickly lashed, Gypsy-dark eyes. He was approaching forty and had never married, and as a consequence he had become the despair of all but the most determined ladies of the Ton.
Francesca could not keep from smiling a little at his retort. “Indeed, you are probably correct.”
“You are a vision, as always, Lady Haughston,” Rochford told her.
“A vision?” Francesca arched one delicately curved eyebrow. “I notice you do not say a vision of what. One could suppose almost anything to end that sentence.”
Something glinted in his eyes, but he said in a neutral tone, “No one with eyes to see could suppose that aught but beauty would apply to you.”
“An excellent recovery,” Francesca told him.
Sir Lucien leaned in toward Francesca, saying in a low voice, “Don’t look. Lady Cuttersleigh is approaching.”
But his warning was too late, for a high-pitched woman’s voice cut sharply through the air. “Your Grace! What a delight it is to see you.”
A tall, almost skeletally thin woman made her way toward them, her short, rotund husband chugging along in her wake. The daughter of an earl, Lady Cuttersleigh had married a mere baron and was never averse to reminding him and the rest of the world that she had married beneath her. She considered it her duty to marry off her gaggle of daughters to someone worthy of intermingling with her own elevated bloodline. However, given the fact that her daughters strongly resembled her in both face and form, as well as overweening pride, she had found it a difficult proposition. She was one of the stubborn few who had not given up on snaring the Duke of Rochford for one of her girls.
A pained expression touched Rochford’s face briefly before he turned and executed a perfect bow toward the approaching couple. “My lady. Cuttersleigh.”
“Lady Haughston.” Lady Cuttersleigh acknowledged Francesca and gave a brief, uninterested nod toward Sir Lucien, whose title fell far below her expectations, before she turned back to Rochford, smiling. “Delightful party, is it not? The party of the Season, I vow.”
Rochford said nothing, only giving her a quizzical smile.
“I wonder how many ‘parties of the Season’ there will be this year,” Sir Lucien commented drily.
Lady Cuttersleigh favored him with a look of dislike. “There can be only one,” she told him repressively.
“Oh, I should think there will be at least three,” Francesca put in. “There is the one with the greatest attendance, which I think this one will surely win. But then there is the party of the year based on how lavishly it is decorated.”
“And the one based on who attends,” Sir Lucien added.
“Well, I know that my Amanda will be sorry that she missed this one,” Lady Cuttersleigh said.
Francesca and Lucien exchanged a glance, and Francesca unfurled her fan and raised it to her face to hide her smile. Whatever the subject, Lady Cuttersleigh could be relied upon to somehow bring her daughters into the conversation.
Lady Cuttersleigh went on to describe in detail the fever that had laid low two of her daughters and the touching way her eldest, Amanda, had stayed home to watch over them. Francesca could not help but consider what it said about the woman’s own maternal instincts that it had been her daughter who had felt the responsibility to remain with the sick girls.
She continued to babble about the virtues of Amanda until at last Rochford cut in to say, “Yes, my lady, it is clear that your eldest daughter is a saint. Indeed, I imagine that naught but the most virtuous of men would satisfy as a husband for her. May I suggest the Rev. Hubert Paulty? An excellent fellow, and quite suitable for her.”
For once Lady Cuttersleigh was reduced to silence. She gazed at the Duke in consternation, blinking rapidly as she tried to recover from this blow to her efforts. Rochford, however, was too quick for her.
“Lady Haughston, I believe you promised to introduce me to your esteemed cousin,” he went on smoothly, offering Francesca his arm.
Francesca cast him a laughing glance, but said in a demure voice, “Of course. If you will excuse us, my lady. My lord. Sir Lucien.”
Sir Lucien leaned in close to her, whispering, “Traitor.”
Francesca could not hold back a small chuckle as she walked away on Rochford’s arm. “My esteemed cousin?” she repeated. “Pray, do you mean the one who is far too fond of his port? Or the one who fled to the Continent after a duel?”
A faint smile curved the Duke’s dark features. “I meant, fair lady, anyone of any sort who can get me away from Lady Cuttersleigh.”
Francesca shook her head. “Dreadful woman. She is ensuring her daughters’ destinies as spinsters, the way she goes about trying to marry them off. Not only is she horridly ham-handed about pushing them on people, her expectations far exceed the girls’ possibilities.”
“You, I understand, are an expert on such matters,” Rochford said in a faintly teasing tone.
Francesca glanced at him, her eyebrows lifting. “Indeed?”
“Oh, yes. I have heard that you are the one to consult on one’s foray into the marriage mart. One can only wonder why you have not ventured into the lists again yourself.”
Francesca released his arm and turned aside, looking out once again over the crowd below. “I find that the status of a widow suits me quite well, Your Grace.”
“Your Grace?” he repeated quizzically. “After so many years? I perceive that I have once more offended you. It is, I fear, something I am quite prone to.”
“Yes, you do seem to be adept at it,” Francesca replied lightly. “But you have not offended me. However, one cannot help but wonder…are you asking for my help?”
He let out a laugh. “No, indeed. Merely making conversation.”
Francesca turned to study the Duke’s face. She wondered why he had brought up the subject. Could it be that there were rumors about her matchmaking efforts? Over the past few years, she had come to the aid of more than one parent struggling to get his or her daughter into a successful marriage. There had always been a gift of gratitude from the mother or father, of course, after Francesca had taken the daughter under her wing and guided her through the tricky shoals of Society’s waters and into the arms of the proper husband. But such gifts had always been dealt with most discreetly by both parties, and Francesca did not know how word could have leaked out that a certain silver epergne or pigeon’s-blood ruby ring had found its way to the pawnbroker’s shop.
Rochford returned her gaze, and Francesca saw the spark of curiosity begin in his eye. She said quickly, “No doubt you find such a skill quite negligible.”
“No, indeed. I have met too many formidable mothers bent on making their daughter a duchess to discount matchmaking efforts.”
“It is appalling, really,” Francesca went on, “how many of those mothers go about the matter in precisely the wrong way. Not just Lady Cuttersleigh. Look at those girls.”
She nodded toward a group below them, standing beside a potted palm. A middle-aged woman, dressed all in purple, stood beside two young women, both clearly her daughters, given the unfortunate similarities of their features.
“Invariably, women who haven’t the faintest idea how to dress well themselves insist on choosing their daughters’ clothes,” Francesca commented. “Look how she has them in lavender, a more girlish shade of the color she wears, and any shade of purple is disastrous with their skin, only making it look more sallow. Moreover, they are dressed far too fussily—all one can see are the ruffles and bows and the explosion of lace. And see how she talks and talks, never letting either of the girls get a word in.”
“Yes, I see,” Rochford responded. “But surely this is an extreme example. I cannot imagine that there would be much hope for them even without their overbearing mama.”
Francesca made a disparaging noise. “I could do it.”
“Come now, my dear….” Amusement danced in his dark eyes.
Francesca raised one eyebrow. “You doubt me?”
“I bow to your expert knowledge,” he said, a faint smile hovering about his mouth. “But even you could not bring out some girls successfully.”
His laughing tone raised Francesca’s hackles. Without pausing to consider, she said, “I could. I could take any girl down there and get her engaged by the end of the Season.”
He controlled a smile in a decidedly annoying way and said lightly, “Care to place a wager on that?”
It occurred to Francesca that she was being foolish, but she could not retreat before his gallingly mocking tone. “Yes, I would.”
“Any girl in this crowd?” he posited.
“Any girl.”
“And you will take her under your wing and get her engaged—an acceptable engagement—by the end of the Season?”
“Yes.” Francesca gazed back at him coolly. She had never been one to back down before a challenge. “And you may choose the girl.”
“But what shall we bet? Let me see…if I win, you must agree to accompany my sister and me when we pay our yearly visit to our great aunt.”
“Lady Odelia?” Francesca asked with some horror.
His eyes twinkled as he replied, “Why, yes. Lady Odelia is quite fond of you, you know.”
“Yes, as a hawk is fond of a fat rabbit!” Francesca retorted. “However, I shall agree because I know that I will not lose the bet. But what will I get when you lose?”
He looked at her consideringly a moment before saying, “Why, I think a bracelet of sapphires the color of your eyes. You are, I believe, fond of sapphires.”
Francesca’s gaze locked with his for a moment. Then she turned away, saying blandly, “Yes, I am. That will do nicely.”
Her hand tightened a little on her fan. She lifted her chin and gestured toward the partygoers. “Well, which girl will you choose?”
She expected him to take one or the other of the unattractive young women they had been discussing. “The one with the large bow in her hair, or the one with the dispirited-looking feather?”
“Neither,” he replied, surprising her, nodding toward a tall, slender woman in a simple gray dress who stood behind the two girls. It was clear from the plainness of her dress and hairstyle that she was there in the capacity of chaperone, not as a debutante. “I choose that one.”

CONSTANCE WOODLEY WAS bored. She supposed she should be grateful, as Aunt Blanche frequently told her, to be in London during the Season and to have the opportunity to go to grand parties such as this. However, Constance could find little joy in chaperoning her foolish cousins through countless balls, soirees and routs. There was, she found, a great deal of difference between actually having a Season, such as Georgiana and Margaret were, and watching someone else have a Season.
Her own chance at a Season had come and gone long ago. When she was eighteen and it was time for her coming-out, her father had fallen ill, and she had spent the next five years taking care of him as his health steadily declined. He had died when she was twenty-three, and as his estate had been entailed and he had had no male heirs, the house and lands went to his brother, Roger. Constance, unmarried and with no means of support other than the small amount of money that her father had left her, all of it conservatively invested in the Funds, had been allowed to remain in her home as Sir Roger and his wife moved in, accompanied by their two daughters.
She would always have a home with them, Aunt Blanche had told her somewhat piously, although she did think it would be better if Constance moved out of the bedchamber in which she had always slept into a smaller one in the rear of the house. The larger room, with its lovely prospect of the drive and park, was more suitable, after all, for the two daughters of the household. The move had been a bitter pill for Constance to swallow, but she had consoled herself with the thought that at least she had a room all to herself, rather than having to share with one of her cousins, and she could retreat there for a bit of much-needed peace and quiet.
Constance had spent the last several years living with her aunt and uncle and their children. She had helped her aunt with the children and with the household, wanting to be of use out of gratitude for their having taken her in, but also because it was plain that such help was expected in return for her room and board. Patiently Constance saved and reinvested the small income she received from her inheritance, hoping to one day accumulate enough that she would be able to live off it entirely and therefore be able to live on her own.
Two years ago, when the eldest daughter, Georgiana, had turned eighteen, her aunt and uncle had decided that, given the expenses of a debut, it would be best to wait until the younger girl turned eighteen also and then bring their two daughters out together.
Constance, her aunt told her graciously, could come along to help chaperone. There had been no mention of Constance participating in the annual social rite in any other capacity. Although the London Season was used as a sort of marriage market for mothers of marriageable girls, neither Constance nor her aunt considered Constance eligible to look for a husband. She was not an unattractive woman—her gray eyes were large and expressive, and her hair was a rich, dark brown strewn with reddish highlights—but at twenty-eight, she was decidedly a spinster, long past the normal age to be brought out into Society. She could hardly hope to wear pastels or pin her hair up in fetching curls. Indeed, Aunt Blanche preferred that Constance wear a spinster’s cap, but although Constance usually gave in and wore a cap during the day, for parties she refused to don that final symbol of blighted hopes.
Constance did her best to comply with her aunt’s expectations, for she knew that her aunt and uncle had not been obliged to take her in after her father’s death. The fact that they had done so primarily out of equal parts fear of social disapproval and eagerness to have an unpaid helper for their own children did not absolve her, Constance thought, from a proper gratitude toward them. However, she found it difficult to endure the chatter of her cousins, who were both silly and inexplicably vain about their looks. And though it was also vain of her, she supposed, she despised wearing plain dresses in grays, browns and dark blues, the sorts of colors that her aunt felt befitted an unmarried woman of a certain age.
There was some pleasure to be taken in watching the glittering people of the Ton, of course, and Constance was engaged in that pastime now. She was gazing at a couple who stood at the top of the stairs looking out over the partygoers like monarchs observing their subjects. It was not an inapt analogy, for the Duke of Rochford and Lady Francesca Haughston were among the reigning members of London society. Constance, of course, had never met either one of them, for they normally moved in more elite circles than did Uncle Roger and Aunt Blanche. It was only at large events such as this rout that she even saw them.
They moved down the stairs now, and Constance lost sight of them in the crowd. Her aunt turned to her, saying, “Constance, dear, do find Margaret’s fan. She seems to have dropped it.”
Constance spent the next few minutes looking all around them for the errant fan, so she did not notice the approach of two women until her aunt’s sharp intake of breath alerted her to something unusual and she looked up from her search. Lady Haughston was walking toward them, and beside her was the beaming hostess of the party, Lady Welcombe herself.
“Lady Woodley. Sir, um…”
“Roger,” her uncle supplied helpfully.
“Of course. Sir Roger. How are you? I hope the two of you are enjoying my little party,” Lady Welcombe said, gesturing toward the great hall stuffed with people. Her deprecating smile indicated that she realized the humor in her statement.
“Oh, yes, my lady. ’Tis a wonderful rout. The finest of the Season, I’ll warrant. I was just remarking to Sir Roger that it was the most splendid thing we had attended yet.”
“Well, the Season is still young,” Lady Welcombe replied modestly. “One can only hope that it will still be remembered by July.”
“Oh, indeed, I am sure it will.” Aunt Blanche hurried on to compliment the flowers, the candles, the decorations.
Even the hostess herself appeared to grow bored with this effusive praise, and at the first opportunity, Lady Welcombe jumped in to say, “Pray, allow me to introduce you to Lady Haughston.” She turned to the woman beside her. “Lady Haughston, this is Sir Roger Woodley and his wife Lady Blanche, and these are…uh, their lovely daughters.”
“How do you do?” Lady Haughston said, extending one slender white hand.
“Oh, my lady! This is indeed an honor!” Aunt Blanche’s face was flushed with excitement. “I am so pleased to meet you. Pray, allow me to introduce you to our daughters, Georgiana and Margaret. Girls, say hello to Lady Haughston.”
Lady Haughston smiled perfunctorily at each of the girls, but her eyes moved on to Constance, standing slightly behind the others. “And you are?”
“Constance Woodley, my lady,” Constance said with a brief curtsey.
“I am sorry,” Aunt Blanche said with a twitter. “Miss Woodley is my husband’s niece, living with us since her poor father’s death some years ago.”
“Please accept my condolences,” Lady Haughston said, adding after a slight pause, “on your father’s death.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Constance saw the light of amusement in the other woman’s deep blue eyes, and she could not help but wonder if Lady Haughston had not meant to imply something else altogether. She suppressed the smile such a thought brought to her lips and returned Lady Haughston’s gaze politely.
Lady Welcombe moved away, but to Constance’s surprise, Lady Haughston remained with them for a few moments, making polite small talk. It surprised her even more when Lady Haughston said that she must leave and turned to Constance, adding, “Won’t you take a stroll around the room with me, Miss Woodley?”
Constance blinked with surprise, too startled for a moment to speak. Then she moved forward with alacrity, saying, “Yes, I would like that very much, thank you.”
She remembered to cast a look at her aunt for permission, though Constance knew that she would have gone with Lady Haughston even if Aunt Blanche had forbidden it. Fortunately, her aunt only nodded somewhat dazedly at her, and Constance moved forward to join the other woman.
Linking her arm through Constance’s, Francesca began to stroll around the edge of the enormous room, chatting casually.
“I vow, one can scarcely find someone one knows in the crush. ’Tis well nigh impossible to meet anyone,” Lady Haughston commented.
Constance smiled at the other woman in response. She was still too startled by Lady Haughston’s interest in her to relax, and she could think of nothing to say, even the most commonplace of comments. She could not imagine what one of the lights of London Society could want from her. She was neither proud enough nor foolish enough to think that Francesca had singled her out because she had realized with a brief glance that Constance was worthy of her friendship.
“Is this your first Season?” Francesca went on.
“Yes, my lady. My father was quite ill when it came time for me to make my come-out,” Constance explained. “He passed away a few years later.”
“Ah, I see.” Constance stole a quick glance at her companion. There was a shrewd look in Lady Haughston’s eyes that told her that she understood far more than Constance had said. That she could envision the slow passage of time spent caring for her father, the days of boredom and sadness, interspersed with the rush of hard work and turmoil when his disease took a bad turn.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Lady Haughston said kindly. After a moment, she added, “And so now you live with your aunt and uncle? And she is sponsoring you. That is kind of her.”
Constance felt the heat of a blush rising in her cheeks. She could scarcely deny the words, for it would seem ungrateful, but to agree that her aunt acted out of kindness was more than she could do. She said merely, “Yes. Well, her daughters are that age now, and so…”
“I am sure you are a great help to her,” Lady Haughston replied obliquely.
Constance glanced at her again and had to smile. Lady Haughston was no fool; she understood quite well why Aunt Blanche had brought Constance along, not for Constance’s benefit, but for her own. Though Constance wondered what Lady Haughston was up to, she could not help but like her. There was a warmth in her that was all-too-frequently missing in the denizens of the Ton.
“Still,” Lady Haughston went on, “you must take time to enjoy your visit to London, as well.”
“I have visited some of the museums,” Constance replied. “I quite enjoyed it.”
“Did you? Well, that is very well and good, I’m sure, but I was thinking more along the lines of, oh, say, shopping.”
“Shopping?” Constance repeated, more at sea in this conversation than ever. “For what, my lady?”
“Oh, I never limit myself to one thing,” Lady Haughston replied, her lips quirking up into a smile that gave her the faint look of a self-satisfied feline. “That would be far too dull. I always set out with the idea of exploring whatever is out there. Perhaps you would like to accompany me tomorrow.”
Constance looked at her in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
“On a shopping expedition,” the other woman said, a chuckle escaping her. “You must not look at me so. I promise you, it will not be horrifying.”
“I—I’m sorry.” Constance felt herself blushing again. “You must think me a dolt. It is simply that your kind offer was unexpected. Indeed, I would like very much to go with you—though I fear I should forewarn you, I am a poor shopper.”
“No need to worry,” Lady Haughston replied, her eyes twinkling. “I can assure you that I am expert enough at it for both of us.”
Constance could not keep from smiling at the other woman. Whatever was going on, the prospect of a day away from her aunt and cousins was delightful. And she was much too human not to feel a certain low satisfaction at the thought of the look on her aunt’s face when she learned how Constance had been singled out by one of the most well-known and aristocratic women in London.
“Then it is settled,” Lady Haughston went on. “I shall call on you tomorrow, say around one, and we shall make a day of it.”
“You are very kind.”
Again that smile flashed, and Francesca took her leave, pressing Constance’s hand in farewell before she walked away. Constance watched her go, her mind still humming. She could not imagine why Lady Haughston was so interested in her, but she suspected that it would prove entertaining to find out.
She turned and looked over to where she had been standing with her aunt and uncle. She could not even see them through the crowd of people. It occurred to her that her aunt would not know precisely when she had parted from Lady Haughston. Perhaps she could spend a little more time away without encountering any censure from Aunt Blanche.
Constance glanced around her and spied a doorway opening into a hall. She slipped through it and made her way around the people who had drifted out of the crowded great hall and stood about in small clumps, talking. No one paid her any mind as she walked along the hallway—an advantage, she supposed, of her plain style.
Another, smaller corridor took her past a set of double doors that stood partly open. She saw that it was a library. A smile touched her lips, and she stepped inside. It was a grand library, with bookshelves up to the ceiling filling all four walls except for the space occupied by windows. With a sigh of pure pleasure, she gave herself up to looking at the rows and rows of books.
Her father had been a scholarly man, far more inclined to keep his nose in books of this sort than in the books of accounts for his estate. Their library at home had been crammed full of volumes of every description, but that room had been much smaller than this one and could not have held a third of the books here.
She strolled over to the shelves on the opposite wall and was reading through the titles when she heard the clatter of hurrying footsteps in the marble-tiled hallway outside. A moment later a man burst into the room, looking harried. He checked for an instant when his eyes fell upon Constance, who was standing watching him in surprise.
He laid his forefinger against his lips in a gesture of silence, then slipped behind the door, out of sight.

CHAPTER TWO
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?

CHAPTER THREE
THE TWO WOMEN CLIMBED into Lady Haughston’s waiting carriage, a shiny black barouche. Constance knew, from listening to her aunt’s chatter yesterday evening that this barouche, a slightly outdated equipage for someone usually so slap up to the mark as Lady Haughston, was one of the woman’s well-known and charming eccentricities. The barouche had been given her by her late husband when they were first married, and since his untimely death six years ago, she had refused to buy a new carriage, preferring his gift.
“I have been, in truth, looking at two hats at the milliner’s,” Lady Haughston said. “But we have ample time to stop elsewhere. Shall we go to Oxford Street? What would you like to shop for?”
Constance smiled at her. “I am quite happy to go wherever you wish, my lady. I have nothing particular I wish to buy.”
“Oh, but we cannot neglect you,” her companion said gaily. “You must at least need ribbons or gloves or some such thing.” She looked consideringly at Constance. “A bit of lace for the neckline of that dress, for instance.”
A little surprised, Constance glanced down at her chocolate brown dress. It would be prettier, it was true, with a ruffle of lace around the neckline and the small puffed sleeves—champagne-colored lace, for instance.
She shook her head, unaware of letting out a tiny sigh. “I fear it would not be plain enough then.”
“Plain enough?” A faint look of consternation marred Francesca’s pretty features. “You are not a Quaker, are you?”
Constance let out a chuckle. “No, my lady, I am not a Quaker. It is just that it is not appropriate, is it, for a chaperone to call attention to herself?”
“Chaperone!” The other woman exclaimed. “My dear, whatever are you talking about? You are far too young and pretty to be a chaperone.”
“My aunt needs my help. She has two daughters out.”
“Help? To watch them talk or dance? I think you are far too serious about the matter. I am sure she would not expect you to sit out every dance. You must dance at Lady Simmington’s ball. Her musicians are always excellent. I will speak to your aunt about it.”
Constance felt a blush begin in her cheeks. “I doubt I would be asked, my lady.”
“Nonsense. Of course you will. Especially when we brighten up your wardrobe a trifle. I have a deep blue satin gown—I have worn it far too many times already, and I fear I must give it up, but it would look wonderful on you. My maid can change something here and there, spruce it up a bit so no one will recognize it. You must come to my house before the party and let her make it over for you.”
“My lady! That is much too kind of you. I cannot accept such a generous gift.”
“Then do not consider it a gift. ’Twill be a loan, and you may give it back to me when the Season is over. And, please, that is quite enough of ‘my lady.’ I am Francesca.”
Constance stared at her, dumbfounded. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Why, what should you said but ‘Thank you for the dress, Francesca?’” the other woman retorted, smiling.
“I do thank you. But I—”
“What? You do not wish to be friends with me?”
“No!” Constance hastened to assure her. “I would like that very much. Indeed, I should very much like to have a friend. But you are too generous.”
“I am sure that you would be able to find a number of people who would tell you that I am not generous at all,” Francesca retorted.
“You make it very difficult to say no,” Constance told her.
Francesca’s white teeth flashed in a mischievous grin. “I know. I have worked at it for many years. Ah, here is the millinery. Now, stop all these protestations and come help me decide between these hats.”
Constance put away her doubts and followed Lady Haughston into the store. They were greeted with a smile and pleasant words from the girl behind the counter, and a moment later, an older woman who was obviously the proprietress of the store, swept out from the curtained rear of the shop to help them herself.
Francesca modeled both of the hats in which she was interested. One was a soft, dark blue velvet with a jockey brim, a delicate lace veil hanging down to cover her eyes. The other, a straw cottage bonnet, was lined with blue silk and tied fetchingly under the chin with a matching blue ribbon, Gypsy style. Both did wonderful things for her blue eyes, and Constance declared herself as unable to decide as Francesca was.
“You try them on,” Francesca suggested. “Let me see how they look.”
Constance made a token protest, but, in fact, she had been itching to see how the blue-lined straw would look on her. When she tried it on, she could not help but smile at her reflection.
“Oh!” Lady Haughston cried, clapping her hands together. “It looks perfect on you! You must get it, not I. I will take the velvet.”
Constance hesitated, gazing at her image in the mirror. The blue silk lining did as much for gray eyes as for blue, she decided. It was an excessively pretty bonnet, and she had not bought a new hat this year. Surely it would not hurt to spend a little of her money.
Finally, with a sigh, she shook her head. “No, I fear it must be too dear.”
“Oh, no, I am sure it is not. I believe it is on sale, is it not, Mrs. Downing?” Francesca turned and looked significantly at the store owner.
Mrs. Downing, who was well aware of the benefits of Lady Haughston’s patronage, smiled and agreed. “Indeed, it is. You are right, my lady. It is, um…” She shot another glance at Francesca. “…one-third off the price on the tag.” At Francesca’s smile, she nodded. “Yes, that’s right. One-third off. A true bargain.”
Constance looked at the price, quickly calculating. She had never spent even as much as two-thirds of this price for a hat at home. But, then, none had been as becoming or carried quite the elegant panache as this one.
“All right,” she agreed, saying goodbye to her pin money for the month. “I will take it.”
Francesca was delighted with Constance’s purchase and took the velvet hat for herself. Then she insisted on purchasing a spray of tiny silk buds as an ornament for Constance’s hair.
“Nonsense,” she said when Constance protested. “It will look perfect with the blue gown you are borrowing. It is a gift. You cannot refuse it.”
Their hats in boxes, they went back out to their waiting carriage. When they had gotten in and settled into their seats, Constance turned to Francesca.
“My lady—Francesca. I do not understand. Why are you doing this?”
Lady Haughston turned a look of supreme innocence upon her. “Doing what, my dear?”
“All of this.” Constance made a vague gesture around her. “Inviting me out with you this afternoon. Offering me a dress. Inviting us to Lady Simmington’s party.”
“Why, it is because I like you,” Francesca answered. “Why would I have any ulterior motive?”
“I cannot imagine,” Constance retorted candidly. “But neither can I believe that you spotted me or my aunt and cousins across the great hall at Lady Welcombe’s and were so enchanted with us that you had Lady Welcombe introduce us to you.”
Francesca looked consideringly at Constance, then sighed. “Very well. You are right. I had a reason for meeting you. I do like you—you are a very pleasant young woman, and you have a certain laughing look to your eyes that I know means you see the humor in the world. I would like to be your friend. But that is not why I came over to meet you. The fact is…I made a wager with someone.”
“A wager?” Constance stared at her, dumbfounded. “About me? But what? Why?”
“I was boasting. I should learn to mind my tongue,” Francesca admitted in a vexed tone. “Rochford had the gall to challenge me. And, well, the fact is that I bet that I could find you a husband before the end of the Season.”
Constance’s jaw dropped. For a moment she could think of nothing to say.
“I am sorry,” Francesca said earnestly, leaning forward to lay a placating hand on Constance’s arm. “I know I should not have, and I regretted it as soon as it was done. And you have every right to be angry with me. But I beg you will not. I did not mean you any harm. I still do not.”
“Not mean me any harm!” A variety of emotions rushed through Constance, hurt followed almost immediately by anger and resentment. “No, of course not. Why should I mind that I am held up to ridicule by the leaders of the Ton?”
“Ridicule!” Lady Haughston looked at her with alarm and concern. “No, how can you think that?”
“What else am I to think when I have been made the object of a public wager?”
“Oh, no, no. It was not public at all. It was between Rochford and me alone. No one else was privy to it, I assure you. Well, except Lucien,” she added honestly. “But he is my closest friend, and I can assure you that he would never tell a soul. He knows the secrets of half the Ton. I promise you that I shall not spread it about, and I can assure you that Rochford will not tell anyone. A tighter-lipped man I have never met.” She looked rather exasperated at the fact.
“And is that supposed to make it all right?” Constance asked. She had liked Francesca, and now she felt betrayed. Though she had had her reasonable doubts, she found it was a lowering thought indeed that Lady Haughston had not sought out her friendship but was only using her as a test of her matchmaking skills. “Why was I chosen? Was I the most unmarriageable of all the women at the ball? Too plain and old for any man ever to wish to marry me?”
“No, please, you must not think that!” Francesca exclaimed, her lovely features tightening in distress. “Oh, I have made such a muddle of this. The truth is, we made the wager, and then Rochford chose the woman. When he picked you, I was greatly relieved, for I had thought he was going to give me one of your cousins, and that would have been a formidable task, indeed. I am not sure why he chose you, other than that you were so clearly relegated to the background by your aunt and cousins that he must have been sure that I would get no help from them in bringing you out.”
“That is certainly true.” Constance could not keep the bitterness from her voice.
“My dearest Constance—I hope you will not mind if I call you that.” Francesca slipped her gloved hand into Constance’s and squeezed it gently. “I knew at once that he had foolishly chosen the easiest of you to turn into a belle. It is very difficult to give a person wit or beauty when they have none. But a want of fortune is not the hardest thing to overcome, at least when it is accompanied by style, intelligence, and a lovely face and figure.”
“I will not let you get around me with flattery,” Constance warned her, but in truth she found it difficult to dislike Lady Haughston. The woman was disarmingly candid, and her smile was hard to resist.
“I am not trying to get around you,” Francesca assured her.
“Then what do you want?” Constance asked bluntly.
“I am suggesting that you and I join forces. We shall work together to find you a husband.”
“You want me to help you win the bet?” Constance’s voice was incredulous.
“No. Well, I mean, yes, I do, but that is not why you would wish to help me.”
“I don’t wish to help you,” Constance pointed out.
“Ah, but you should. I might win a bet, but the advantages for you are far greater.”
Constance looked at her skeptically. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that I will get a husband out of this.”
“Why not?” Francesca replied calmly.
Constance wrinkled her nose. “I have little liking for listing my liabilities, but surely they must be obvious. I have no fortune. I am past the age of marrying and I am no beauty. I am here only to help my cousins achieve marriages. I am a chaperone, not a young girl on the marriage mart.”
“A lack of fortune is an obstacle,” the other woman agreed. “But it is certainly not impossible to overcome. As for your looks, well, if you took off that silly cap and dressed your hair attractively and wore something to show off your looks instead of hiding them, you would be a very attractive woman. You would also look scarcely older than your cousins. Tell me something, who decided that you should wear drab browns and grays and such?”
“My aunt felt it would be more appropriate for a spinster. She did not make me dress so.”
“But you, of course, are under obligation to her, as you live with them.”
“Yes, but…it is not only that. I do not wish to appear foolish, either.”
“Foolish? Why?”
Constance shrugged. “I am used to living in the country. I have no town bronze. Indeed, I have never even been to London before. I have no desire to make a misstep before all the Ton. To embarrass myself by dressing in something unsuitable for a woman of my age.”
Lady Haughston’s face assumed an expression befitting a woman with generations of earls behind her. “My dear Constance, if you dress according to my guidance, I assure you that no one would think you appeared in any way unsuitable.”
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.
So she hovered by the door, looking uncomfortable and chattering on, while Francesca and Constance pulled out Constance’s dresses and laid them out on the bed.
“Such a small number of gowns, my love,” Aunt Blanche tittered. “I told you that you should bring more to Town. But, of course, a girl never foresees how very many gowns one will need.” She turned toward Francesca with a confidential look that suggested that the two of them were old hands at the social whirl. “And, of course, Constance is merely chaperoning the girls.”
“But what nonsense,” Lady Haughston said briskly. “Constance is much too young to be a chaperone…as no doubt you told her.”
“Oh, my, yes, of course!” Aunt Blanche exclaimed. “But what can one do? Constance’s nature is rather retiring, and she is, after all, well past the age of coming out herself.”
Francesca made a noise of disdain. “There are a good many years before Constance reaches that point. One has only to look at her to see how ridiculous it is to place an arbitrary age on a girl’s come-out. Some women are far more beautiful at this age than they were when they left the schoolroom. You have noticed that yourself, I am sure.”
“Well…” Aunt Blanche trailed off uncertainly. She could scarcely disagree with Lady Haughston’s pronouncements, especially given the way she so graciously linked Aunt Blanche’s thoughts with her own.
Lady Woodley watched as Francesca and Constance matched up ribbons and lace to some dresses and discarded others as unfit for anything but the most mundane daily wear, and talked of lowering necklines and adding overskirts or demi-trains, of replacing dull sleeves with others slashed with contrasting color.
Constance, too, had experienced a certain embarrassment at exposing her unimpressive wardrobe to Lady Haughston, but Francesca’s manner could not have been more matter-of-fact or uncritical. Her eye for color and style was unerring, which did not surprise Constance. One need not look at her long to realize that she was an artist when it came to clothes. But Constance did find it rather peculiar that someone like Lady Haughston should be so conversant with ways to modify, update and generally renew one’s wardrobe. It was as odd as her knowing where to buy ribbons, lace and other accessories at the best prices. Constance could not help but wonder if Lady Haughston might not suffer from something of a lack of funds herself. She had heard no rumors to that effect, of course, but clearly Francesca was quite adept at hiding such a thing, at least in regard to one’s wardrobe.
Before long, Georgiana and her sister drifted down the hall and stood with their mother, looking awestruck as they watched Francesca bustle about the little room. When, finally, Francesca left, reminding Constance that she was to come to her house the following afternoon before the ball, the two girls turned to their mother, their voices rising in a wail.
“Why is she going to Lady Haughston’s?” Georgiana cast a disparaging glance toward Constance. “Why can’t we go, too?”
“I am going because Lady Haughston asked me,” Constance told her calmly, refraining from pointing out the obvious corollary that Georgiana and Margaret were not going because Lady Haughston had not invited them.
“I know that,” Georgiana snapped. “But why? Why does she want you there? Why did she take you out today?”
Constance shrugged. She was not about to tell her relatives of Francesca’s plans for her.
“And how did you buy all these things?” Margaret added, looking at the dresses and adornments scattered all over the bed.”
“I used money I’d been saving.”
“Yes, well, if you have so much money, you might have thought to help us a little,” Aunt Blanche sniffed. “We have been giving you a roof over your head and food to eat for the past six years.”
“Aunt Blanche! You know I give you money every month!” Constance cried. “And I always pay for my clothes and personal items.”
Her aunt shrugged, as though Constance’s argument had nothing to do with what she had said. “I cannot see why Lady Haughston has such a preference for you. It is most inexplicable. Why does she not ask to take out Georgiana?”
“What about me?” Margaret asked indignantly.
“I am the eldest,” Georgiana told her sister haughtily.
The two girls began to squabble, and Constance turned away to begin to fold and put away the things that now lay all over her bed. After a few minutes, her aunt and cousins moved out of her room, continuing their conversation in the more comfortable arena of the sitting room.
But the subject did not die. Georgiana and Margaret brought it up again at the dinner table, until finally their normally lax and imperturbable father snapped at them to be quiet. The two girls lapsed into a sullen pout, but they took up their grievances again as soon as their father had retired to his port after dinner. Their mother, of course, agreed with them that it was neither right nor fair that they had not been taken under Lady Haughston’s wing instead of Constance. Constance retired early, claiming a headache—which was indeed the truth, after listening to the other women harp on the subject of Lady Haughston all evening. The next day she stayed to herself as much as possible, working quietly in her room on the various small things that she and Francesca had determined could be done to her dresses. The larger alterations, of course, she would have to take with her to Lady Haughston’s for the more skilled hands of Francesca’s maid.
Constance even considered foregoing her luncheon. Sir Roger always went to his club during the day, so there would be no one to put a stop to Georgiana’s and Margaret’s complaints. Their mother rarely reined them in, and in any case, Constance knew that Aunt Blanche also disliked the fact that Lady Haughston preferred Constance to the rest of them. Her worst fear was that Aunt Blanche would forbid her to go to Francesca’s house, even though it would clearly work against her own best interests. Aunt Blanche was often as slowwitted as her daughters, and much more stubborn.
However, Constance reasoned that if she did not show up for the meal, her aunt would decide that she was feeling ill and should not go either to Lady Haughston’s or to the ball this evening. So she went downstairs, vowing to keep a rein on her tongue and her temper, an ability that was often sorely tested by her cousins and aunt.
Just as she had feared, Georgiana and Margaret started in on what they saw as injustice before they even sat down at the table. Constance did her best to disregard them, but she could not ignore it when her aunt at last said to her, “Constance, I am thinking that, if the matter is going to cause this much dissension and misery in the house, perhaps you should not go to Lady Haughston’s this afternoon.”
Constance looked at her, trying to hide her alarm, and pondered briefly what would be the best tack to take with her aunt. “I should not like to offend Lady Haughston, Aunt. She is very powerful in the Ton, and she seemed most adamant about my joining her this afternoon.”
“Yes, well, I am sure that she would understand if you sent her a note telling her that you were feeling a trifle under the weather and could not come.” Lady Woodley’s face brightened. “In fact, the girls and I could call on her and deliver your regrets personally.” She nodded, looking pleased with herself. “Yes, that might be best.”
Anger flared up in her, but Constance firmly thrust it down. “But I am not feeling at all ill, and I should like to go to Lady Haughston’s this afternoon,” she replied calmly. “And I am not sure whether she would like anyone else to go to her house, uninvited.”
Her aunt’s eyebrows shot up. “She has called here. That makes it perfectly acceptable for me to call on her.”
“She will not like it if I do not come,” Constance told her aunt firmly. “She might very well retract the invitation to Lady Simmington’s ball tonight if she is displeased.”
“She can hardly expect you to come to her house if you are ill.” Aunt Blanche looked at her, her eyes hard.
“I am not ill.” Constance looked back at her, making her gaze as obdurate as she was able.
“Lady Haughston will not know that,” her aunt reasoned.
“Yes, she will,” Constance replied flatly.
Her aunt’s eyes opened wider in surprise. It was a moment before she could speak. “Are you—Do you defy me?”
“I intend to go to Lady Haughston’s this afternoon,” Constance replied calmly. “I do not wish to defy you, of course. Therefore, I do hope that you will not forbid me to go.”
If possible, Aunt Blanche looked even more astounded. She gasped, then opened and closed her mouth without saying anything, looking remarkably like a fish.
Constance took advantage of her aunt’s momentary speechlessness to lean forward and say earnestly, “Lady Haughston is very important. Her father is an earl. She is friends with the Duke of Rochford. She can do much for you and the girls, as you well know. But it would be equally ruinous for you to cross her. Pray, however angry you may feel at me, do not offend Francesca.”
Her aunt had been swelling with ill-feeling during Constance’s words, and Constance knew that she wanted to break into a long, loud tirade against her niece. But even as she opened her mouth, something flickered in her eyes, some bit of reason or caution, and she closed her mouth.
“Francesca?” she said at last. “She gave you the use of her first name?”
Constance nodded. She had spoken Francesca’s given name deliberately, for the use of it indicated a close relationship. She was glad to see that her aunt had noticed that fact.
“Please,” Constance said. “I know you do not like this. But think about the ball tonight. Think about telling your friend Mrs. Merton what Lady Haughston said to you when she called on you yesterday. Then think about not being able to say such things in the future.”
“You ungrateful wretch,” Aunt Blanche spat at her. “After all that I have done for you!”
“I am well aware of all that you have done for me, and I have told Lady Haughston about it. I have no desire to be on bad terms with you.” Constance forced herself to keep her voice firm, and her gaze equally calm and unyielding. She had often yielded to Aunt Blanche out of a sense of obligation and a desire to live in peace. But this time she was determined not to bend, even if it meant coming to a complete break with her aunt. She was discovering that she wanted this Season very much. “I am sure that Lady Haughston’s friendship will not last past this Season, and then our lives will return to normal. But think of how much you can accomplish for your daughters in the next few months, if only none of us act foolishly.”
Aunt Blanche’s nostrils widened, her lips thinning with fury, and for a moment Constance was afraid that her aunt would be unable to control herself. But after a moment the older woman swallowed hard, unclenched her fists and let out a long breath. Turning back to her food, she said in a cold voice, “Naturally, I would not stop you from going to Lady Haughston’s this afternoon, despite your insolence toward me. I shudder to think how your poor dear father would have felt had he seen you address me in this manner.”
As Constance was well aware that her “poor, dear father” had disliked his sister-in-law intensely and thought up any excuse to be absent when she came to visit, Constance rather thought that he would have applauded her actions. However, she refrained from saying so to her aunt and merely finished her food as quickly as she could, aware of her cousins’ amazed gazes upon her. As soon as she was done, she asked to be excused and was granted her request in frosty tones.
She fled upstairs, where she put the dresses for Francesca’s maid to redo into some of the boxes and bags that she had brought home the day before. Then she sat down to wait for the Haughston carriage. Fortunately, she did not have to wait long before Jenny, the downstairs maid, knocked on her door and announced with some awe that a grand carriage waited for her in the street.
Constance forced herself to stop and bid her aunt and cousins a pleasant goodbye. She was met with three silent, furious stares. Obviously, she thought, it would take some time to mend her relationship with them. Still, she could not regret what she had done, no matter how chill the air might be around the household for the next few weeks.
It was no surprise that Haughston House, an elegant white stone mansion in the classic Palladian style, lay in the center of Mayfair, that most fashionable of London districts. Constance, stepping out of the carriage and gazing at the imposing black iron fence railings and the enormous house beyond them, felt rather daunted. It was easy to forget when one was with Francesca that she was a descendant of men and women who had moved among kings and princes—as well as the widow of a man from another such family.
She wondered for a moment about the man who had been Francesca’s husband. Francesca had not mentioned him to Constance, even when they were talking about marriage and love. Constance was not sure exactly what that meant. She knew that the man had died several years ago, and that Francesca had never remarried. The romantic rumor was that she had loved Lord Haughston too much to ever marry another man. However, Constance thought that precisely the opposite might be true—that her first husband had given her a profound distaste for marriage.
Whatever anxiety the house inspired in Constance was erased, however, when Lady Haughston herself came sweeping down the staircase, hands extended in friendship. “Constance! Come up to my room. Maisie has worked her usual wonders. I cannot wait until you see.”
A wave of her hand sent one of the footmen hurrying to take Constance’s boxes, while Francesca herself took Constance’s hand and led her up the wide, curved staircase to the floor above.
“You have a lovely home,” Constance told her admiringly.
“Yes. Lady Haughston—my husband’s mother, that is—had excellent taste. The decoration is all owing to her. Had it been left to the old Lord Haughston, I am afraid it would have been all hunting scenes and enormous dark Jacobean furniture.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Of course, it is far too enormous to keep up. I have the east wing entirely closed off.” She waved vaguely toward the other side of the stairs.
She led Constance into her bedroom, a large and pleasant room overlooking a quiet back garden. With windows on two sides, it was filled with light and soft summer air. It was femininely decorated without being fussy, the furniture elegant and graceful, and there was ample room to move around in it, for Francesca had eschewed the habit many matrons had of stuffing as many pieces as possible into every space.
A neatly dressed maid was waiting for them, a blue gown laid out on the bed beside her. She turned and bobbed a curtsey toward Constance and Francesca.
“Oh, excellent, Maisie,” Francesca said, moving forward to look at the dress. “Constance, come see. This is the dress I was telling you about. Maisie has already changed it. She took off that ruffle with the Vandykes.” She pointed to a swath of material on which were sewn dark blue triangular shapes. “And she took off the sleeves—they were long. And, of course, the matching band of Vandykes around the bottom of the bodice. Then she made an overdress of lighter blue voile and the little puffed sleeves—it is a younger look, I think, more suitable for you.”
“Now, if you’ll just try it on, miss,” Maisie told Constance, “I can see how deep a band of lace we need at the hem.”
“It’s beautiful,” Constance told her, entranced by the frothy confection.
With Maisie’s help, she took off the dress she was wearing and put on the one that the maid had redone. She turned to look into the mirror as Maisie fastened the buttons up the back and drew in a quick breath at the sight of herself. She looked younger and prettier. Constance beamed, unaware of how much of the youth and beauty she saw in the mirror was due to the happiness that glowed in her face.
“It’s perfect. Oh, Lady—Francesca, I cannot begin to thank you enough.”
Francesca clapped her hands in delight. “There is no need. The way you look is reward enough. I knew that dress would be exactly right for you. Did I not tell you that Maisie was a genius with a needle?”
“Indeed, you were right.” Constance could not resist looking at her image in the glass as Maisie knelt, pinning on the wide band of lace around the bottom.
The blue did wonderful things for her eyes and her skin, and her breasts pushed up over the deep scoop of the neckline in a way that would have been, perhaps, too provocative, had it not been for the demure trim of blond lace and the almost girlish look of the small puff sleeves.
“A very simple little something around your neck, I think,” Francesca said, studying her. “A locket, say. And I have a shawl that will look perfect with that.” When Constance began to protest, she shook her head firmly, saying, “I will lend it to you, and that will make it perfectly all right, won’t it?”
When Maisie had finished pinning the dress, Constance and Francesca laid out the clothes that Constance had brought over and discussed with the maid their plans for altering them, bringing out the materials they had bought the day before. They spent the rest of the afternoon cheerfully discussing hems and necklines and overdresses and petticoats. Then Maisie left to finish her work on the dress that Constance would wear that evening, and Constance and Francesca settled down to cut the narrow blue ribbon they had bought the day before into pieces and make tiny bows for Maisie to sew on at regular intervals around the deep lace ruffle.
They took time out for tea, which they had in the shade in the pleasant little garden in back, then went back inside to begin their preparations for the party. They chatted and laughed as Maisie helped them into their clothes and did their hair. Constance could not remember when she had enjoyed herself so much. This, she thought, must be what it was like to have a sister—or what it might be like getting ready with her cousins if she did not spend all her time helping them into their clothes or putting up their hair or finding their lost gloves and fans.
Then, at last, Maisie was done and they were ready. As Francesca beamed at her like a proud mother, Constance went to the mirror for one last look at herself.
“Oh, my.” She could not hold back the soft exclamation.
Her hair was pulled up and caught in a cluster of curls, and feathery wisps curled softly around her face. Her dark brown tresses gleamed in the soft glow of the candles, warm and lustrous, the red highlights catching the light. The spray of tiny blue silk rosebuds that Francesca had bought for her the day before was pinned into her hair at the base of the cluster of curls.

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