Page 26 of The Marriage Wager

The door was opened immediately by a liveried footman, who led them through the large entryway to the drawing room. Constance walked along the marbled hallway, following the stiff back of the footman, her stomach tightening with nerves. What if Francesca was not here to greet them? She did not even know Lord and Lady Selbrooke, and even though their daughter had invited Constance and her family, she could not help but wonder if they resented the intrusion of a group of people whom they had never even met before.

She was much relieved to see Francesca sitting on a sofa in the drawing room, conversing with an older woman who resembled her enough that Constance knew it must be Francesca’s mother. Constance’s gaze traveled across the room. There, standing by the window, was Lord Leighton. He had turned at their entrance, and the light from the window fell across his handsome features. Constance’s heart gave a thud as he smiled at her.

Francesca jumped up with a little cry when she saw them and hurried forward to take Constance’s hand. She turned, leading Constance to the woman with whom she had been talking, and began her introductions.

Lady Selbrooke—for Constance had been accurate in her guess as to the older woman’s identity—was, up close, still quite similar in looks to her daughter, though her blonde hair was streaked with gray, and tiny lines fanned out beside the blue eyes and bracketed her mouth. There was, however, none of the animation in her features that so brightened Francesca’s face; her expression was carefully controlled—even, Constance thought, a trifle icy. Lady Selbrooke nodded to Constance and her family politely, and murmured a welcoming comment, but there was no real interest in her features.

Lord Selbrooke rose from his chair to greet them, as well. His manner was as reserved as his wife’s, and though he was a handsome middle-aged man, there was none of the laughter in his eyes or the ease of manner that made his son so appealing.

“Are you acquainted with Lady Rutherford and Miss Muriel Rutherford?” Francesca went on, turning toward the other occupants of the room. “Lady Rutherford, Miss Rutherford, may I present Sir Roger and Lady Woodley? Miss Constance Woodley.”

Constance turned in the direction Francesca indicated and saw a dark-haired middle-aged woman, and a younger woman with equally black hair sitting beside her. They regarded Constance coolly. She realized, with some shock, that they were the two women who had stared with such dislike at her at the dance the other evening.

Constance gave them her curtsey, murmuring a polite greeting, and discreetly looked them over as Francesca went on to introduce her cousins. Muriel Rutherford was sitting, spine straight and not touching the back of the chair, her hands folded in her lap. She was dressed in an afternoon frock of sprigged muslin, ruffled at the hem and around the neckline, its soft, girlish lines at odds with the rather severe set of her face. Her eyes were a very pale blue, adding to the icy quality of her demeanor. She was a younger version of her mother, down to the narrow nose and straight mouth.

“Miss Woodley!” Lord Leighton’s voice jolted her from her study of Miss Rutherford, and she turned to face him as he came forward from his position near the window. His lips were curved and his eyes twinkling in that slightly mischievous way he had. He reached her and bowed over her hand, holding it for a moment longer than was necessary.

Out of the corner of her eye, Constance saw Muriel Rutherford’s lips thin with displeasure.

“It is a pleasure to see you again,” Leighton told her.

Constance promptly forgot all about the Rutherford women as she smiled up at him. “Lord Leighton. Pray allow me to introduce you to my aunt and uncle.”

He turned to the other members of her family, smiling with an easygoing charm. “Sir Roger. Lady Woodley. Miss Woodley. Miss Woodley. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

Georgiana and Margaret promptly fell into blushes and giggles at his smile, and Aunt Blanche looked to be equally susceptible to his charm.

“Oh, yes, indeed, thank you, my lord,” Aunt Blanche said, her manner almost coquettish. “So good of you to ask.”

“I am sure you must be exhausted, however,” Francesca said. “Shall I take you to your rooms now?”

Francesca swept them upstairs, her arm linked companionably through Constance’s. “Purlew could have shown you to your rooms,” she said, leaning in confidentially. “But I wanted to get away from there. I suppose dryer conversation could be had somewhere, but I would not like to hear it. I do feel a bit guilty, though, about leaving poor Dom to endure it.”

Constance smiled. “I suspect that if he wishes, Lord Leighton will have little trouble extricating himself from the conversation.”

Francesca chuckled. “So soon you know him.”

Constance was grateful to discover that her room was next to Francesca’s and thus half the length of the hallway from the two rooms belonging to her aunt and uncle, and her cousins. She suspected that Francesca had seen to that arrangement, and she blessed her silently. It would be far easier to avoid assisting her cousins with their wardrobe if she was not right next door.

Her trunk had already been brought up to her room, and there was a maid pulling clothes out of it and putting them away in the dresser. She bobbed a curtsy to Constance, saying, “I’m Nan, miss. If you want anything, just call me.” She gestured toward the bellpull hanging beside the door. “Lady Haughston said her Maisie would be doing your hair, but I’m to help you with your clothes. Supper is at eight. Would you like a little lie-down first?”

Nan helped Constance out of her pelisse as she talked, inspecting it for any spot that might need cleaning, and hung it up in the large mahogany wardrobe, then took her bonnet and gloves, as well. She dug through Constance’s trunk for the dress that she would wear that night and hurried off to press the wrinkles from it while Constance washed the dust of travel from her face and hands. She took down her hair, as well, and brushed it out, feeling the slight headache that had built during the journey fade now into nothingness.

She stretched out on the bed, not really meaning to sleep, just thinking how blissful it was to have utter peace and quiet after the journey filled with rattles and shakes and unceasing chatter. She did not even realize that she had fallen asleep until she awoke sometime later, drawn from her slumber by the sound of the maid reentering her room. Nan carried the gown Constance had chosen to wear that night, freshly pressed. It was a white lace dress over a white satin slip, with a bodice of rose and white satin in broad vertical stripes. The neckline was low and square, trimmed in the same white lace.

Nan helped her into the new dress, and she was just finishing buttoning it up the back when there was a knock on the door and Francesca bustled in, followed by her maid.

“Oh, Constance!” Francesca drew a breath of admiration. “It is lovely. Madamoiselle Plessis did a beautiful job. How pretty you look. Now sit down and let Maisie do your hair.”

Constance did as she was bade, and Maisie began to work her usual magic with her hair, pinning and twisting until it fell in a profusion of curls about Constance’s face. While Maisie worked, Francesca pulled up a chair and watched, talking all the while.

“There will be more interesting company this evening,” she promised Constance, then paused for a moment before letting out a little sneeze. “Goodness. Excuse me. Cyril Willoughby—you remember him—you danced with him at Lady Simmington’s ball—is here. And Alfred Penrose. Lord Dunborough.”

Constance listened with only half an ear as Francesca rattled on, detailing all their visitors, especially the eligible males, and describing their looks and personalities. Constance’s thoughts were on the evening ahead and, especially, on seeing Lord Leighton again. Excitement bubbled inside her, combined with a nervous uncertainty. This party seemed to her a time set apart, a special moment in which she could live a different sort of life—not the unmarried niece with whom her aunt and uncle were burdened, striving to please and to help them out of gratitude for their charity, but an attractive woman enjoying the sort of life she had been born to, the life she would have had, had her father not fallen ill when she was eighteen.

Yet she could not keep from her mind a certain degree of worry. What if she was being an embarrassment, as her aunt had said? What if the others looked at her and thought that she should not be here, or that she was too old to be acting and dressing like a young woman?

“There!” Francesca exclaimed, beaming at her. “You look beautiful. Absolutely perfect. Just look at yourself.”