Page 30 of The Marriage Wager

“Your presence could not be an intrusion,” he assured her gallantly. “Come. Stay and talk with me.” He gestured toward the sofa and chairs grouped in the middle of the room.

Constance glanced at the closed door. It was scarcely proper to be alone at this time of night with a man, with the door closed, even if they were in so public a room as the library.

He came closer to her, saying teasingly, “Afraid to be alone with me? I promise not to compromise your virtue.”

Constance’s pulse beat a little faster. She remembered the last time that she had been alone with Leighton and what had happened then. She looked up into his eyes and saw them light suddenly, and she knew that he had thought of that kiss, as well.

He reached up, skimming his knuckles along the line of her jaw. “I know. I could not resist you last time, so how can you trust me now? That is what you think, is it not?”

“A valid question, surely,” she retorted a little breathlessly. Her skin felt warm where his fingers had touched it, and her heart was hammering so hard it seemed a wonder that he could not hear it.

“That time was a lark,” he replied softly. “I did not know you, never thought to see you again. It was just…a foolish moment, a bit of pleasure.”

“And now?” Constance could not pull her eyes away from his. She felt strangely both bold and filled with trepidation.

“Now it is different, isn’t it?” He brushed back a stray curl from where it clung to her cheek, and his eyes traveled over her face, coming to rest on her mouth. His eyes were a dark, velvet blue, so intent and warm she could almost feel them upon her skin.

As though he had actually touched her, her flesh tingled, and some wild, primitive heat blossomed in her abdomen. It seemed suddenly difficult to breathe; Constance was aware of the flow of air as she took a breath, and she realized that her lips had parted slightly.

“Because I am your sister’s friend, you mean?” she asked, struggling to sound unaffected by his gaze.

“Because it would mean something.”

They stood for a long moment, looking into each other’s eyes. Constance thought that he might kiss her again. It was a little shocking, she thought, just how much she wanted exactly that. Her breasts were full and heavy, aching, the nipples prickling, and suddenly her mind was filled with the image of his hands on her breasts. She flushed with heat, unsure whether the blood rushed up through her in embarrassment or desire.

The very air seemed to sizzle between them. Then Dominic dropped his hand and stepped back.

Constance swallowed, turning aside. “I—I had better return to my room.”

“But you have not chosen a book,” he pointed out.

“Oh.” She turned back to the shelves and blindly pulled out a volume. Holding it tightly against her chest, almost like a shield, she murmured, “Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, Miss Woodley. Sleep well.”

There was little chance of that, Constance thought to herself as she hurried away down the corridor and trotted up the stairs toward her bedchamber. She was so thrumming with nerves, so aware of her senses, her mind filled with thoughts of what had just happened, that she was sure she would not be able to go to sleep for hours.

Because it would mean something. What had he intended by that? What would it mean? Love? Marriage? No, clearly that was absurd; they barely knew one another. Yet it would not, presumably, mean something shallow and fleeting, not “a lark.” Then would it, in contrast, mean something deep and profound? Or at least a step in the direction of something deep and profound?

Constance entered her room and closed the door, going over to the window to gaze out into the darkness. Perhaps what he had meant had simply been that if they kissed again, she would be taking a step down a road that could lead only to her social ruin.

The heir to an earldom did not marry the penniless daughter of a baronet. She had noticed tonight that when Francesca had been listing the available suitors at Redfields, she had not mentioned Lord Leighton. Francesca liked her, Constance knew, but clearly she did not consider Constance an acceptable bride for her brother. Certainly the stiff and formal Lord and Lady Selbrooke would not.

So his words had likely been a warning to her, she thought. Yet they had not sounded like a warning. They had sounded, quite frankly, like an invitation.

She leaned her head against the frame of the window, closing her eyes, and she remembered their kiss—the touch of his breath against her skin, the full, firm feel of his lips on hers, the heat and hunger that had swirled through her.

She shook her head as though to clear the tangle of thoughts from it and turned away from the window. She noticed that she still clutched the book against her chest, and she lowered her hand to look at the title.

It was Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes. A relaxing little bit of nighttime reading, she thought, and a bubble of laughter escaped her lips.

She laid the book aside on the dresser and with a sigh began to unbutton her dress. The maid, Nan, had told her to ring for her help, but Constance had no desire for anyone else’s company right now. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. They might keep her awake too long, but that was all right. For the first time in a long time, she felt vividly alive. And she meant to enjoy the feeling to the fullest.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE NEXT MORNING WHEN Constance went down to breakfast, Francesca was not there. She had a pleasant conversation with the Misses Norton, a pair of excitable young sisters who had come with their brother Philip from their estate in Norfolk. They were, as best as Constance had been able to make out, some sort of relation to Lady Selbrooke. Living under the somewhat haphazard guardianship of their older brother, who was as placid and introspective as they were outgoing, they had not yet made their debuts, though at seventeen and eighteen they were of an age to do so. It was clear that they regarded their visit to Redfields as a sophisticated treat compared to the county assemblies and small local parties that had constituted their social life heretofore, and they were bubbling with speculation about the outing into the village scheduled for today.

There would be an open air landau for the older ladies and those who did not ride, they told Constance, but those who wished to ride would be provided with horses. This, they agreed, was what they intended to do.