Page 32 of The Marriage Wager

He continued to ride beside their landau, chatting about the upcoming tour of the church and sundry other mundane matters. Constance did not really care about the topic; it was enjoyable just to ride with him. Even the presence of her aunt and cousin was made more enjoyable by his being there.

Constance noted that more than once Muriel Rutherford glanced back at them, her expression icy. Constance felt sure that Miss Rutherford was less than pleased that Leighton was not spending the time with her. She wondered if she was being foolish to feel that Miss Rutherford had taken an especial dislike to her. Perhaps the young woman looked at all other women with such disapproval.

Finally, when the carriage rolled across a small stone bridge over a serene creek and they stopped to admire the view, Miss Rutherford pulled to a halt, then turned and trotted back to join them.

“Is something wrong?” she asked as she rode up, though her voice expressed little tone of concern. “Do you need to return to the house?”

Constance felt sure that Muriel hoped that her surmise was correct. She found herself quite happy to dash her hopes. “No, we simply stopped to look at the view. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

Muriel gave her a look down the length of her nose, as if faintly surprised that Constance would address her. She glanced indifferently out over the water, lined with gracefully bending willows along its west bank.

“Yes, I suppose so.” She turned toward Leighton. “I am amazed to find you lagging behind, Dominic. Is Arion hurt?”

“No, he’s healthy as ever,” Leighton replied easily, patting his horse’s neck.

“He must be chafing at this slow pace,” Muriel commented, a contemptuous smile touching her lips.

Dominic quirked an eyebrow, looking faintly amused. “Are you criticizing my handling of my horse, Muriel?”

Even Miss Rutherford had the grace to blush at his question. “Good heavens, no, of course not. Everyone knows you ride like a centaur. I was merely…surprised at your setting such a slow pace.”

“I was simply enjoying a conversation with these lovely ladies,” Leighton replied easily. “Perhaps you would like to join us.”

Miss Rutherford glanced at the carriage. Constance suspected that riding alongside the landau ranked very low on her list. However, after a brief mental struggle, she offered a smile to Leighton and said, “Certainly. Why not?”

The remainder of the ride was far less enjoyable, for Muriel did her best to engage the viscount in conversation about people, places and events with which the other women were unfamiliar. Though Dominic time and again brought the conversation back to the others as best he could, Miss Rutherford quickly switched it to another equally unknown topic. It made for a disjointed and boring exchange. However, it was clear to her that Muriel was not interested in conversing so much as in showing Constance and the others that Lord Leighton and she were close friends, part of a group to which the other women did not belong.

The remainder of the ride was mercifully short. Not long after the bridge, they rolled into the quiet village of Cowden. The square stone, battlemented tower of the church was visible above the trees, and they soon pulled to a stop beside the churchyard. A lych-gate led into the graveyard behind the church.

The other members of the party had already dismounted and were standing in the shaded side yard of the church, chatting amongst themselves, having handed over their mounts to the two grooms who had accompanied them.

Leighton dismounted and turned to help the ladies down from the carriage. When they reached the others, they saw that their group had been joined by the black-clad rector, a white-haired, well-rounded gentleman who beamed at them.

“Well, well, welcome to St. Edmund’s,” he said cheerfully, bouncing a little on his toes. “It is not often that we have so many distinguished visitors. Lord Leighton.” He bowed toward Leighton, his smile broadening even more.

He led them into the church, pointing out the Norman tower, which dated from the thirteenth century, and the charming metalwork on the ancient wooden doors. Inside, he continued extolling the historic and architectural virtues of the church in a rich, rolling voice that doubtless stood him in good stead when delivering his sermons. He pointed out the fifteenth-century octagonal font made of brass, and the Flemish stained-glass east window through which the sun filtered, throwing jewel-like colors across the stone floors.

They walked past tombs covered with the effigies of this or that lord or lady, including the apparent focal point of the church, a highly detailed stone rendering of a thirteenth-century Sir Florian FitzAlan, the precursor of all the other Lords Leighton and Earls of Selbrooke whose tombs and memorials lined the east wall of the church. He lay, sword strapped to his side, his hands folded prayerfully on his chest and his feet propped on his faithful staghound.

They admired the medieval wall painting, now faded almost into nothing, of the twelve apostles, as well as the gothic arches, and the Jacobean black walnut pews and high pulpit, the latter topped with a flat sounding board. The enclosed pew belonging to the Earl’s family was, Constance noticed, far roomier than any of the others, and its back rose so high as to make the family virtually invisible to the other parishioners behind them.

As the priest led them to the chancel at the front of the church, describing the carved rood screen and the marble altar, Constance trailed along behind the others, looking at the effigies and memorials. Though she admired the unexpectedly fine artistic points of the church, it was these reminders of the departed humans who had lived and worshipped here that most intrigued her.

“The FitzAlans are a disgustingly self-satisfied lot, are we not?” murmured a wry voice behind her, and Constance turned to see Leighton standing there. He nodded toward the brass memorial touting the virtues of the First Earl of Selbrooke.

Constance smiled. “I suspect most tombs and memorials describe their subjects in rather glowing terms.”

“Hmm, no doubt. But I have seen the portrait of that fellow, and I can tell you that he looked more like a tyrant than a ‘kinde and gentle’ father and ‘just master.’ This one, on the other hand—” he pointed to a brass plaque a few feet ahead of them on the wall “—had a decidedly weak chin and a rather hunted look. It was said that his lady was a virago, which perhaps explains the fearful expression.”

Constance chuckled, rebuking him in a playful tone, “I think you are too severe with your ancestors.”

“You would not say that if you had seen the gallery of their portraits. I will show it to you tomorrow, and you will understand.”

They strolled along slowly, looking at the statues and markers. Dominic pointed out certain phrases and names that had caught his fancy over the years, murmuring sardonic comments about many of them.

“Stop,” Constance told him with mock severity. “You will have me laughing most improperly in church.”

He cast a glance over at their group, who were clustered in the small side chapel, listening to the priest expound on the perpendicular style of the windows. He took her arm and nodded toward the back of the church. “Then let us walk outside, where we won’t disturb the sanctity.”