Page 38 of The Marriage Wager

“Ah, Miss Woodley, Mr. Penrose has shamed you with his candor. Now tell me, how did you actually enjoy the trip?” Sir Lucien grinned impishly at her.

Constance chuckled. “You will not lead me to criticize it, Sir Lucien. I fear I must be one of those ghoulish sorts who likes to look at effigies. It is quite an historical church. And as I had never seen it before, I found it enjoyable.”

“Hear, hear, Miss Woodley. I am glad to see that you are a staunch supporter of our small country entertainments.”

Constance turned quickly at the sound of Leighton’s voice. He had walked up to the edge of their group and was standing just behind her. He smiled at her, and she felt the familiar flutter inside.

For an instant her resolution wavered. Surely Lord Leighton could not be the man Lady Rutherford had described. He could not be a cad who pursued young females while he was engaged to marry another.

But, of course, she reminded herself, a deceiver would not be so successful if his deception were written plainly on his face. She steeled herself and gave him a nod that was polite but nothing more. “Lord Leighton.”

She turned back to Sir Lucien, who greeted Leighton warmly. So did Mr. Penrose, and Leighton took another step so that he was part of their small conversational group. Constance was careful not to look at him, and, fortunately, Sir Lucien engaged him in conversation so that she did not have to speak any further. When a few moments later the men’s conversation lagged, Constance looked across the room to where her aunt sat and quickly excused herself so that she might speak to Aunt Blanche.

She gave a general nod to all three men. Sir Lucien and Mr. Penrose merely smiled and bowed. Lord Leighton, she noticed, was watching her narrowly. She turned and hurried away before he could speak. It would look odd and obvious if he followed her now, she knew, so she would be safe, she hoped, until they went in to eat.

She was forced to endure her aunt’s chatter, of course, but she was correct in her estimation, and Leighton did not join them. Later, at supper, she was at the opposite end of the table from him, safely ensconced between Sir Lucien and Cyril Willoughby. When she sat down at the table, she was aware of Sir Lucien studying her for a moment, then glancing up the table. She followed his gaze. It seemed to her that he was looking at Leighton, and she wondered a little apprehensively if he had guessed something about her and Lord Leighton. Had she been too obvious in the haste with which she had left the group after Dominic arrived?

But then Sir Lucien glanced at her and smiled, and Constance felt reassured. She turned and asked Mr. Willoughby about the hunt that morning.

The meal passed easily enough, as did the rest of the evening. She was careful to sit between Miss Cuthbert and her own cousin Margaret after dinner. Miss Cuthbert said almost nothing, and Margaret chattered far too much; however, Constance had not chosen her position in order to enjoy the evening, but to ensure that it would be impossible for Lord Leighton to take a seat next to her when the men returned to the drawing room.

When the men did return, Lord Leighton took up a post by the mantel, resting his elbow on it as he surveyed the rest of the room. Constance carefully did not look at him, though she was certain that she felt his eyes on her several times. She waited until Miss Cuthbert rose to excuse herself for the evening, then popped up with her, saying that she thought she would retire early, as well.

She could not keep from casting a quick glance at Leighton and found him watching her, a frown on his face, as she walked out of the room with Miss Cuthbert. She had to pay, of course, for leaving early by spending a lonely hour or two reading or gazing disconsolately out the window before she was ready to go to bed. And even then she found it difficult to sleep, her mind retracing the same track it had run all day.

She awoke the next morning, heavy-lidded and tired, and decided to miss breakfast, taking only tea and toast on a tray in her room. She put on the most attractive of her day dresses, thinking to lift her mood a trifle by looking her best, then went down the hall to Francesca’s room for a visit.

Francesca, still stuffy-nosed and listless, was feeling somewhat better, and Constance stayed, reading to her for an hour or two until Francesca felt sleepy again. Then she made her way downstairs. She paused outside the cozy morning room where yesterday she had sat with the other women.

She started to go inside, but her gaze fell upon Lord Leighton sitting on a chair by the window, looking supremely bored. Quickly she slipped past the door, and hurried as quietly and quickly as possible down the hall toward the conservatory.

“Miss Woodley!” Constance heard her name called and glanced involuntarily over her shoulder.

Leighton had come to the doorway of the sitting room and was looking down the hallway at her. Without replying, Constance turned and whisked through the door into the conservatory. Almost running, she hurried through the large plant-filled room and out onto the terrace. She trotted down the steps and into the garden. She had almost reached the path she had taken the day before when she heard her name again, louder this time. Leighton had followed her onto the terrace.

She did not look back this time, but whipped around a hedge and down the path. Lifting her skirts to her ankles, she ran lightly along the path, following its twists and turns. She heard Leighton’s footsteps on the gravel behind her, and she knew that it would be impossible to get away from him.

“Constance!” His voice was close behind her. “Bloody hell, will you stop?”

She whirled to face him. “What?”

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, his breath rapid from the haste he had made in following her, his brow drawn into a scowl.

“Why are you following me?” she retorted.

“Because you will not talk to me,” Leighton answered, his scowl growing. “What the devil is the matter? Why have you been avoiding me?”

Constance drew herself up, saying coldly, “I am not in the habit of spending time alone with men who are engaged to other women.”

“Engaged!” He stared at her blankly for an instant, and then anger darkened his face. “Engaged?” He took two quick steps to her and grabbed her wrist. “Does this look like I am engaged?”

Then he jerked her forward, and his other arm wrapped around her, holding her tightly against his long, hard body, as his mouth came down to cover her own.

CHAPTER TEN

CONSTANCE WAS TOO astonished to move or even protest. His arms were so tight around her that she could not move, and his mouth plundered hers, hot and consuming. She trembled, stunned by the desire that rushed through her at his kiss. She was suddenly on fire, wildly alive to every touch and sensation, her blood thrumming in her veins.

She had been thinking about his kiss for days, since the first time he had stolen a kiss from her in Lady Welcombe’s library. She had thought about every moment of it, every aspect, recreating it in her mind. Indeed, she had even dreamed about it.