Page 44 of The Marriage Wager

But right now she would have the pleasure of looking at him, moving with him, laying her palm flush against his as they circled, their bodies close enough together that she felt the heat of his flesh, smelled the scent of his skin.

The music came to a close, and Constance made her curtsy to him. She took his arm, but he did not lead her back to her companions, turning instead toward the open doors leading onto the terrace. She smiled and went with him.

Other couples had sought the fresh air outside, as well, strolling along the terrace and even descending the steps toward the garden. Dominic and Constance did not take the steps but stayed on the wide terrace, drifting along past the lighted windows and doors of the ballroom.

The heady scent of roses drifted upward from below, and shadows beckoned beyond the last window of the house. They stopped on the edge of the dark end of the terrace and gazed out over the garden. It was washed with the pale light of the moon, and Constance looked up to see the moon glowing in the velvety black sky, softer and warmer than the sharp white sparkle of the stars.

A breeze played across the bare skin of her neck and shoulders, lifting the stray hairs that curled around her face. She turned and looked up at Dominic.

He was very close to her, only inches away, his face thrown into sharp relief by the moonlight. Even in this light, the desire in his eyes was clear. She thought of the kisses they had shared the other day in the garden, the way his hands had caressed her body, arousing in her feelings she had never known before, even with the man with whom she had once thought herself in love. She could not help but wonder if the feeling that permeated her whenever she saw Dominic was not only desire but something much stronger, much larger. Could it be that she was falling in love with Dominic—indeed, had already taken that fall?

She wanted him to kiss her, no matter how improper that might be. She wanted to feel again the passion that had rushed through her body when he had kissed her before. She could not help but think of the life that awaited her after tonight. In a few days she would be leaving Redfields, and then, within weeks—she knew how the time would fly—her Season would be over. How many more times would she see Dominic once she left his family’s home? Once her time in London had ended, she would never see him.

Was she to spend the rest of her life never knowing the taste of his lips again? Would she never know passion? Would she grow older, watching others court and marry and have children, never knowing any of those joys for herself? It seemed to her in that moment a horribly bleak existence.

A thought crept in. Would it not be better to experience the full depths of desire at least once? If she was collecting memories, did she really want to exclude the grandest, most glorious one she could hold?

She thought of kissing Dominic again, of sinking into his embrace and melding with him. She wanted to discover all the pleasures that lay hidden in his hard body; she wanted to know, to feel, everything her own flesh was capable of. Perhaps it was wicked of her, Constance thought, but she wanted to know what it was like to lie with a man—no, not with a man, but with Dominic. She wanted it with a fervor that made her tremble. And she could not help but think that if she denied herself that pleasure, she would regret it for the rest of her life.

Once again Constance considered casting caution to the winds, defying the conventions and seizing her moment of passion. It was a frightening, tantalizing thought.

Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face, for Dominic let out a little half groan and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her tenderly, his lips gently pressing, nibbling at her lips, his tongue grazing the sensitive flesh, but as the heat rose between them, his mouth turned harder and more demanding, and his tongue entered her mouth, thrusting and hungry. His arms tightened around her, crushing her to him.

The growing fierceness of his kiss did not frighten Constance. Rather, it roused an equally fierce longing inside her, and she pressed up against him, her arms twining around his neck and holding him nearer, ever nearer. Desire clawed at them, sharp and insistent, and coiled hotly deep inside.

The soft murmur of voices penetrated through the haze of their passion, and hastily Dominic swept her back with him, deeper into the shadows. They turned and looked down the sweep of the long walkway, where a couple strolled, talking softly. Dominic released Constance, then took her hand and pulled her even farther back. She stood with him, waiting, watching the other couple, her heart thundering, her breath coming in quick pants.

The man and woman walked closer and lingered just beyond the edge of the shadows. Moments crawled by before finally they turned and strolled back the way they had come.

Dominic turned to her, his eyes glinting in the darkness. He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

“We must go back,” he murmured hoarsely.

Constance nodded. There was nothing in her thrumming body that wanted to do what he said, but she was well aware of the dangers of remaining here. They had probably already caused talk by disappearing from the ball for as long as they had. Her hands went to her hair and gown, smoothing out any disarray she found. She only hoped the look on her face could be erased as easily.

She put her hand formally on his arm, and they strolled back along the terrace. Constance glanced up at him in the soft glow of the outdoor lanterns, and Dominic smiled down at her. She smiled back almost shyly, then looked away, afraid that too much of what she felt must show on her face.

He cleared his throat and said, “I would like to show you around the estate.”

His words were quite ordinary, but the husky quality of his voice sent a shiver through her.

“Yes, that sounds most pleasant,” she replied, fighting for an easy tone of voice.

They stepped inside, continuing to talk in a somewhat stilted way, making plans to go riding together. Constance hoped that the flush in her cheeks would cause no more comment than the pink in others’ faces, brought about by exercise and the large number of people in the room.

“Let me fetch you something to drink,” Dominic suggested, and she smiled at him.

“Thank you.” With any luck, a cup of punch would cool the heat rushing through her.

He left her at one of the chairs that lined the walls of the ballroom and started making his way around the dancers to the refreshments at the far end. Constance waited for him, idly watching the dancers as she fanned her face. She did not see the person approaching her from the side until the shadow fell across her.

“What do you think you are doing?” a woman’s voice hissed, sounding like drops of water hitting a hot stone.

Startled, Constance looked up to see Muriel Rutherford looming over her, a tall, slender column of cold fury. Her rail-thin figure was clothed in a simple, even girlish, white ballgown that did little for her looks. Constance presumed the style and color were meant to place Muriel among the young debutantes who made up the bulk of the marriage mart. However, she was clearly past the age of most of them, closer, Constance thought, to her own twenty-eight years than to eighteen or nineteen, and the girlish dress only emphasized the older set of Muriel’s face, stamped with lines from years of disdain. The color, moreover, was not flattering to Muriel’s very white skin, washing out her pallid tones even more.

She frowned at Constance, her face pinched in anger. Her light blue eyes were chips of ice. Her hands were curled so tightly into fists that Constance thought her fan might very well snap in her hand.

“I beg your pardon?” Constance asked coolly, rising to face the other woman.