Page 70 of The Marriage Wager

When Constance turned back around, she saw that Lord and Lady Selbrooke had also disappeared from the entryway. There was silence as everyone else turned to look at each other.

“Well,” Francesca said, “after that, I think the only recourse is breakfast.”

She proceeded to urge everyone down the stairs and along the hallway to the dining room. Constance was aware of a number of eyes upon her as people drifted past, but Dominic’s stony gaze encouraged no one to stop and talk.

At last the only ones left in the entryway were the two of them. Constance, who had turned away during the group’s passage, turned back to Dominic. The sorrow she saw in his face tore at her heart.

“I am sorry, Dominic,” she whispered. “If I had had any idea that this would happen, I would not have left. I did not mean to hurt you or your family.”

“Did you so dislike the idea of marrying me that you had to run away?” he asked, his face grim.

“No!” Constance cried, horrified, tears springing to her eyes. “No, it was not that! It was never that I did not want to marry you. I love you!”

She had not intended to admit it to him—ever—but she found she could not hold back the words, so hurt was the look in his eyes.

Dominic’s eyes widened in surprise. He crossed the floor to her in two quick strides and took her hands. “Do you mean that? Truly?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I mean it.”

“Constance…” A grin broke across his face, and he lifted her hands to his lips, kissing them, then released them and gazed at her with a foolish grin upon his face. “I had hoped. I had thought that you might—that you would, perhaps, come to love me in the future—but then…” He paused, frowning. “Why did you run away? And with the Rutherfords, of all people! You must have been desperate.”

“I was afraid that if I stayed, you would persuade me to marry you.”

“Why would that have been so bad?”

“Dominic, you know why. I told you—I could not bear to be the cause of your misfortune. To have you and your father turned against each other even more fully, your duty to your family unfulfilled, your estates remaining encumbered, all because you made a poor marriage.”

“Constance!” He stared at her in exasperation. “I told you it would be all right, that I would work it out. And I will.”

“But how? I haven’t anything but a pittance to bring to our marriage.”

“You have yourself, and that is more than enough,” he told her quietly. “Listen to me. I have no need for a great deal of money. During the war, I lived on what I could forage in the countryside often enough. And we will not be penniless. We may have to economize, but I don’t care for that. I have a small estate in Dorset. It was left to me by my uncle, the same one who purchased my commission for me. It has a very pleasant manor house, with a small estate farm that produces enough for us to live on. I invested what I received when I sold out of the army, and it will give us a little more income. It will be a good enough life for me, if it is for you.”

“It would be a wonderful life!” Constance assured him. “But what about Redfields? And your parents?”

“I would not be concerned about my parents if I were you,” Dominic said caustically. “But, of course, that is not your nature. I have already told my father that if he agrees to my plan, we will move into Redfields and institute it immediately. If not—or if, as I presume after what he did to you today, you are unwilling to live in proximity to them—we will live at my manor house until I inherit the estate, and then we will move here. We will sell the house in London, as it is not entailed, and we will use it to help pay off a good portion of the debt. We will then institute a number of economies, primary among them not going to London for the Season. I have no need to live in London, if you will not be too unhappy with a simple country life.”

“I will not be unhappy at all. A simple country life is what I lived the whole of my existence until this summer.”

“If we have to, I will sell what my uncle left me, but I would prefer to keep it as a property for a younger son or a daughter. I can use my investments, too, against the debt. I have been talking to the estate agent’s son since I have been here, and he has a good many ideas for better farming methods that will increase our income. There are a number of other things that we can do to decrease our expenses. The FitzAlans have overspent their incomes for centuries. Decreasing the expenses will also increase our profits. The added profits can be used to pay down the debt. We can sell a number of horses. We have far more than we need. And there is no reason to keep three different family carriages. We can sell two of them. That will help to pay the debt, as well. Forrester and I agree that I can cut the encumbrance on the estate by half within the first five years. By the time I pass it on to our son, we will have paid it off entirely.”

Constance smiled, enjoying his enthusiasm. It made her warm inside to hear him speak of “our son.” If only…

“It will not be a bleak life, though,” he assured her hastily. “You must not think that there will be no luxuries. No joy.”

It would be joy enough, Constance thought, to live with Dominic. The thought of sharing a life, making plans, raising a family together, filled her with such longing that she wanted to cry.

“It would be easier to marry into money,” she said softly.

He grinned. “Yes, not nearly as much fun,” he retorted. “Besides, I don’t think I would want it if I could not have you.”

“What?” Constance stared at him. “Do you mean that?”

“Of course I mean it.” He looked at her oddly. “Why else would I ask you to marry me?”

“But you did not say that!” Constance cried. “You never said that you wanted to marry me.”

“I didn’t?”