Page 13 of The Marriage Wager

“Apparently it is the only way I can see you,” Francesca laughed. “Since you never call on me. You are the rudest man alive.”

He chuckled. “I am incorrigible, I know. I detest paying calls.”

“There is someone I want you meet,” Francesca told him, turning toward Constance.

The man followed her gaze, and his eyes widened when they fell on Constance. “Miss Woodley!”

“Lord Leighton.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“YOU KNOW EACH other?” Francesca asked, astonished.

“We met last night,” Constance told her, hoping that she sounded more natural than she felt. It was absurd that her spirits should be so lowered by the fact that Viscount Leighton and Lady Haughston were clearly close. It was not as if she had actually thought she had any chance of attracting him. Anyway, he was clearly something of a rake, going about stealing kisses from young ladies whom he scarcely knew.

“Miss Woodley is too modest,” Leighton said, his blue eyes alight with amusement. “She saved my life last night at Lady Welcombe’s rout.”

“Hardly that,” Constance murmured.

“Ah, but you did,” he insisted, turning toward Francesca and explaining. “Lady Taffington was in hot pursuit of me last night, and Miss Woodley was so kind as to throw her off the scent.”

Francesca chuckled. “Then I am doubly your friend, Constance. I fear my brother is often in need of such aid. He is entirely too softhearted and cannot bear to be rude. You should take lessons from Rochford, Dom. He is an expert at damping pretensions.”

Constance scarcely heard Lord Leighton’s reply to Lady Haughston’s jest. The Viscount was Francesca’s brother! She told herself that it was absurd to be swept with relief upon learning of their relation. It could make no difference to her that the familiarity and affection between Lord Leighton and Francesca came from family ties, not a romantic understanding.

“Come with us,” Francesca urged her brother. “We are done with our shopping, so you needn’t worry about being dragged into any stores.”

“In that case, I will accept your kind offer,” Leighton answered, extending his hand to help his sister up into the coach.

He then turned to Constance, offering her the same assistance. She slid her hand into his, very aware of his touch, even though their flesh was separated by both his gloves and hers. She glanced up into his face as she stepped up into the carriage. She could not help but remember that moment in the library when he had kissed her, and something in his eyes told Constance that he was thinking of it, too.

Heat rose in her cheeks, and she glanced away from him, quickly getting in and sitting down beside Francesca. Leighton climbed in and dropped into the seat across from them, laughingly shoving aside the profusion of boxes.

“I can see that you have had a successful afternoon,” he told them. “I trust that not all of these belong to you, Francesca.”

“No, indeed. Miss Woodley made a good accounting for herself, as well. We intend to dazzle everyone at Lady Simmington’s ball tomorrow evening.”

“I am sure that both of you will do that in any case,” Leighton responded gallantly.

Constance was painfully aware of how plain she must look beside Francesca’s elegant loveliness. She wished that she had put on her newly purchased bonnet for the remainder of their shopping trip and relegated her old hat to the box. At least then, however dull her dress might be, her face would have been becomingly framed, the blue satin lining complementing her skin and eyes.

“Are you attending Lady Simmington’s ball?” Francesca went on. “You should escort us. Constance is to come to my house tomorrow to prepare for it, and then we shall go together.”

“That would be a pleasant duty indeed,” Leighton responded easily. “I would be honored to escort you.”

“We shall guard you from matchmaking mamas,” Francesca teased.

Leighton answered her back in the same light vein, and their banter continued as the carriage made its slow way through the streets of London. Constance contributed little to the conversation. She knew few of the people of whom they spoke, and she was, in any case, quite content to watch and listen.

She had thought that perhaps she had remembered the viscount as handsomer than he actually was, that, in thinking about him, she had made his eyes a deeper blue or added a brightness to his hair or infused his smile with more charm. But, looking at him now, she thought that she had, if anything, imagined him less handsome than the reality.

He was not one who needed the soft glow of candlelight. Here in the bright light of daytime, his jawline was sharp and clean, his eyes an arrestingly dark blue, his hair glinting under the touch of the sun. Tall and broad-shouldered, he filled the barouche with his masculine presence. Constance was very aware of his knee only inches from hers, of his arm resting on the seat of the barouche, of the way the sun slanted across his face and neck.

It was not, she thought, surprising if matchmaking mothers—and daughters—were in pursuit of him. He was handsome and titled and no doubt wealthy, as well. If she remembered correctly what her aunt had said about Lady Haughston’s background, their father was an earl, and as viscount was typically a title given to the heir to the earldom, then he would someday possess the greater title of earl. For that title alone, he would have been sought after. To have good looks and charm, as well, must make him hunted like hounds after a hare.

It was all the more impossible, of course, that she should have any chance with him. Even if Francesca were right in her optimistic assumption that Constance could find a husband this Season, she knew that her patroness doubtless aimed lower than a title for her. And Lord Leighton’s kiss, however wonderful she had found it, was not anything on which Constance would be foolish enough to build her hopes. It had meant nothing to him, she was sure. At best it had shown that he was attracted to her; at worst that he simply was in the habit of kissing any young woman he caught alone. It did not mean that he had any serious interest in her; indeed, in all likelihood, it meant precisely the opposite. A gentleman, after all, did not make improper advances to a woman whom he would consider marrying. He made them to women he would not marry, but only dally with.

Of course, she had no intention of dallying with him. But a little light flirtation…now that was a different matter.