Page 19 of The Marriage Wager

Constance suspected that Francesca was exaggerating, but she could not help but feel a little pleased at her words.

“Ah, look, there is Lucien.” Francesca waved to a man who had just entered the house.

He smiled and made his way over to them, pausing to chat with people on the way. He was, Constance thought, the epitome of the world-weary, fashionable gentleman, from the top of his brown locks, carefully styled in the Brutus fashion, to the tips of his black shoes made of butter-soft leather. His ascot was exquisitely tied; his suit jacket had been cut to fit him perfectly. And Constance was certain that everything on him, from the heavy onyx ring on his right hand to the silk stockings below his formal black breeches, had been chosen by him for just the right effect.

Francesca introduced him to Constance and he swept her an elegant bow. Next to Sir Lucien, Constance thought, Lord Leighton looked a trifle thrown together—his hair too long and unstyled, his long, strong fingers devoid of any ornamentation, his ascot tied in a simple manner, and his clothes, though of excellent cut and quality, not so perfectly coordinated as Sir Lucien’s. But Constance could not help but prefer Leighton’s unstudied masculine good looks and easy-going manner. Leighton was clearly not a man who spent much of his life in front of his mirror, and he seemed all the more compelling because of that.

“Well, Lady Simmington is living up to her reputation,” Sir Lucien commented, casting a glance around them.

The house had been decorated beautifully, with garlands of ivy and ribbons twining up the banisters of the stairs, fragrant flowers nestled here and there among the leaves. Flowers were massed in colorful clumps in great urns at the top of the stairs, and everywhere candles blazed, burning in sconces along the walls and in chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, as well as in tall stands of candelabras. The glow of the candlelight caught on the jewels that glittered at the throats and wrists of the women, casting back their brilliance, and in its golden warmth, the colors of the gowns seemed deeper and richer and the lines softened. From the ballroom beyond came the strains of music rising above the babble of voices, faint and inviting.

“The cream of the Ton is here tonight,” Sir Lucien went on. “Of course, no one dares not accept—people might think they were not invited.”

At the top of the stairs, Lady Simmington bid them welcome in a grave way, as though she were bestowing an honor. Francesca introduced Constance to her, but Constance felt sure the woman barely heard her name as she smiled and regally gestured with her hand toward the ballroom, moving the line along.

“Is she always so…?” Constance struggled to think of the right word to describe Lady Simmington.

“Arrogant?” Leighton supplied with a smile.

Francesca and Lucien chuckled.

“Oh, no,” Sir Lucien replied. “Sometimes she is far worse. Lady Honore was old Montbrook’s youngest daughter.”

“The Duke,” Francesca elaborated.

“The old codger who sleeps in his chair at White’s all day?” Leighton asked.

“I don’t know about that, but he’s marvelously old and deaf as a post, and I understand he still wears white wigs and shoes with diamond buckles,” Francesca said.

“Yes. He looks as if he’s about to be presented at Court every day,” Leighton told her. “Must take him two hours to get dressed.”

“My dear fellow,” Lucien stuck in, “it takes me two hours to dress in the morning.”

“Anyway, Lady Honore expected to marry a duke herself and was mightily disappointed that there were none available when it came time for her to come out. She had to settle for an earl, and I can tell you that she feels it was quite a comedown. Fortunately, however, Simmington is enormously wealthy, which allows her to spend as though she were a duchess—a royal duchess, even. So between those two things—her family line and Simmington’s money—she is of the opinion that almost everyone in the Ton is beneath her. Although I believe she would admit that the Prince outranks her.”

“Really?” Leighton countered. “I distinctly remember her referring to the royal family as those German upstarts.”

Her attention only partially on her companions’ conversation, Constance glanced around the enormous ballroom. It was far larger than the great hall in which Lady Welcombe had held her rout. Like the staircase and entryway, it was lavishly decorated with flowers, garlands and candles. Tall windows, framed with plush velvet drapes, lined one wall and chairs were placed along the opposite long wall. At the far end of the room, on a small raised platform, was a small orchestra. Overhead hung three large glass chandeliers, blazing with the reflected light of their candles. People were clustered around the edges of the room, talking and watching the dancers, while in the middle of the room, lines of dancers went through the opening quadrille.

Over by the wall of windows, Constance caught sight of her aunt and uncle and their daughters, looking awed. It was, she thought, quite different from the small assemblies and balls that she and her family were used to in the country. And none of the other parties they had attended since they moved to London had prepared them for this.

As Constance and her companions stood watching, the quadrille ended, and Lord Leighton turned to her. “I believe this dance was promised to me.”

Her heart beating fast, Constance put her hand on his arm and walked with him out onto the dance floor as the orchestra struck up a waltz. Her stomach was clenched with nerves. She had danced the waltz before, but not often. Assemblies and balls in the country were more conservative than those in London, and the waltz was still regarded somewhat askance there. Certainly she had not danced it with anyone but men whom she had known since childhood. She was afraid that she would make a mistake, that she would slip or stumble or tread on Leighton’s toe, and he would think her oafish.

He turned to face her, putting his hand on her waist and taking her other hand in his. Constance’s mind went suddenly blank, and she realized that she had quite forgotten the steps. Then he swept her out onto the floor, and all thoughts and fears fell away. He moved with a grace and strength that was missing in most of Constance’s usual partners, guiding her expertly about the floor. It felt heavenly and natural to be in his arms, and she moved without thinking, feeling only the joy of the music, the excitement of his closeness.

She looked up into his face and smiled, unaware of how her smile dazzled. He drew in a sharp little breath, and his hand tightened for an instant on her waist.

“I cannot think why I have not seen you before the other night,” he said. “Did you just recently come to town?”

“We have been here for three weeks.”

He shook his head. “I could not have seen you and not noticed.”

Constance felt sure that he could have; until tonight, she had always been in the background, drab and unnoticed in her spinsterish clothes. But she did not want to point that out, so she said only, “Perhaps we attended different parties.”

“Clearly I have been in the wrong places.”