Page 29 of The Marriage Wager

Francesca, covering her mouth, could not answer, only shook her head. She started to stand up, and Constance quickly moved to help her, taking her arm. Murmuring their apologies, Constance led Francesca, still stifling her coughs, from the room.

Once outside, Francesca coughed a few more times for effect as she hurried off down the hall, glancing back at Constance with a grin. Constance suppressed her laughter and hastened after her friend.

“Are you all right?” she asked again as they reached the bottom of the staircase.

Francesca grinned wickedly, then hastily covered her face with her handkerchief as she sneezed again. “I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “The coughing was pretense. But this sneezing…” She cleared her throat and dabbed delicately at her eyes. She sighed. “Oh, dear, I hope I shall not be forced to miss the outing tomorrow.”

“What sort of outing?” Constance asked as they climbed the stairs.

“Only a trip to the church in the village.” Francesca wrinkled her nose. “The rector is going to give a little talk about its history. It is, apparently, a very good example of a Norman tower—Oh, and there are a number of other things that I cannot remember. Deadly dull, I’m sure, but at least it is an outing, and the Duchess, my mother and Lady Rutherford will not be there, which should make it more appealing.”

Constance chuckled, and Francesca smiled, adding, “However, your aunt volunteered to my mother that she would be happy to chaperone the party, never having seen the church, which Mother was quick to take her up on. Still, I think there should be some opportunity for talking and, perhaps, a little flirting?”

She cast a sideways glance at Constance that was at once both hopeful and questioning.

“I am not averse to that,” Constance answered.

“I saw you were seated next to Mr. Willoughby,” Francesca went on. “How did you like him?”

“He is very nice,” Constance replied, then paused.

“But…?” Francesca supplied.

“I hope you will not think me ungrateful, Francesca, but I must tell you that I think there is little hope that he—that I—well, I am sure that it will seem quite vain of me even to say this, for we have scarcely met and I doubt that he would ever actually offer for me, but I truly do not think that if he did, I could accept. He is a very nice man, but I do not feel that I could love him, and—”

“Hush, now, do not look so anxious,” Francesca told her, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I shall not be upset with you if you do not become engaged. And certainly I would not expect it to happen in the next two weeks! There is ample time before us—and many more men in the world besides Cyril Willoughby. Why, he is only one of several men here—there are Alfred Penrose and Mr. Kenwick and Mr. Carruthers. Sir Philip Norton. Not Lord Dunborough, of course—I cannot imagine why I thought he might do. And when we return to London, there are hundreds of eligible men there.”

The clutch of anxiety in Constance’s stomach eased considerably. “It is good of you to say so. I know how much you have done for me, and, indeed, I am very grateful.”

“Nonsense. I have been having worlds of fun. Why, what have I done except go shopping with you and cast about a few invitations? I should be the one thanking you for giving me something to enliven this house party. It is always excruciatingly dull.”

They had reached Francesca’s room by now, and she decided to ring for her maid and get undressed. “Given my little performance downstairs, I suppose I had better go on to bed.”

So Constance went on to her own room. Its peace was preferable to listening to Muriel Rutherford play the piano, but she was not ready to go to bed yet, and she had nothing to do. She decided to go down to the library and find a book to read. She had noticed the library on her way to supper with Francesca, and it was a large room with hundreds of books. She was sure that she could find something with which to pass the evening.

After lighting a candle, she slipped back down the stairs and along the hallway to the library, careful to move as quietly as a mouse. The last thing she wanted was for anyone in the music room to hear her and look out, for then courtesy would require her to rejoin them. It was fortunate, she thought, that the music room lay beyond the library, so she would not have to pass it on her way.

There was an oil lamp burning low on a table just inside the library. Constance stepped inside, closing the door silently behind her, and turned up the lamp. She went to the shelves on the right, holding up her candle to better see the spines, and began to trail along the wall, studying the titles.

There was a noise behind her, and she whirled, her heart pounding furiously. She gave a start and let out a squeak when she saw a man sitting on the sofa and gazing over the back of it at her. In the next instant she recognized the man as Lord Leighton, and she sagged with relief, letting out a sigh, her hand going to her heart.

“We simply have to stop meeting like this,” he told her lightly. “Someone is sure to talk.”

“You scared me to death,” Constance retorted, the rush of fright making her cross. “Where were you? I didn’t see you when I came in.”

“Lying down,” he told her, sliding off the sofa and crossing the room toward her. “Hiding out again, are we? Who is it this time? The dread aunt? No, wait, I know the answer. No doubt it is the same reason I am here. Muriel is torturing the piano.”

Constance let out a giggle, though she tried to adopt a stern look as she said, “She is an excellent pianist.”

“No doubt. But you are right. I misspoke. It is actually her listeners she tortures.”

“Surely you were safe in the smoking room with the other men,” Constance said.

“Oh, no, for my father was there,” he pointed out.

Constance raised her brows a little at this statement. Clearly there was some sort of estrangement between Leighton and Lord Selbrooke, as she had suspected from the formal way by which he referred to his parents and the fact that he apparently rarely visited Redfields. She wondered why, but, of course, it would be terribly rude to ask, so she did not.

“I am sorry to have intruded on you,” she said instead.