Page 37 of The Marriage Wager

Her first instinct, and the one to which she clung for a few desperate minutes, was that Lady Rutherford had been lying. She had to be. Leighton could not be engaged to that cold, disagreeable girl. Lady Rutherford had said that only to hurt Constance, or to warn her away from the man her own daughter so obviously wanted for herself.

But Constance knew how unlikely that idea was. If Lady Rutherford publicly claimed that they were engaged and later it was revealed that they were not, the woman would be humiliated. Surely, no matter how much she disliked Constance or how much she hoped that Muriel would marry an earl, she would not have risked everyone finding out that she had lied. And she would know that the lie had to come out—the first time any of her listeners congratulated the groom or mentioned the wedding to Lord or Lady Selbrooke, the falsehood would be exposed.

So, reluctantly, Constance had to admit that it was extremely unlikely that Lady Rutherford had lied about the engagement. And that meant that Dominic had deceived Constance. The thought made her feel ill.

Oh, he had not lied directly to her, since he had never actually told her that he was not engaged. But the totality of his actions since he met her had been a lie. He had not once mentioned that he had a fiancée; he had never even brought up Muriel’s name. Indeed, if anything, he had seemed to avoid her, and when she had joined him yesterday afternoon, it had appeared to Constance that he had been irritated by her presence.

Most of all, he had flirted with Constance, had sought her out on several occasions and had talked to her as if he had no ties to any woman. Worse, far worse than that—he had kissed her! Morally and legally bound to one woman, he had made advances to another. His actions were those of a cad, and it was clear to Constance that Leighton’s only interest in her could have been to seduce her.

He must be, as Lady Rutherford had said, a rake. And not just a libertine who sought the pleasures of the flesh with demireps or experienced ladies of the Ton, wives or widows who knew exactly what they were doing. He was the sort who seduced virgins, young ladies whose reputations would be ruined as a result. He was, in short, the kind of uncaring roué whom Constance would have sworn he could not be.

Her disillusionment was bitter. She felt wounded and betrayed. It hurt to know that Dominic was engaged to another woman, but it hurt even more to realize how mistaken she had been in her estimation of him.

Slowly, sadly, she got up and walked back through the garden and into the house. There was the sound of many voices, some of them masculine, coming from the sitting room as she passed, and she thought that the hunters must have returned. She did not pause, however, just quickened her steps until she reached the stairs.

Upstairs in her bedroom, she closed the door behind her and went to sit down beside the window. She wanted to leave, just pack her things and go, but that was impossible. She could scarcely explain to anyone why she no longer wanted to be there, and even if she could, she refused to admit that she had been so naive as to have been deceived by Lord Leighton or so foolish as to have been hurt by learning that he planned to marry another woman.

Clearly, she must stay. And just as clearly, she told herself, she must avoid Lord Leighton. But she could not remain in her room, as she wished to. That would be not only impractical, but also cowardly. Besides, she refused to allow anyone to see that his actions—or Lady Rutherford’s news—had in any way bothered her.

Having made her decision, she went along the corridor to Francesca’s room, where she offered to sit with the patient while Maisie took another break. Francesca awoke at Constance’s entrance and smiled weakly.

“Oh dear, I have been a very bad hostess, I’m afraid,” she said, stretching out a hand.

Constance smiled at her reassuringly and took her hand. “No, of course not. I have been doing very well on my own. There was the trip yesterday to St. Edmund’s, which was quite enjoyable, and today I walked a bit in the gardens, and before that I visited with your mother and my aunt and Lady Rutherford.”

Francesca made a face. “Oh dear. I am even more surprised that you are not angry with me, then.”

Constance smiled and lied, “It was not so bad.”

“You are very good to lie to me.” Francesca sighed. “Maisie tells me I am better. I do not feel hot now, at least. But I am so very tired. Still, soon I will be well.” She forced a faint smile. “And then I promise I shall be a more entertaining companion.”

“Do not worry about it. Would you like me to get you anything? Or to read to you?”

“No, ’tis enough for you to sit here with me. Tell me what has happened.”

“Why, very little, really,” Constance said, sitting down in the chair beside her bed. She longed to ask Francesca if it was true that Lord Leighton was engaged to Muriel Rutherford, but she could not think of a way to phrase it that would not reveal her own interest in Francesca’s brother.

“Tell me about Mr. Willoughby and the others. Have any of them made any headway with you?”

Constance shook her head and let herself be diverted. “I fear you will find me a hard case, indeed. But I promise you that I will do my best to spend more time with them this evening and tomorrow.”

After all, she thought, she would have to occupy her time somehow if she was to manage to avoid being around Lord Leighton.

With that aim in mind, Constance went down to supper later. She cast her eyes over the people in the room. She quickly spotted Dominic’s tall figure standing on the far side of the room, talking to Mr. Norton and his sisters. He looked up and saw her, and a smile crossed his face.

Constance glanced away, searching for some other conversation to join. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lord Leighton leave the Nortons and start in her direction. Quickly she walked to her left. Her aunt was sitting against the wall, and she could join her, if nothing else.

Fortunately, Sir Lucien, who was chatting with Alfred Penrose, turned at that moment and saw her, and he smiled. “My dear Miss Woodley, do join us. You have met Mr. Penrose, have you not?”

“Yes, indeed. It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Penrose.” Constance’s smile was bright with relief, so much so that Penrose straightened a little and looked back at her with interest.

They chatted a little about the visit to the church, which Sir Lucien said—with a certain twinkle in his eye—he regretted he had missed.

“Indeed, sir, you missed a great deal,” Constance told him. “It was very interesting.”

Mr. Penrose looked at her in such astonishment that Constance was betrayed into a giggle.

“It was a dead loss,” Penrose told Lucien bluntly. “Unless you’re one of those poetic sorts who likes to hang about in graveyards. Or look at effigies of people who died four hundred years ago. Gave me the shivers.”