by Candace Camp
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.”
She laughed. “You are too smooth-tongued by half, sir.”
“You are unjust,” he responded, his eyes twinkling. “I have only spoken the truth to you.”
She cast him a cynical glance. “You forget, my lord, I know—from your own words—how much you are pursued. Can you expect me to believe that among all those girls, you would notice each and every one?”
“Not each and every one,” he replied. “Only you.”
Constance tried to suppress the warmth that flooded her at his words, but she could not. When he smiled at her like that, it made it difficult to remember that she needed to keep her head around him. Yet how could she not smile and flush when he said such things to her?
Forcing a certain tartness into her voice, she countered, “And all the ones with whom you try to dally in the library—do you remember all of them?”
“Ah.” He cast her a knowing glance. “I see that you are holding my sins against me. Please, believe me when I tell you that I do not, in fact, usually dally with young ladies—in the library or elsewhere.”
“Indeed?” She arched an eyebrow.
“No. The truth, Miss Woodley, is that there is something about you which makes me act…out of the ordinary.”
“I am not sure whether you are complimenting me or disparaging me,” she told him.
“’Tis no disparagement, I assure you.”
Constance could think of nothing to say. There was a warm look in his eyes that did strange things to her insides. It was difficult to be witty or aloof; all she wanted was to dance in his arms, to gaze into his eyes, to live in the moment and the music.
But all too soon the music was over. They whirled to a stop. There was the briefest of hesitations, then Leighton dropped his arms from her and stepped back. Constance drew a shaky breath, glancing away from him as she pulled herself back into the real world.
She took his arm, and he walked her back to where his sister stood waiting. As soon as they arrived, Sir Lucien asked Constance to dance and led her out to the floor. When they returned, Constance saw to her disappointment that Lord Leighton was no longer with Francesca.
However, she was far too busy for the rest of the evening to miss his presence. There were always a number of men dancing attendance upon Lady Haughston at any party, but tonight their number doubled. Francesca was besieged with young gentlemen seeking an introduction to her new companion, and she was happy to oblige. Before half the evening was over, Constance’s dance card was filled. She was certain that the reason for her sudden popularity lay in the fact that Lord Leighton and Sir Lucien had asked her to dance. There was nothing that established a woman’s desirability like the attention of other men.
Constance, however, was enjoying the evening far too much to quibble about the reasons behind it. As she danced and talked and flirted, she did not feel at all like a chaperone—or even like a spinster. She felt young and as attractive as her admirers were telling her, and she could not remember when she had enjoyed herself as much. It had been years, she thought. Since her father’s death, in fact.
While she could not accuse her aunt and uncle of cruelty or mistreatment, there was no love for her in their house; she was less a loved member of the family than a sort of high-class servant. Nor did she, frankly, enjoy their company. Her happiness came from small things—a walk in the spring, a visit with a friend in the village or an hour spent alone reading. It did not spark and fizzle as it did tonight, making her want to bubble over with laughter. She had not realized until now just how gray her world had become. She would, she thought, always be grateful to Francesca for this feeling, and she knew that, whatever happened, she had been right to join in Francesca’s scheme.
The only thing that marred her happiness was a moment when she glanced to the side and found a woman staring at her with an intense look of dislike. Startled, Constance stared back at her for a moment. The woman was tall and dark-haired, with very light blue eyes. Constance took her to be a few years younger than herself, and she would have been attractive if it had not been for the cold, disdainful expression on her face. She stood beside an older woman who looked so much an older version of her that Constance assumed they must be mother and daughter. The mother, as much as the daughter, was gazing at Constance with a venomous look.
Constance turned away, shocked and uncertain. She was sure that she did not know either woman. Indeed, she did not think she had ever even seen them before, though she supposed she might have come across them at some other party and not remembered them. But she could not imagine why the two would have taken such a dislike to her.
She turned to ask Francesca who they were, but Francesca was chatting with a young man, whom she promptly introduced to Constance. By the time he left, the women Constance had seen were no longer standing there. With a mental shrug, she dismissed the thought of them and took the floor with her next dance partner.
FRANCESCA SPENT MOST OF the evening watching Constance like a proud mother. She had asked Sir Lucien to dance with Constance, as Constance had suspected, but she was pleased to hear him say, after the dance was over, that her protégé was both pretty and charming.
“What are you about with this girl, anyway?” he went on, looking at Francesca shrewdly. “I know she is not one of those chits whose parents ask you to establish them. From what I have heard, she is a poor relation of that dreadful Woodley woman.”
“Why, Lucien, you wound me,” Francesca teased him. “Do you think me entirely mercenary?”
“My dear girl, I know you are not. You could have had your pick of a wealthy husband any time these last five years, and you have not snapped one up. But I cannot understand why you came to choose this girl. She is long past the age of coming out. I believe she is a veritable ape-leader.”
“She is younger than I, so let us not talk of age, sir. But if you must know, it is because of Rochford.”
“Rochford!” Lucien looked surprised. “What has he to do with it?”
“He challenged me.”
“Ah.” Lucien smiled faintly. “You could not, of course, fail to take up the gl
ove with him.”
She cast him a dampening look. “A sapphire bracelet rides on my success, and I should rather like to have it.”
“I see.” He paused, then went on. “And what have you committed yourself to do?”
“Find Constance a husband this Season.”
“Ah, a mere trifle, then.” He made an airy gesture. “She has no fortune. Her relations are clearly not an advantage. And she is older than most of the marriageable girls by five years, wouldn’t you say? That should be wonderfully easy, no doubt. And what does it matter that almost a month of the Season has already passed? I feel no doubt you will be able to pluck out an earl from somewhere…or, at the very least, a baron.”
“I did not say it had to be a brilliant marriage,” Francesca retorted. “Only an acceptable one.”
“Ah, well, then.” Sir Lucien favored her with a smirk.
“All right, I will admit that it may prove something of a difficulty. But that is precisely why it was so important that you showed her favor tonight,” Francesca went on, smiling at him. “It will take at least two weeks off the time to establish her since you have approved of her.”
Her friend looked at her suspiciously. “What do you want from me?”
“Lucien! As if I must want something from you to pay you a compliment.”
He said nothing, merely waited, one brow raised.
“Oh, very well. I thought you might accompany me to Redfields next week.”
He looked pained. “To the country? Francesca, dear, you are the love of my heart, but to travel into the country?”
“It’s in Kent, Lucien. It isn’t as if I am asking you to trek off to the wilds.”
“No, but a house party? It’s bound to be dreadfully dull.”
“No doubt it will be, since my parents are giving it. But that is why I particularly need you to go—so it will be more interesting.”
“But why?”
“Because I decided that this house party would be the perfect thing to introduce Constance to a number of eligible men. Because she has no fortune, I must make sure that several men have a chance to spend a goodly amount of time with her, and fall in love with her wit and her smile.”
“I don’t know why you would need me for that. I would just be taking up space that could go to one of your bachelors.”
“Because I need to get the bachelors to come. How many young gentlemen are going to want to attend if they think that they will be sitting around with Father and Lord Basingstoke and Admiral Thornton, drinking port and decrying the state of today’s youth? Or playing whist with the Dowager Duchess of Chudleigh?”
“Good Gad, is she going to be there?”
“She is my mother’s godmother, and I have never known her to miss it. So I need to reassure them that there will be someone livelier there. I think Dominic may attend. He seemed somewhat more amenable to it tonight.”
“Then you don’t need me.”
“I daren’t count on him. Even if he comes, there is nothing to say he and Father won’t have a row the first night, and Dom will ride back to London. Besides, it would be better to have more than one man who is interesting. Dom will provide good sport, and you will provide entertaining conversation.”
“My dear Francesca, I suspect that your fair face and form will be more than enough to ensure that an adequate number of bachelors will be happy to attend,” Sir Lucien told her. “However, I will come, as well. It will provide some amusement, after all, to watch your machinations.”
“I knew I could count on you.”
“And what about your—I scarce know what to call him—your nemesis? Your friend?”
Francesca looked puzzled.
“The deliverer of your challenge,” Sir Lucien clarified. “Rochford.”
“Oh.” Her expression cleared. “Him.” She shrugged. “I suppose he will drop by at least for the ball, if he is at home at Dancy Park,” she said, naming the Duke’s country house, one of many, which lay not far from the house in which she had grown up.
“And do you expect him to try to thwart your efforts?”
“Sinclair?” Francesca laughed. “I cannot imagine him bothering to attempt to influence events. He prefers to observe in a godlike manner as we petty mortals scurry around trying to direct our lives.”
Sir Lucien raised his brows at the touch of bitterness in her tone. “Well, it appears as though he has descended from Mount Olympus for the moment, at least.”
He nodded, and Francesca turned to look in the direction of his nod. The Duke of Rochford was moving toward them, his passage winding and desultory as he paused to speak to this person or that. But he looked up, and his eyes met Francesca’s, and she felt certain that she was his ultimate destination. She pivoted back to watch the dancers, the picture of indifference.
But she knew immediately when he drew close, and she did not even turn her head when he stopped beside her and gazed out onto the dance floor, too.
“Quite a swan you have made out of your duckling, my lady,” he said after a moment, amusement curling through his voice.
Francesca glanced at him then. His saturnine face was, as always, unreadable. “It required little effort on my part, I assure you. I am afraid, Rochford, that you may have chosen the wrong subject for your bet.”
A thin smile touched his lips. “Expect to have an easy time of it, do you?”
“Not easy, no,” Francesca responded. “But she has far more possibilities than the other two.”
“Mmm. I may have chosen rashly,” he admitted. He looked at her, and Francesca thought there might be a hint of laughter in his eyes. It was always so hard to tell with him. “No doubt you will take advantage of my weakness.”
“But of course.”
The dance had ended, and Constance and her partner made their way across the floor to where Francesca stood between Sir Lucien and the Duke. Francesca saw Constance’s eyes go somewhat apprehensively to Rochford.
Francesca introduced Rochford to her protégée. She presumed that was why he had come over to her. But she was a little surprised to hear the Duke, after bowing to Constance, ask her for the next dance. Constance’s eyes widened, and she glanced over at Francesca, then back at Rochford.
“I, um, I fear the dance is already taken, Your Grace,” she said, looking more relieved than regretful.
“Ah, I see.” His eyes flickered over to the man who was walking toward them, and he went on, “To Micklesham?”
Constance looked confused. “What?” She turned to look in the direction Rochford indicated. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Mr. Micklesham.”
Rochford’s smile was a trifle vulpine as he greeted the new arrival. “Ah, Micklesham. I’m sure you would be willing to give up your claim to Miss Woodley’s hand for the next dance, wouldn’t you?”
Micklesham, a short, rather pudgy young man with carefully styled ginger-colored locks and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, looked startled at being addressed by the Duke. He flushed, his expression changing to one of awe. “Oh. Um…to you? Why, y-yes. Of course.” He bowed to the Duke. “My pleasure. That is, I mean…well…beg pardon, Miss Woodley.” He looked somewhat entreatingly at Constance.
“Very good, then. Miss Woodley?” Rochford extended his arm to Constance, who hesitated, then put a smile on her face and accepted.
Francesca watched the pair walk out onto the dance floor.
“Now what the devil is he up to?” she murmured.
“Perhaps he means to frighten your little bird away,” Sir Lucien offered.
“No, Rochford would not try to hinder my plans,” Francesca said. “I was quite correct when I said he would consider it beneath him to try to influence the outcome.”
She watched the Duke put his hand on Constance’s waist and sweep her into the steps of the waltz. He was smiling down at her. Francesca felt a distinct twinge of irritation.
“The devil take the man,” she said and turned away.
Sir Lucien cast a
measuring look at her. “What do you think he is doing, then?”
“In all probability, just trying to annoy me,” Francesca responded.
“Then it appears he has succeeded.”
“Oh, hush, Lucien,” Francesca said crossly, “and ask me to dance.”
“Of course, my love,” he replied with a bow.
CHAPTER SIX
CONSTANCE FELT AN ICY trickle of perspiration snake down her back. Never in her life had she expected to dance with a duke. Indeed, she had not even thought she would ever so much as meet a duke.
Lord Leighton would be an earl someday, of course, but his infectious grin and easy-going manner made one quickly forget about his title and his lineage. But Rochford was every inch a duke. His demeanor was not exactly stiff, but his spine was as straight as a board, and he carried himself with the kind of confidence that came only from generations of aristocratic breeding. His angular countenance was every bit as intimidating as his demeanor—high, swooping cheekbones and black slashes of brows, beneath which his deeply set black eyes looked out upon the world watchfully. He was not, Constance thought, a man with whom it would be easy to feel comfortable.
Certainly she did not feel comfortable with him. He did not speak for some time, and she was glad, for she was concentrating upon her steps, feeling that it would be far worse to stumble or make a wrong move with this man than with any of the others who had partnered her this evening.
He, apparently, did not find the silence unusual. She supposed he was accustomed to the effect he had on people. Nor did he make any effort to ease the situation; he simply watched her with that vaguely unsettling black gaze.
“I see that Lady Haughston has taken you under her wing,” he said at last.
His words startled Constance a little, as she had grown accustomed to their lack of conversation.
“Yes,” she answered somewhat cautiously. “Lady Haughston is quite kind.”
