by Candace Camp
She felt a small thrill at his touch, her heart picking up its beat. His gesture was nothing more than polite, yet still it affected her. Constance glanced up at him, wondering if he, too, had felt anything. It was impossible to tell. There was warmth in his eyes, but she could not be sure what that meant about his feelings for her.
“Still,” he went on, releasing her arm and looking back in front of him, “it must be a wonderful thing to have that sort of bond with your father.”
“You and your father are not close?” Constance asked carefully. She had yet to see Dominic talking with the Earl since she had been at Redfields, and it was clear from what he had said that he was unfamiliar with such closeness himself.
He shook his head, a wry smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. “No, we are not close. That would be a…tactful way to describe it.”
They reached a plot marked off from the others by a low stone wall. Carefully tended, it was centered by a large stone vault resembling a miniature Parthenon. Across the top, carvings of angels flanked a coat of arms in the middle. Below the coat of arms was carved the name FitzAlan. Around the central mausoleum were other graves, each with its marble marker.
“The family plot,” Leighton told her as they strolled around the low wall bordering it. “The lesser-known members, as well as the more recent ones. We seem to be concerned about not being remembered.”
Constance followed him, reading the names and dates on the markers. Dominic stopped at the rear of the plot and stood for a moment, gazing down at one of the graves. For the first time since Constance had known him, his face was somber, his blue eyes dark with sorrow.
She looked at the name on the tombstone: Lady Ivy FitzAlan, Beloved Daughter. Lady Ivy had died twelve years earlier, in the cold of January, and Constance could see from the birth and death dates that she had been young, only sixteen years of age.
“She was my sister,” Dominic said in a soft voice. “The youngest of us.”
Instinctively, Constance took his hand in sympathy, covering it with her other hand. “I am so sorry. Were you close?”
“Not as close as I should have been,” he replied, his tone tinged with bitterness.
Constance glanced at him in some surprise, wondering what he meant. But she could not pry into something so private. She merely squeezed his hand gently. He glanced at her and smiled, returning the pressure of her hand.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Voices carried across the cemetery, and they glanced toward the church. The other members of their party were wending their way through the gravestones. Muriel Rutherford, the long train of her riding habit looped up over her arm, was walking beside Mr. Willoughby, but she was looking all around the graveyard.
Constance had a fleeting impulse to duck behind the large mausoleum of the FitzAlan family so that Miss Rutherford would not see her, but she sternly suppressed the notion. She glanced up at Leighton and thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch in irritation. Or was she merely imputing to him what she herself felt?
“I suppose we cannot escape any longer,” he told her, releasing her hand.
They strolled back toward the others. Muriel saw them, and Constance was quite certain it was irritation, or worse, that she saw cross that woman’s features. Her hand firmly around Mr. Willoughby’s arm, Muriel stalked toward them.
“Leighton,” she said as they grew closer. “Whatever are you doing pottering about here in the graveyard?”
Her gaze swept over Constance dismissively. She released Mr. Willoughby’s arm and moved over to stand beside Lord Leighton, linking her hand possessively through his arm. “You must have been desperate to escape the rector’s lecture to have allowed yourself to be dragged out here to look at your ancestors. Deadly dull, I should say. But then, I suppose the graves of important families are interesting to others.”
She cast a look down her nose at Constance. Her implication was clear: Constance was a person of lesser stature who would be awed by families such as the FitzAlans, though Muriel, of course, would not, being of the same group as Leighton. Constance’s hand tightened around the grip of her parasol, and she was aware of a great urge to whack it over the other woman’s head.
“But my family is, of course, not important to you, Miss Rutherford?” Leighton asked, his eyebrows raised and his voice faintly ironic.
“What?” Muriel looked surprised, then color bloomed in her cheeks, and Constance was pleased to see that she looked rather disconcerted. “Well, no, of course, I did not mean that I…”
She trailed off, searching for some way to salvage what she had said. Constance regarded her silently, not eager to step in and help the woman out. But after a moment the silence became too strained, and Constance gave in to her better nature.
“No doubt Miss Rutherford knows you and your family too well to be curious about them, my lord,” Constance offered. “It is those of us who are strangers who want to learn more about them.”
Dominic cast Constance a dancing glance, murmuring, “Well put, Miss Woodley.”
Muriel, far from appearing grateful for Constance’s aid, glared at her. “I think it is time to return to Redfields, Dominic.”
“No doubt you are right,” Leighton said mildly and nodded to Constance and Mr. Willoughby, who had come up to stand beside her. “Miss Woodley. Willoughby.”
He started back toward the church, Muriel’s hand tight on his arm. Willoughby looked after them for a moment, then turned to Constance.
“Odd sort of woman,” he commented and smiled at Constance. “It was good of you to say what you did.”
Constance shrugged. “It was an awkward moment. Perhaps Miss Rutherford did not mean to be insulting.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “Indeed, her speech is so universally insulting that one must wonder if she does not understand what she says. She more or less told me that I would have to do as an escort through the graveyard, presumably because Lord Leighton and Lord Dunborough were already engaged.”
Constance chuckled. “Then I would say that it is you who are very good to have given her your arm.”
He smiled. “Well, you see, I was willing to settle for her, as well, as you were engaged, so it all worked out.” He offered her his arm. “May I escort you to your carriage?”
Constance took his arm, thinking that it was most unjust that putting her hand on Mr. Willoughby’s arm caused not a single flutter in her heart.
The ride back to Redfields was uneventful. Mr. Willoughby rode beside the carriage all the way, joined after a time by Margaret. Constance would not let herself watch Lord Leighton, but she was aware, nevertheless, that he spent the entire time at Miss Rutherford’s side.
When they reached the house, Constance went first to check on Francesca. She was sleeping, but Maisie told Constance that Lady Haughston was feeling no better. If anything, she was a little worse, having developed a fever during the day.
Constance offered to relieve Maisie for the evening. At first the maid protested, but Constance pointed out that the maid would need to eat and have a few hours’ unencumbered sleep if she intended to spend the night on a truckle bed in Lady Haughston’s room, as Maisie had told her she planned to do. Maisie gave in to her reasoning and allowed Constance to take over for a few hours.
It was easy enough work, requiring only that Constance sit beside the bed and periodically wring out a fresh cool cloth to put on Francesca’s hot forehead. Francesca woke once or twice, and another time Constance awakened her to give her a spoonful of the tonic that Maisie had left on the bedside table. Her fever was not great, so she was lucid, seeming more fretful and irritated that she was stuck in bed than anything else.
“You are good to sit with me,” Francesca croaked.
“Nonsense. I would not even be here if not for you,” Constance pointed out. “In any case, I am quite content not to spend an evening in company. I have been trapped in a carriage with my aunt for much of the afternoon, and I vow my ears a
re still sore.”
Francesca chuckled, then grimaced as her laughter turned into a cough. When she finally finished coughing, she said, “Why were you trapped with her in the carriage? Why did you not ride?”
“I did not have a riding habit. I did not think to acquire a new one, and I left my old one at home in Wyburn.”
“Oh, dear. I should have thought…” Francesca shook her head in regret. “Well, it does not matter. I shall have Maisie lower the hem of mine. When you are on a horse, it will not show if it is a trifle short.”
“Oh, no, you must not lend me yours.”
“Well, I shall not be using it,” Francesca pointed out, making a sweeping gesture across her bed. “It looks as though I shall be spending much of my time stuck here. And even when I can get out of bed, I doubt I should do much riding. No, you must have it. What is a party in the country if one is unable to ride?”
Constance gave in, knowing that Francesca was right. But she could not help but feel a niggling tendril of guilt. Would Francesca be so willing to lend her her riding habit if she knew that Constance’s main reason for accepting it was the fact that Lord Leighton had asked her to go riding with him?
She could not help but feel that she was deceiving her friend and benefactress by not telling her anything about her interactions with Lord Leighton. But, on the other hand, it seemed remarkably foolish and even presumptuous to tell her that the two of them had talked or that he had asked her to ride with him, as though she believed that Francesca’s brother had any serious interest in her. So she kept silent, reminding herself that nothing had happened between them, nor was anything likely to.
Constance spent most of the evening in Francesca’s chamber, eating her supper from a tray that one of the maids brought up to her. Late in the evening, Maisie bustled into the room, trailed by one of the footservants, who carried a low cot for Maisie to sleep on.
“There now, miss,” she told Constance, smiling. “I’m here, so you can get to bed. You’re ever so good to spell me.” She rounded the bed and leaned over Francesca, laying her palm on her forehead. “How has she been?”
“Sleeping, mostly,” Constance replied. “She was restless for a while, and then she woke up, but after a bit she went back to sleep.”
“Well, her fever seems no higher,” Maisie said. “That’s good. I hope you don’t catch it, miss. My lady would be fussed about that something proper.”
“I don’t imagine I shall,” Constance assured her. “I am invariably healthy. So tell Lady Haughston not to worry on that regard.”
Promising to look in on Francesca again the next morning, Constance returned to her own room. Once again, she found it difficult to settle down to sleep. She kept thinking of the afternoon and the walk she had shared with Dominic—when, she wondered, had she fallen into the way of thinking of him by his first name?
And why did even thinking about him leave her feeling so odd and aching inside, as if some part of her were not complete? How could she feel excited and scared and yearning all at the same time?
She had only to remember his smile to be suddenly giddy. And when she thought of his hand upon her arm, his long masculine fingers curling around her flesh, warm and strong, she felt again the same surge of heat and hunger that had swept through her then.
Lord Leighton was not for her; she knew that. She should be sober and realistic and put all thoughts of him out of her head right now. But she could not. All she could think of was seeing him again tomorrow.
CHAPTER NINE
AFTER BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning, Constance stopped by Francesca’s room again. She learned that Francesca’s fever had passed in the night and she was feeling better, though sleeping. Maisie obviously had everything well in hand, and Constance could find no reason to stay.
She made her way downstairs, somewhat at sixes and sevens. The men, she had heard at the breakfast table, had gone out early to hunt, and there appeared to be no other particular entertainment scheduled for today. She felt a trifle out of place without Francesca there, as if she were somehow there under false pretenses. She considered going to the library and finding a book to wile away her time in her room, but that seemed unsociable, perhaps even rude.
In the end she strolled along the central hallway downstairs until she came to a small sitting room, somewhat more casual than the music room or the large drawing room. Several women were seated inside, including her aunt and Lady Selbrooke, as well as Lady Rutherford and the two Norton sisters, who looked less lively this morning. Constance was not sure whether their silence and heavy lids were the result of overtaxing themselves the day before or merely boredom with the company.
She hesitated at the doorway, thinking of turning back, but the Nortons looked up and saw her.
“Miss Woodley!”
“Do come in and sit with us.”
One of the girls stood up and hurried over to her, taking Constance’s arm as though she feared she might get away and guiding her over to the sofa upon which the sisters sat. Given their enthusiastic greeting, Constance decided that it was the older women’s company that had made the sisters sluggish.
“Did you enjoy the trip to St. Edmund’s?” Elinor Norton asked.
“Yes, it was quite interesting,” Constance replied.
Before she could go on, her aunt jumped in, exclaiming, “Of course she enjoyed it. How could she not? It was most educational. I vow, my own two girls could talk of nothing else yesterday evening. It is such a lovely church, Lady Selbrooke,” she told her hostess, as if St. Edmund’s was some sort of personal achievement of her ladyship.
She continued to run on at length about the many delights of the church. Next to Constance, Lydia and Elinor Norton moved restlessly in their seats, and Constance could see Lady Rutherford exchange a look of irritation with Lady Selbrooke. Constance felt her own cheeks burn with embarrassment for her aunt, but it was clear that Aunt Blanche felt none at all, clearly unaware of her audience’s reaction.
Trying to save her aunt from herself, Constance reentered the conversation as soon as her aunt paused to draw breath, and asked Elinor what she and her sister planned to do that afternoon.
“We had thought we might go for a walk in the garden,” Elinor told her, perking up a little.
“We heard it is quite lovely,” Lydia joined in. “Would you care to join us?”
“What a splendid idea,” Aunt Blanche chimed in. “You young people should explore the gardens. No doubt my own two would love to go, as well. I took a small stroll myself about them this morning, and it was most delightful.”
Her aunt continued on the wonders of the garden at some length. Constance tried another time or two to stem the flow of her aunt’s words and bring someone else into the conversation, but each time Aunt Blanche almost immediately turned the talk back to herself. It seemed to Constance that her aunt must have some perverse desire to irritate everyone around her.
At last Lady Selbrooke rose, which did cause Aunt Blanche’s river of words to pause for a moment.
“I am sorry, but I hope you will excuse me,” Lady Selbrooke said, offering them a tight smile. “I must speak to the housekeeper about the menu for tonight.” With a nod to them all, she left the room.
“Such a distinguished lady,” Aunt Blanche commented. “A wonderful woman.”
“Yes, poor woman, she has had to bear a great deal,” Lady Rutherford agreed.
“Indeed?” Aunt Blanche turned to look at the other woman, her eyes bright with interest.
Lady Rutherford, Constance reflected, had found the best way to quiet her aunt: offer the possibility of gossip.
“There has been a great deal of tragedy in her life,” Lady Rutherford went on. “Her youngest child died ten or twelve years ago. She was only sixteen. Then the eldest son, the heir, Terence, was thrown by his horse and broke his neck, only two years past. She was devastated, of course. Lord Selbrooke, as well. Terence was the apple of their eye. Such a handsome man. If he had lived, it would
have been he, of course, whom Muriel—” She stopped and shook her head. “But that is neither here nor there. The fact is that he died, and Dominic became the heir.”
Lady Rutherford sighed. She looked around at the other people in the room, and it seemed to Constance that her gaze pointedly lingered when it reached her.
“I fear Lord Leighton has been something of a disappointment to them,” she went on.
She paused, and Constance suspected that she was waiting for someone to ask why he had been a disappointment. Constance determinedly said nothing; she was not about to encourage this woman to gossip about Dominic.
Unfortunately, her aunt could always be relied upon to encourage anyone to gossip. “In what way?” she inquired.
“Of course, one could hardly expect him to equal Terence. Terence was head and shoulders above most men—an excellent rider, a sportsman and handsome as a Greek god. He did well at whatever he undertook.”
“He sounds like a paragon,” Constance commented dryly, the other woman’s excessive praise making her feel a certain perverse dislike of the man.
“Yes, he was,” Lady Rutherford agreed earnestly. “Dominic could not hope to measure up. Still, one would have hoped for better from him. Gambling, drinking, fisticuffs—Leighton is given to all sorts of vices in London. It is said that he is a rake.” Again she turned to look levelly at Constance. “He woos girls whom he would not consider marrying, making them believe that his intentions are serious, but of course they are not, and the girls are then abandoned.”
Constance curled her fingers into her palms, the nails biting into her flesh. Lady Rutherford’s words, she knew, were directed at her, a warning of what Lord Leighton would do to her, for she would naturally, be one of those young women whom Lady Rutherford had labeled as the sort Lord Leighton would never consider marrying. She refused to show any reaction to Muriel’s mother, neither the anger nor the disbelief she felt. She refused to accept the portrait that Lady Rutherford had painted of Dominic. It was all spite on her part, Constance was certain.
