The Marriage Wager

by Candace Camp

  He kissed the bud gently, and pleasure shot through her, exploding in white-hot heat in her loins. She let out a moan of surprised pleasure, and she felt his soft, smugly masculine chuckle against her tender flesh. She might have resented the sound had it not been for the fact that it was followed an instant later by the hot, wet touch of his tongue, circling her nipple and curling over it, and she arched up in response, her whole body tightening.

  Her hands dug into his hair. Just when she thought that she could feel nothing more intensely pleasurable than his tongue, he opened his mouth and closed it around her nipple, pulling the bud into the hot, damp cave of his mouth. Constance trembled at the sensations that shot through her. With each pull of his mouth, he seemed to pluck a chord that went deep into her loins. Each stroke of his tongue excited an even greater hunger, a deeper satisfaction.

  His hand moved slowly down her front, caressing her through the material of her dress. His fingers flexed, then relaxed, bunching the muslin. She could feel him against her, taut as a bowstring, his muscles tight and hard, as though he could barely hold himself in check.

  He murmured her name, his breath trailing over her breast, made moist by his mouth, and her skin prickled in response, something tightening between her legs and increasing the ache there. Dominic rubbed his face gently against the soft, swelling mounds of flesh, then lightly kissed his way across them. His lips were like velvet upon her sensitized skin, and she waited, her entire body anticipating the moment when he took the other nipple into his mouth and worked his magic on it. She tensed, breathless, whimpering a little as he paused to circle his tongue around the areola, then blew softly upon it.

  He was arousing her past bearing, she thought, and she moved instinctively, her hips rocking against him, her back arching up, offering her soft white flesh to him. Dominic groaned in response to her movements, and his mouth clamped around her nipple, hot and wet, suckling her.

  At the same moment, his hand slid down between her legs, firm and insistent, seeking out the hot center of her desire. Constance jerked, startled, and her legs closed tightly around him as though to deny him access. But his fingers moved rhythmically, stroking her through the cloth, teasing and testing, and her legs moved apart, mutely inviting his touch.

  She lay in his arm, limp and dazed with desire, feeling open and exposed to him in a way that had little to do with actual bareness, for, except for her breasts, her body was shielded from his gaze by her dress. It was as if, layer by careful layer, he had stripped from her the familiar conventions, the modesty that had always shielded her, the cool surface of virtue and calm, exposing the heat that lay beneath, the sultry inner core of her self, throbbing with passion and heat. She pulsed, she ached, she yearned for the feel of his skin upon hers, for the heat and hunger of his mouth, and for a hundred other things that she did not know, did not understand enough to name.

  She knew, somehow, that she wanted to be taken, that she longed to feel him as intimately as possible, that she wanted to be filled by him. She ached in some deep, primal way to belong to Dominic wholly, and the fact that her mind was rather hazy as to the details of that belonging in no way kept her from wanting it.

  “Dominic…” His name was a sigh in her mouth. “Please…”

  Her words shook him, and he lifted his head.

  “Dominic?” Her eyes flew open, and she looked up at him.

  Dominic’s face was taut and suffused with desire, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark. He clenched his jaw, his struggle for control stamped plain upon his features.

  “Sweet Lord.” He let out a long, shaky breath and closed his eyes. “I must not. We cannot…”

  Constance lay motionless for a moment, still too caught up in the roiling mix of desire and confusion to even move. Suddenly it struck her where she was and what she was doing. A faint breeze stirred the air, caressing her breasts. Heat flooded her face, and she sat up, hastily tugging her dress up over her bare breasts.

  “I—I must go,” she said, her voice shaky and suddenly close to tears. What had she been doing? What must Dominic think of her?

  “Wait.” His voice was low and harsh, and he reached out and grasped her shoulders, turning her around so that she had to face him.

  “I want you,” he said hoarsely, his eyes fixed intently on hers. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything. But I cannot…I will not hurt you.”

  Constance did not trust herself to speak. She nodded and backed up a step, then whirled and hurried away from him. She walked quickly back toward the house, her hands going to her hair to smooth any loose strands into place and re-pin them, then hastily brushing at the front of her dress. She prayed that she would not meet anyone as she went; for however much she might put herself back in order, she feared that her face would reveal exactly what she had been doing.

  Once inside the house, she whipped up the narrow back stairs that were normally used only by the servants. Relieved that she ran into none of the maids coming down the stairs, she hastened along the corridor and into her room. There she locked the door behind her and collapsed into the chair.

  For a long moment she simply sat, letting the trembling of her limbs ease and her mind calm down. Finally she stood and walked to the mirror. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks pink with color, and her lips were dark and full, almost bruised-looking. She looked, she thought, exactly as she had feared, as though she had been thoroughly kissed. She also glowed, she realized, and she was lovelier than she had ever seen herself.

  Clearly, she thought, wantonness agreed with her. She shook her head and turned away, going back to the chair.

  All her life she had been warned about the sins of the flesh. Until today, she now realized, she had not known what those who warned her had been talking about.

  She wanted to give herself to Dominic. Indeed, the fact that she had not done so had been entirely due to his restraint, not hers. She had been consumed by desire; it had whirled through her like a roaring blaze. She thought again of the sensations that had run through her body, the flames that had curled in her loins, hot and eager, and she flushed all over again with the remembered heat.

  It had never occurred to her that such a sensual, passionate nature resided in her. She had hurt, she had loved, but never had she felt the earth-shattering hunger that had poured through her today, the driving, willful desire that wanted to cast aside all else. It astonished her. It was, in fact, rather shocking.

  But, she was honest enough to admit, it delighted her, as well. Perhaps it meant she was a lower creature than a lady should be, not refined or virtuous enough. But she thrilled to the passion humming through her veins. She would not want to give up this feeling. She wanted, quite frankly, to feel even more. She wanted Dominic to take her in his arms, to take her to his bed. She wanted to learn everything there could be between a man and a woman. And she wanted to learn it at Dominic’s hands.

  What would happen, she wondered, if she went to him tonight? If she gave herself to him? Would he pull her to him and kiss her until the world fell away, and the only thing that was real was their mutual delight? Or would he restrain himself again, unwilling to let her sacrifice her good name?

  For that, she knew, was the only course open to her if she lay in Dominic’s arms. The future Earl of Selbrooke could not offer her the protection of his name. Even though she believed him when he said that he would not marry Muriel Rutherford, she understood now that he had to marry someone of wealth. It was his duty to his name, to his family. He could not let their ancient estate fall into ruin. As the head of the family, he must do whatever was necessary to maintain the FitzAlans’ position. Dominic was not the sort to shirk his duty. He would do what had to be done, she knew, and that meant marrying to advantage.

  Marrying her would be ruinous. Indeed, she knew that she had no reason to think that he would even wish to marry her. There had been no words of love between them, only the hot, speechless swirl of desire. He wanted her; she had little doubt of
that. But he did not love her; he could not let himself love her.

  She must be clearheaded, Constance told herself. She wanted him. But was it enough to have his passion, knowing that she would never have his love or his name? Was she willing to risk everything for desire?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE CENTERPIECE OF THE FitzAlans’ house party was the ball two nights later. Constance wore her loveliest gown, a confection of pale pink satin covered by a robe of white lace, opening on the side and looped back to expose the underskirt. The square-necked bodice was decorated in front with a stomacher of pink satin sewn with tiny pearls. Her hair was swept up, only to tumble down in a profusion of smooth dark brown curls, with pink satin roses and ribbons twined through them.

  Looking at her own image in her mirror, Constance was sure that the money she had spent on this gown was well worth it. She smiled to herself, thinking of the look on Dominic’s face when he saw her.

  She and Dominic had behaved circumspectly since that afternoon in the garden. Though they had not avoided one another, neither had they been alone together. They had talked, but only in gatherings of several people, and he had been careful not to touch her in any way, even to take her hand in greeting or to offer her his arm to stroll down the hall.

  He seemed determined not to compromise her, and she, unsure of her own feelings, made no effort to entice him into anything more. But whenever Leighton was in the same room with her, she was constantly aware of his presence, even if she did not look at him. When she did look up, her gaze unerringly went to him, often to find him watching her. Before long, he would work his way around to her side, pausing to engage her in conversation, even if only for a few moments. As they talked, his eyes would gaze into hers, and the air between them sizzled with tension.

  Constance suspected that it was wrong of her to want to see his eyes leap with desire tonight when he saw her in this gown. But she could not bring herself to wear something else.

  She swept down the hallway to Francesca’s room, where she found Maisie putting the finishing touches to her mistress’s toilette. Today was the first day that Francesca had spent out of bed, except for a nap in the middle of the afternoon, and she was still not feeling herself. However, she was past the worst of her illness, and she refused to miss the ball.

  Francesca smiled as Constance entered the room. “Don’t you look lovely tonight?”

  “Not as lovely as you,” Constance replied candidly.

  She thought it would be rather difficult for anyone to outshine Francesca, who was a vision in black satin and tulle, with jet beading decorating both the bodice and the overskirt of her dress. The sleeves were long and sheer, her elegant white arms all the more enticing for their shadowy covering. Her blond hair was pulled up into a knot at the crown of her head, a riot of curls spilling out and a spray of jet beads ornamenting the smooth sweep of her hair on one side, vivid against the pale shade. The final touch was a choker of jet beads around her slender neck, highlighting its delicacy and whiteness.

  Francesca smiled. “’Tis kind of you to say so, but I fear that you do not realize your own beauty. Come, let us go downstairs and dazzle everyone.”

  She linked her arm through Constance’s, and they went down the stairs to the large ballroom at the back of the house. It, like the conservatory beside it, led onto the terrace, and tonight its doors and long windows were opened wide to let in the cool night breeze.

  Decorated in white and gold, its walls heightened the glow of the three crystal chandeliers that hung in a row down the center of the room. Crystal drops also hung from the sconces that lined the walls. Musicians played at the far end of the room on a small stage, discreetly hidden from view by green plants. Roses stood massed in vases around the room, casting their sweet scent upon the air.

  Constance drew a long breath and released it, thinking how very lovely a scene it was. It seemed to her the most beautiful of balls she had attended, though she could not quite put her finger on what made it so perfect. Perhaps, she thought, the beauty of it lay in the excitement and eagerness that filled her chest.

  They made a circuit of the room, pausing to talk to everyone. There were more people here tonight than the guests who had been staying here all week, for many local people had been invited, as well as several who had come only for the ball and would be departing the following day.

  Near one of the doors that led out onto the terrace, they came upon the Duke of Rochford, looking as severely elegant and formidable as ever. A young woman stood beside him, and though her face was animated where his seemed set in stone, there was a similarity in coloring and in features to mark her as a relation.

  It did not surprise Constance when, after bowing slightly to her and Francesca in greeting, the duke said, “Miss Woodley, pray allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Calandra.”

  “My lady, it is an honor to meet you,” Constance told the girl, who smiled brilliantly, her dark eyes sparkling.

  “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” Calandra replied, reaching out to take Constance’s hand. “I have been looking forward to the evening with great anticipation. I have spent the last month in Bath with Grand-mama, and it is deadly dull there. I was thrilled when Sinclair told me of the ball.”

  Unlike her brother, Lady Calandra was not tall, but her hair was the same striking black, and her eyes equally dark. Her features were straight and well-formed and would likely have been termed elegant but for the vivacity that stamped them and the long, charming dimple that lay in one cheek.

  She chatted with Francesca and Constance with a happy lack of self-consciousness and an openness that seemed at great odds with the Duke’s formal manner. She was, clearly, much younger than Rochford, but she appeared not to be in awe of him, a fact that struck Constance with surprise, for she found Rochford to be an imposing figure.

  “You must come to visit me,” Calandra told Constance earnestly. “Rochford is not returning to London until next week, and I shall be all alone in that house until then—well, except for Rochford, of course, but he is poor company when we are in the country, always talking to the steward and looking at the books.” She glanced over Constance’s shoulder and smiled sunnily. “Leighton! How good to see you!”

  Constance’s stomach fluttered at the sound of Dominic’s name, and she turned to greet him, careful not to seem eager. “Lord Leighton.”

  “Lady Calandra. Rochford. Francesca,” Dominic greeted the others and turned to Constance. “Miss Woodley.”

  The look in his eyes was everything Constance had hoped it would be. A blush rose in her cheeks, and she cast her eyes down, in the way a girl was modestly supposed to do…although in her case, Constance knew that she did it more to hide the answering heat in her own eyes than to act in a proper manner.

  “I hope you will do me the honor of the next dance, Miss Woodley,” Dominic went on.

  Constance knew that it would have been more appropriate for him to have asked the Duke’s sister, as Lady Calandra was of much higher rank, as well as being a new guest, but Constance was very glad that he had not. It would have been painful to watch Dominic walk off with the beautiful, wealthy and well-connected Calandra, who would obviously be an excellent match for him.

  Constance murmured her assent and took the arm he offered to lead her onto the floor. The three people they had left behind watched them take the floor and begin to dance.

  After a moment, Rochford said in a faintly mocking tone, “Dear, dear, Lady Haughston, do you think it is sporting to win your bet in such a manner?”

  The two women turned to him, puzzled.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Francesca asked.

  “Your bet, dear lady, to find our Miss Woodley a husband before the end of the Season. It hardly seems fair to have made a match for her with your own brother.”

  Francesca went still, staring at him. “What?”

  “What are you talking about, Sinclair?” his sister asked. “What bet?”

  “
He’s talking about nothing,” Francesca told her quickly, color blooming in her cheeks. “We have a silly little bet, that is all.”

  “To make a match for Miss Woodley?” Calandra asked, looking interested. “But how nice!” She turned to stare across the ballroom at the couple in question. “They look very good together.”

  “No,” Francesca protested. “Rochford, you are wrong. I have made no match between Constance and Dominic.”

  The Duke raised a quizzical eyebrow at her, and then, without a word, nodded toward the couple in question.

  Irritation and alarm rising in her, Francesca followed his gaze to where Constance and Dominic were going through the intricate steps of a country dance. Even when they separated, their eyes went only to each other, and when they rejoined, palms up and placed together, to circle first one way and then the other, they seemed to form a perfect set, entirely apart from and oblivious to everyone else in the room.

  Francesca sucked in a quick breath as the truth hit her. “Oh, no…” The words issued on a soft little moan. “Oh, dear God, what have I done?”

  CONSTANCE WAS UNAWARE OF the glow that marked her face or the way Dominic’s eyes never left hers. She knew only that she was blissfully happy. She could have no future with Dominic, but that did not matter tonight. She wanted to have this moment, this perfect memory to cherish forever. She could be sensible tomorrow and the next day and all the days after that. Later she would tell herself all the reasons she could not fall in love with him, all the sorrow that would follow if she did.

  But right now she would have the pleasure of looking at him, moving with him, laying her palm flush against his as they circled, their bodies close enough together that she felt the heat of his flesh, smelled the scent of his skin.