The Marriage Wager. Candace Camp

could not keep from smiling back. He was a handsome man, his looks enhanced by his smile and easy manner. He was a little taller than average, topping Constance by several inches, and slender, with a wiry body that hinted at hidden strength. He was dressed well but not meticulously in a formal black suit and white shirt, his ascot tied in a simple but fashionable style, with none of the fusses and frills of a dandy. His eyes were a deep blue, the color of a lake in summer, and his mouth was wide and mobile, accented by a deep dimple on one side. When he smiled, as he did now, his eyes lit up merrily, beckoning everyone around him to join in his good humor. His hair, dark blond sunkissed with lighter streaks, was worn a trifle longer than was fashionable and tousled in a way that owed more to carelessness than to his valet’s art.

      He was, Constance thought, someone whom it was difficult to dislike, and she suspected that he was well aware of his effect, especially upon women. The unaccustomed visceral tug of attraction she felt inside was proof of his power, she thought, and firmly exercised control over the jangling of nerves in her stomach. She had to be immune to flirtatious smiles and handsome men, for she was not, after all, marriage material, and any other option was unthinkable.

      “Viscount Leighton, I presume?” she said lightly.

      “Alas, I am, for my sins,” he responded, and swept her a very creditable bow. “And your name, my lady?”

      “It is merely miss,” she answered. “And it would be highly improper, I think, to give it to a stranger.”

      “Ah, but not as highly improper as being alone with said stranger, as you are now,” he countered. “But once you tell me your name, we will no longer be strangers, and then all is perfectly respectable.”

      She let out a little laugh at his reasoning. “I am Miss Woodley, my lord. Miss Constance Woodley.”

      “Miss Constance Woodley,” he repeated, moving closer and saying confidentially, “now you must offer me your hand.”

      “Indeed? Must I?” Constance’s eyes danced. She could not remember when she had last engaged in light flirtation with any man, and she found it quite invigorating.

      “Oh, yes.” He made a grave face. “For if you do not, how am I to bow over it?”

      “But you have already made a perfectly proper bow,” she pointed out.

      “Yes, but not while I was so lucky as to be in possession of your hand,” he replied.

      Constance extended her hand, saying, “You are a very persistent sort of fellow.”

      He took her hand in his and bowed over it, holding it a bit longer than was proper. When he released it, he smiled at her, and Constance felt the warmth of his smile all the way down to her toes.

      “Now we are friends, so all is proper.”

      “Friends? We are but acquaintances, surely,” Constance replied.

      “Ah, but you have saved me from Lady Taffington. That makes you very much my friend.”

      “Then, as a friend, I feel I am free to inquire as to why you are hiding in the library from Lady Taffington. She did not seem fearsome enough to send a grown man into popping behind doors.”

      “Then you do not know Lady Taffington. She is that most terrifying of all creatures, a marriage-minded mama.”

      “Then you must take care not to run into my aunt,” Constance retorted.

      He chuckled. “They are everywhere, I fear. The prospect of a future earldom is more than most can resist.”

      “Some would think it is not so bad to be so eagerly desired.”

      He shrugged. “Perhaps…if the pursuit had aught to do with me rather than my title.”

      Constance suspected that Lord Leighton was sought after for far more than his title. He was, after all, devastatingly handsome and quite charming, as well. However, she could scarcely be so bold as to say so.

      As she hesitated, he went on, “And for whom is your aunt hunting husbands?” His eyes flickered down to her ringless wedding finger and back up. “Not you, surely. I would think that it would be an easy task if that were the case.”

      “No. Not me. I am well past that age by now.” She smiled a little to soften the words. “I am here only to help Aunt Blanche chaperone her daughters. They are making their come-out.”

      He quirked one eyebrow. “You? A chaperone?” He smiled. “You will forgive me, I hope, if I say that sounds absurd. You are far too lovely to be a chaperone. I fear your aunt will find that her daughters’ suitors call to see you instead.”

      “You, sir, are a flatterer.” Constance glanced toward the door. “I must go.”

      “You will abandon me? Come, do not leave just yet. I am sure your cousins will survive a bit longer without your chaperonage.”

      In truth, Constance had little desire to leave. It was far more entertaining to exchange light banter with the handsome viscount than it would be to stand with her cousins watching others talk and flirt. However, she feared that if she stayed away too long, her aunt would come looking for her. And the last thing she wanted was for Aunt Blanche to find her closeted here with a strange man. Even more than that, she had no desire for her aunt to meet Lord Leighton and become another of the pack of mothers who hounded him.

      “No doubt. But I am neglecting my duty.” She held out her hand to him. “Goodbye, my lord.”

      “Miss Woodley.” He took her hand in his, smiling down at her. “You have brightened up my evening considerably.”

      Constance smiled back, unaware of how her enjoyment had put a sparkle in her eye and a flush in her cheeks. Even the severity of her gown and hairstyle could not mask her attractiveness.

      He did not release her hand immediately, but stood, looking down into her face. Then, much to Constance’s surprise, he bent and kissed her.

      Startled, she froze. The kiss was so unexpected that she did not pull away, and after a moment she found that she had no desire to do so. His lips were light and soft on hers, a mere brushing of his mouth against hers, but the touch sent a tingle all through her. She thought he would pull away, but to her further surprise, Leighton did not. Instead, his kiss deepened, his lips sinking into hers and gently, inexorably, opening her lips to him. Her hands went up instinctively to his chest. She should, she knew, thrust him away from her with great indignation.

      But without any conscious thought, her hands instead curled into the lapels of his jacket, holding on against the swarm of sensations assaulting her. His hand went to her waist, wrapping around her and pulling her into him, and the other hand cupped the nape of her neck, holding her as his mouth worked its way with her.

      Frankly, Constance was glad for his steadying support, for her knees seemed about to give way. Her entire body, in fact, suddenly was weak and melting and seemingly beyond her control. She had never felt anything like this before, not even when she was nineteen and in love with Gareth Hamilton. Gareth had kissed her when he asked her to marry him, and she had thought nothing could be as sweet. It had made things even harder when she had to turn him down in order to nurse her father through his last illness. But Lord Leighton’s embrace was not sweet at all; it was hard and demanding, and his kiss seared her. And though she scarcely knew the man, her body was trembling and her thoughts scattered to the winds.

      He lifted his head, and for a long moment they stared at each other, more shaken than either cared to admit. Leighton drew a breath and stepped back, releasing Constance. She gazed at him, eyes wide, unable to speak. Then she turned and hurried from the room.

      THERE WAS NO ONE IN THE hallway outside the library, for which Constance was very grateful. She could not imagine how she must look. If it was anything like the way she felt inside, then she was sure that anyone who saw her would stare. Her heart was galloping in her chest, and her nerves were thrumming.

      There was a mirror on the wall halfway down the