yards of cambric and muslin from which, Francesca assured her, a talented seamstress whom she knew could whip up several quite respectable and attractive day dresses. There were, as well, gloves and dancing slippers to be bought, and they also made a stop at a fan shop, where they spent a good many minutes admiring a variety of fans before Constance reluctantly decided that the prices were too dear, and she would simply have to make do with the ivory-handled fan she already owned. Last, but certainly not least in importance, there were hair ornaments to be purchased, not to mention adornments such as silk flowers or a cluster of wooden cherries with which to brighten a plain, inexpensive bonnet.
By the time they finished late in the afternoon, Constance was exhausted but almost giddy with excitement. She could hardly wait to get home and go through all her purchases again.
“I feel positively decadent,” she told Francesca, smiling, as they left the shop and started toward their carriage. “I have never splurged so.”
“You should do it more often,” Francesca counseled, grinning. “I find that splurging is a wonderful restorative for the soul. I make sure to do it frequently.”
The coachman took Constance’s most recent purchase from her and stowed it up on the seat where he rode, for they had already filled up the rack behind the coach and had even taken up a good portion of the space inside the barouche. Francesca took his proffered hand and started up the step into the carriage when a masculine voice rang out behind them.
“Francesca!”
Lady Haughston paused in midstep and turned toward the voice. Her face lit up, and she smiled in welcome. “Dominic!”
“Francesca, my dear. Buying out Oxford Street again?”
Constance turned to the man who was walking toward them, sweeping off his hat and reaching out to take Francesca’s hand. He smiled down warmly at Lady Haughston, affection evident in his handsome face.
Constance stared, surprised. He loves her, she thought, aware of a sinking feeling of regret.
“Apparently it is the only way I can see you,” Francesca laughed. “Since you never call on me. You are the rudest man alive.”
He chuckled. “I am incorrigible, I know. I detest paying calls.”
“There is someone I want you meet,” Francesca told him, turning toward Constance.
The man followed her gaze, and his eyes widened when they fell on Constance. “Miss Woodley!”
“Lord Leighton.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“YOU KNOW EACH other?” Francesca asked, astonished.
“We met last night,” Constance told her, hoping that she sounded more natural than she felt. It was absurd that her spirits should be so lowered by the fact that Viscount Leighton and Lady Haughston were clearly close. It was not as if she had actually thought she had any chance of attracting him. Anyway, he was clearly something of a rake, going about stealing kisses from young ladies whom he scarcely knew.
“Miss Woodley is too modest,” Leighton said, his blue eyes alight with amusement. “She saved my life last night at Lady Welcombe’s rout.”
“Hardly that,” Constance murmured.
“Ah, but you did,” he insisted, turning toward Francesca and explaining. “Lady Taffington was in hot pursuit of me last night, and Miss Woodley was so kind as to throw her off the scent.”
Francesca chuckled. “Then I am doubly your friend, Constance. I fear my brother is often in need of such aid. He is entirely too softhearted and cannot bear to be rude. You should take lessons from Rochford, Dom. He is an expert at damping pretensions.”
Constance scarcely heard Lord Leighton’s reply to Lady Haughston’s jest. The Viscount was Francesca’s brother! She told herself that it was absurd to be swept with relief upon learning of their relation. It could make no difference to her that the familiarity and affection between Lord Leighton and Francesca came from family ties, not a romantic understanding.
“Come with us,” Francesca urged her brother. “We are done with our shopping, so you needn’t worry about being dragged into any stores.”
“In that case, I will accept your kind offer,” Leighton answered, extending his hand to help his sister up into the coach.
He then turned to Constance, offering her the same assistance. She slid her hand into his, very aware of his touch, even though their flesh was separated by both his gloves and hers. She glanced up into his face as she stepped up into the carriage. She could not help but remember that moment in the library when he had kissed her, and something in his eyes told Constance that he was thinking of it, too.
Heat rose in her cheeks, and she glanced away from him, quickly getting in and sitting down beside Francesca. Leighton climbed in and dropped into the seat across from them, laughingly shoving aside the profusion of boxes.
“I can see that you have had a successful afternoon,” he told them. “I trust that not all of these belong to you, Francesca.”
“No, indeed. Miss Woodley made a good accounting for herself, as well. We intend to dazzle everyone at Lady Simmington’s ball tomorrow evening.”
“I am sure that both of you will do that in any case,” Leighton responded gallantly.
Constance was painfully aware of how plain she must look beside Francesca’s elegant loveliness. She wished that she had put on her newly purchased bonnet for the remainder of their shopping trip and relegated her old hat to the box. At least then, however dull her dress might be, her face would have been becomingly framed, the blue satin lining complementing her skin and eyes.
“Are you attending Lady Simmington’s ball?” Francesca went on. “You should escort us. Constance is to come to my house tomorrow to prepare for it, and then we shall go together.”
“That would be a pleasant duty indeed,” Leighton responded easily. “I would be honored to escort you.”
“We shall guard you from matchmaking mamas,” Francesca teased.
Leighton answered her back in the same light vein, and their banter continued as the carriage made its slow way through the streets of London. Constance contributed little to the conversation. She knew few of the people of whom they spoke, and she was, in any case, quite content to watch and listen.
She had thought that perhaps she had remembered the viscount as handsomer than he actually was, that, in thinking about him, she had made his eyes a deeper blue or added a brightness to his hair or infused his smile with more charm. But, looking at him now, she thought that she had, if anything, imagined him less handsome than the reality.
He was not one who needed the soft glow of candlelight. Here in the bright light of daytime, his jawline was sharp and clean, his eyes an arrestingly dark blue, his hair glinting under the touch of the sun. Tall and broad-shouldered, he filled the barouche with his masculine presence. Constance was very aware of his knee only inches from hers, of his arm resting on the seat of the barouche, of the way the sun slanted across his face and neck.
It was not, she thought, surprising if matchmaking mothers—and daughters—were in pursuit of him.
