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. He was handsome and titled and no doubt wealthy, as well. If she remembered correctly what her aunt had said about Lady Haughston’s background, their father was an earl, and as viscount was typically a title given to the heir to the earldom, then he would someday possess the greater title of earl. For that title alone, he would have been sought after. To have good looks and charm, as well, must make him hunted like hounds after a hare.
It was all the more impossible, of course, that she should have any chance with him. Even if Francesca were right in her optimistic assumption that Constance could find a husband this Season, she knew that her patroness doubtless aimed lower than a title for her. And Lord Leighton’s kiss, however wonderful she had found it, was not anything on which Constance would be foolish enough to build her hopes. It had meant nothing to him, she was sure. At best it had shown that he was attracted to her; at worst that he simply was in the habit of kissing any young woman he caught alone. It did not mean that he had any serious interest in her; indeed, in all likelihood, it meant precisely the opposite. A gentleman, after all, did not make improper advances to a woman whom he would consider marrying. He made them to women he would not marry, but only dally with.
Of course, she had no intention of dallying with him. But a little light flirtation…now that was a different matter.
Constance
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. He was handsome and titled and no doubt wealthy, as well. If she remembered correctly what her aunt had said about Lady Haughston’s background, their father was an earl, and as viscount was typically a title given to the heir to the earldom, then he would someday possess the greater title of earl. For that title alone, he would have been sought after. To have good looks and charm, as well, must make him hunted like hounds after a hare.
It was all the more impossible, of course, that she should have any chance with him. Even if Francesca were right in her optimistic assumption that Constance could find a husband this Season, she knew that her patroness doubtless aimed lower than a title for her. And Lord Leighton’s kiss, however wonderful she had found it, was not anything on which Constance would be foolish enough to build her hopes. It had meant nothing to him, she was sure. At best it had shown that he was attracted to her; at worst that he simply was in the habit of kissing any young woman he caught alone. It did not mean that he had any serious interest in her; indeed, in all likelihood, it meant precisely the opposite. A gentleman, after all, did not make improper advances to a woman whom he would consider marrying. He made them to women he would not marry, but only dally with.
Of course, she had no intention of dallying with him. But a little light flirtation…now that was a different matter.
Constance
Similar Books
