The Marriage Wager. Candace Camp

      Constance hesitated for a moment, then took a breath. “Yes. Yes, I want to have a real Season.”

      Francesca grinned. “Wonderful. Then let us begin.”

      CONSTANCE SPENT THE REST of the day in what was, for her, an absolute orgy of shopping. To Constance’s surprise, Lady Haughston turned out to be quite skillful at shopping for bargains. It took only her smile and a few words to her favorite modiste to have the woman quickly lowering her price on the dresses in which Constance was most interested. Mlle du Plessis also brought out a ball gown that had been ordered but never picked up or paid for, and which she was willing to sell to Constance for only a fraction of its original price.

      When Constance quietly commented with surprise on the modiste’s willingness to discount her goods, Francesca merely smiled and replied, “Mademoiselle’s well aware of how much good it does her to have her wares shown on an excellent figure. It makes those less fortunately endowed believe that if they wear Mademoiselle’s dresses, they will look as tall and willowy in them as you do. Besides, she values my patronage. Now…this shawl. It is lovely, is it not? And look at this little flaw. I am sure Mademoiselle will reduce the price for that.”

      Even at the discounted prices, the things that she bought at Mlle Du Plessis’s put a serious dent in Constance’s savings, so they moved on to less expensive means of supplementing her wardrobe. Their next stop was Grafton House, where they purchased laces, ribbons, buttons and such to enliven the dresses Constance already owned, as well as several 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.”