The Marriage Wager by Candace Camp

years, she thought. Since her father’s death, in fact.
    While she could not accuse her aunt and uncle of cruelty or mistreatment, there was no love for her in their house; she was less a loved member of the family than a sort of high-class servant. Nor did she, frankly, enjoy their company. Her happiness came from small things—a walk in the spring, a visit with a friend in the village or an hour spent alone reading. It did not spark and fizzle as it did tonight, making her want to bubble over with laughter. She had not realized until now just how gray her world had become. She would, she thought, always be grateful to Francesca for this feeling, and she knew that, whatever happened, she had been right to join in Francesca’s scheme.
    The only thing that marred her happiness was a moment when she glanced to the side and found a woman staring at her with an intense look of dislike. Startled, Constance stared back at her for a moment. The woman was tall and dark-haired, with very light blue eyes. Constance took her to be a few years younger than herself, and she would have been attractive if it had not been for the cold, disdainful expression on her face. She stood beside an older woman who looked so much an older version of her that Constance assumed they must be mother and daughter. The mother, as much as the daughter, was gazing at Constance with a venomous look.
    Constance turned away, shocked and uncertain. She was sure that she did not know either woman. Indeed, she did not think she had ever even seen them before, though she supposed she might have come across them at some other party and not remembered them. But she could not imagine why the two would have taken such a dislike to her.
    She turned to ask Francesca who they were, but Francesca was chatting with a young man, whom she promptly introduced to Constance. By the time he left, the women Constance had seen were no longer standing there. With a mental shrug, she dismissed the thought of them and took the floor with her next dance partner.
     
    F RANCESCA SPENT MOST OF the evening watching Constance like a proud mother. She had asked Sir Lucien to dance with Constance, as Constance had suspected, but she was pleased to hear him say, after the dance was over, that her protégé was both pretty and charming.
    “What are you about with this girl, anyway?” he went on, looking at Francesca shrewdly. “I know she is not one of those chits whose parents ask you to establish them. From what I have heard, she is a poor relation of that dreadful Woodley woman.”
    “Why, Lucien, you wound me,” Francesca teased him. “Do you think me entirely mercenary?”
    “My dear girl, I know you are not. You could have had your pick of a wealthy husband any time these last five years, and you have not snapped one up. But I cannot understand why you came to choose this girl. She is long past the age of coming out. I believe she is a veritable ape-leader.”
    “She is younger than I, so let us not talk of age, sir. But if you must know, it is because of Rochford.”
    “Rochford!” Lucien looked surprised. “What has he to do with it?”
    “He challenged me.”
    “Ah.” Lucien smiled faintly. “You could not, of course, fail to take up the glove with him.”
    She cast him a dampening look. “A sapphire bracelet rides on my success, and I should rather like to have it.”
    “I see.” He paused, then went on. “And what have you committed yourself to do?”
    “Find Constance a husband this Season.”
    “Ah, a mere trifle, then.” He made an airy gesture. “She has no fortune. Her relations are clearly not an advantage. And she is older than most of the marriageable girls by five years, wouldn’t you say? That should be wonderfully easy, no doubt. And what does it matter that almost a month of the Season has already passed? I feel no doubt you will be able to pluck out an earl from somewhere…or, at the very least, a baron.”
    “I did not say it had to be a