The Marriage Wager (3 of 3 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
The Marriage Wager by Candace Camp. Copyright 2007 by Candace Camp.
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CHAPTER ONE (CONT'D)

Francesca turned to study the Duke's face. She wondered why he had brought up the subject. Could it be that there were rumors about her matchmaking efforts? Over the past few years, she had come to the aid of more than one parent struggling to get his or her daughter into a successful marriage. There had always been a gift of gratitude from the mother or father, of course, after Francesca had taken the daughter under her wing and guided her through the tricky shoals of Society's waters and into the arms of the proper husband. But such gifts had always been dealt with most discreetly by both parties, and Francesca did not know how word could have leaked out that a certain silver epergne or pigeon's-blood ruby ring had found its way to the pawnbroker's shop.

Rochford returned her gaze, and Francesca saw the spark of curiosity begin in his eye. She said quickly, "No doubt you find such a skill quite negligible."

"No, indeed. I have met too many formidable mothers bent on making their daughter a duchess to discount matchmaking efforts."

"It is appalling, really," Francesca went on, "how many of those mothers go about the matter in precisely the wrong way. Not just Lady Cuttersleigh. Look at those girls."

She nodded toward a group below them, standing beside a potted palm. A middle-aged woman, dressed all in purple, stood beside two young women, both clearly her daughters, given the unfortunate similarities of their features.

"Invariably, women who haven't the faintest idea how to dress well themselves insist on choosing their daughters' clothes," Francesca commented. "Look how she has them in lavender, a more girlish shade of the color she wears, and any shade of purple is disastrous with their skin, only making it look more sallow. Moreover, they are dressed far too fussily--all one can see are the ruffles and bows and the explosion of lace. And see how she talks and talks, never letting either of the girls get a word in."

"Yes, I see," Rochford responded. "But surely this is an extreme example. I cannot imagine that there would be much hope for them even without their overbearing mama."

Francesca made a disparaging noise. "I could do it."

"Come now, my dear.... " Amusement danced in his dark eyes.

Francesca raised one eyebrow. "You doubt me?"

"I bow to your expert knowledge," he said, a faint smile hovering about his mouth. "But even you could not bring out some girls successfully."

His laughing tone raised Francesca's hackles. Without pausing to consider, she said, "I could. I could take any girl down there and get her engaged by the end of the Season."

He controlled a smile in a decidedly annoying way and said lightly, "Care to place a wager on that?"

It occurred to Francesca that she was being foolish, but she could not retreat before his gallingly mocking tone. "Yes, I would."

"Any girl in this crowd?" he posited.

"Any girl."

"And you will take her under your wing and get her engaged--an acceptable engagement--by the end of the Season?"

"Yes." Francesca gazed back at him coolly. She had never been one to back down before a challenge. "And you may choose the girl."

"But what shall we bet? Let me see... if I win, you must agree to accompany my sister and me when we pay our yearly visit to our great aunt."

"Lady Odelia?" Francesca asked with some horror.

His eyes twinkled as he replied, "Why, yes. Lady Odelia is quite fond of you, you know."

"Yes, as a hawk is fond of a fat rabbit!" Francesca retorted. "However, I shall agree because I know that I will not lose the bet. But what will I get when you lose?"

He looked at her consideringly a moment before saying, "Why, I think a bracelet of sapphires the color of your eyes. You are, I believe, fond of sapphires."

Francesca's gaze locked with his for a moment. Then she turned away, saying blandly, "Yes, I am. That will do nicely."

Her hand tightened a little on her fan. She lifted her chin and gestured toward the partygoers. "Well, which girl will you choose?"

She expected him to take one or the other of the unattractive young women they had been discussing. "The one with the large bow in her hair, or the one with the dispirited-looking feather?"

"Neither," he replied, surprising her, nodding toward a tall, slender woman in a simple gray dress who stood behind the two girls. It was clear from the plainness of her dress and hairstyle that she was there in the capacity of chaperone, not as a debutante. "I choose that one."

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