The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,10
Constance was innocent
in the matter, as he would surely realize. Sooner or
later.
Through the coach window, she eyed his square-set
shoulders. He was doubtless thinking on it right now.
He was not an unreasonable man.
He is a proud man.
Her mother’s warning came back to her.
Who was Constance to accuse him of excessive pride,
when her own pride was smarting? Nor could she
condemn his anger, when she was furious with her
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sister.
They reached a particularly rough patch of road, and
Constance braced herself in her corner. It was obvious
that due to the dowager countess’s precarious health
they were traveling as fast as possible, and no coach
could be so comfortable as to remove all discomfort.
By the time they stopped at an inn outside Esher to
change horses and to dine, Constance felt as if she
might throw up.
The innkeeper’s welcome was hampered by his heavy
head cold and accompanying cough, but he ushered
them into his best parlor, where the earl asked what she
desired to eat.
“Just a little bread,” she said. “Thank you.”
His mouth compressed, but she wasn’t about to
explain the combination of exhaustion and nausea that
precluded anything more substantial. At least he no
longer radiated hostility…although that could be for the
benefit of the landlord. She took it as a good sign that
he ordered a hearty meal, even though he looked as
tired as she felt.
“How much longer is the journey?” she asked, to
break the silence left in the wake of the innkeeper’s
departure.
“Less than two hours. Mama will be trying to stay
awake in the hope of seeing me. Us.”
His mother. The reason for their wedding. The reason
he was mistakenly wed to Constance.
“She will be pleased?” Constance asked tentatively.
His lips flattened. “Yes.”
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“My lord—” She broke off. “What should I call
you?”
“Most people call me Spenford,” he said. “My mother
and my cousin Lucinda call me Marcus.”
Not much help. She’d heard that ton couples didn’t
necessarily address their spouses by their Christian
name.
“You may call me Constance if you wish,” she
prompted.
He looked baffled.
She pressed on. “It’s not my fault, sir, that you
married the wrong wife.”
“So you claim.”
She ignored that aspersion on her honesty. “My father
says—”
“Is your father to be quoted in our every
conversation?” he asked.
Her cheeks warmed. “He is the wisest man I know.”
“Nevertheless, I don’t wish to hear his views.”
She clenched her jaw. “Here is my view, then,” she
said. “You’re angry, I understand that. I’m angry, too.”
His chin jerked back. “You are angry! What have I
done—”
“At my sister,” she snapped. “I’m so angry with
Amanda I could—I could slap her.” She realized her
voice had risen, her chest was heaving. And her
husband was eyeing her quizzically.
“You don’t look the slapping sort,” he said,
surprisingly mild. “Have you ever slapped anyone
before?”
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“Er, no,” she admitted. “But if Amanda were here
right now I would do it.” Her sister had wisely not
shown her face at the wedding breakfast.
He raised one eyebrow, which even in her ire she
could see was a handsome trick. “I don’t believe you,”
he taunted.
She puffed out an irritated breath, ready to defend her
violent tendencies…and suddenly deflated. He was
right. “I don’t suppose you would ever hit a woman?”
she asked morosely.
“Of course not!”
She sighed. “There’s not much point wishing
Amanda here then, is there.”
One side of his mouth twitched in what might almost
have been a smile, except there was nothing to smile
about. “I certainly don’t wish she were here,” he said.
For an instant, there was something like camaraderie
between them.
Then the landlord entered with their food. He and the
maid began to set out dishes. As she sat in the chair the
man held out for her, Constance noticed his nose was
reddened from his illness. The maid seemed similarly
afflicted, making heroic efforts to avoid sniffling.
“You are not well, either of you,” Constance said
with concern. “The earl and I can serve ourselves.
Please don’t worry.”
The maid dropped a relieved curtsy, but Marcus said,
“Your carving skills will be appreciated, landlord.”
Both man and maid stayed several minutes to serve
the meal.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Constance had been biting her tongue, but the
moment they left, she said, “That was unnecessary.
They were both clearly in need of rest.”
“So am I,” he said. “So are you. They should do the
job they are paid to do.” He cut into his rib of beef. “I
thought Parsons’ daughters were supposed to be the
forgiving type.”
It took her a moment to realize he was referring to
Amanda again.
“Parsons’ daughters aren’t perfect,” Constance said.
He nodded his acceptance of her flaw. But he was
right; she would need to forgive Amanda—the little
wretch had even asked it of her in that note. I will
forgive her. One day.
She nibbled on her bread…and realized her husband
had set down