The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,13
for
the occasional help of one of her sisters, for as long as
she could remember. But she wouldn’t argue. Papa
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
always said one should understand something before
one sought to change it.
Did the same rule apply to husbands?
As Miriam unhooked her dress, Constance surveyed
the room. The rose brocade canopy over the high bed
matched the elegant curtains at the window. In addition
to the dressing table with its padded stool, there was a
French-style writing desk with matching chair. The
carpet was woven in a floral pattern of faded reds and
greens. Even in the candlelight, it was clear everything
was of the finest quality.
“I took the liberty of arranging your clothing in the
press, my lady,” Miriam said.
That wouldn’t have taken long.
“And I have laid out your nightdress,” the maid
continued.
Constance glanced involuntarily toward the bed. The
one new item in her trunk had been this nightdress of
finest lawn, sewn by her mother and sisters over the
past few days.
“Madame Louvier will visit tomorrow morning,” the
girl continued. Correctly interpreting Constance’s
murmur as one of ignorance, she added, “Madame is
the best modiste in London.”
Constance would ordinarily be delighted at the
thought of new dresses. But her immediate thought was
that Amanda would be even more delighted, and the
recollection of her sister brought a welling of sharp
anger. She clenched her hands into fists.
“My lady?” Miriam held up the nightdress.
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“I—yes—” she shook her fingers loose “—thank
you.”
When she was attired for bed, Miriam brushed out her
hair.
“My lady has thick hair,” she approved.
“The color is unremarkable,” Constance pointed out.
She was pleased the maid didn’t lie to flatter her,
merely contented herself with, “The sheen is attractive.”
Certainly under Miriam’s vigorous brushing it did
have more sheen than usual. In her beautiful new
nightdress, her hair smooth and gleaming, Constance
felt more a bride than she had during the wedding
ceremony. This is my wedding night.
“If you need me, my lady, you have only to ring.”
Miriam indicated the bellpull.
“The, er, the earl’s chamber?” Constance asked, as
she climbed onto the bed.
“Through there.” Miriam indicated a doorway to
Constance’s left. “Good night, my lady.”
Constance lay in bed, blankets pulled up to her chin,
observing the shadows that flickered on the wall.
Her wedding night. She’d thought of this moment in
the past few days…what bride wouldn’t? Curiosity,
anticipation and—thanks to her mother’s scrambled
words on the subject of wifely duty—some trepidation
had mingled within her.
When her husband came to her, she would be a wife
in deed as well as in name.
Would he come to her tonight? He had been angry.
With good reason.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
She didn’t want him to come to her in anger.
But they had struck a moment of accord during
dinner, and he’d assured his mother he intended to be
happy. If his anger had cooled, if he wanted to further
his intimacy with the woman he had married…
He had thought he was marrying Amanda.
But he didn’t love Amanda, Constance was certain.
So although he might have wished for a prettier wife, he
had no sentimental attachment to her sister.
If he came, he would forge a bond intended by God to
unite man and wife.
Probably, he would not come.
But perhaps he would.
If Amanda was to be believed—she knew far more
about it than any young lady ought—even the highest-
ranked gentlemen looked forward to their wedding
night with eagerness.
Could the intimacy God had designed overcome
anger?
Of course it could.
Constance pinched her cheeks in the hope of bringing
some color.
It had been probably thirty minutes since she left
Marcus. He must by now be in his own room. She
listened, but heard nothing through the thick walls. She
wondered if he’d had a new nightshirt made for the
occasion, and stifled a giggle.
Would he come?
He’d said there would be no annulment. He was
punctilious in the performance of his duties, or so
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everyone said, and this was indeed a duty.
Constance arranged her hair about her shoulders. A
nice sheen, Miriam had said. Maybe she should light
another candle, to allow the sheen to be displayed.
Vanity, she chided herself. What must God think of
her?
Oh, dear, she hadn’t prayed tonight.
Constance slipped out of bed and onto her knees.
With this deep carpet, a far more comfortable
experience than at home. She prayed quickly, one eye
cracked open to watch the door from her husband’s
chamber, and finished with a request for God’s
forgiveness of her haste.
She felt better when she was back in bed. More
peaceful.
The candle sputtered, causing a moment’s alarm, then
it strengthened again. Real wax, not tallow, as they used
at home whenever there was no company. The smell
was far more pleasant.
Smell. Her mother had given Constance a small pot
of precious perfume. Surely a bridegroom would prefer
a fragrant bride on his wedding night?
If he were to come.
She slipped