told you he can
fire a bullet through an ace at sixty paces—”
“Not in polite society,” Marcus interjected.
“—and that he’s never lost a curricle race,” Lucinda
said triumphantly.
“Most impressive,” Constance murmured.
She fooled no one.
Lucinda set her teacup down with a rattle. “It seems
none of the things our society holds dear matter to you,”
she said with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
In a different conversation, Marcus would have
laughed to see her so confused.
“Would it be too vulgar of me to mention Spenford’s
fortune?” Lucinda asked.
“Yes!” Marcus snapped.
“But, Marcus, Jonathan says no one manages
financial affairs as well as you. His skill has made all
the difference to the family fortunes,” she told
Constance. “One more reason why he’s deemed such a
catch.”
“I don’t calculate the worth of my husband in pounds
and guineas,” Constance said apologetically.
Marcus felt as if he’d stumbled into a back-to-front
world, sense turned to nonsense. He had lived half his
years as heir and then Earl of Spenford. Lived them
right, and well, and properly. And now his wife was
attempting to shred the very fabric of those years?
“Ah, my dear, I begin to understand.” Lucinda
recovered her self-possession and shifted to the edge of
her seat, eyes gleaming in a way that Marcus knew
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meant she’d just sniffed out a new piece of gossip and
was about to pounce. “You chose to marry my cousin—
but not for his looks, his manner, his sporting prowess
or his fortune. Which can only mean—”
“Which can only mean you’ve badgered my wife
more than enough,” Marcus forestalled her.
“You’re right, Lucinda,” Constance said. “I married
my husband for his kindness.” What?
Constance’s chin—every bit as pointy as it had been
yesterday—went up in the air, as if she was ready to
defend her own. The way she’d defended her father to
Marcus yesterday. She gave him a reassuring smile,
which only worried him. From what, exactly, did she
plan on defending him?
“To be sure, a man who is kind to his mama will also
be kind to his wife,” Lucinda agreed knowledgeably,
giving Marcus a twinge of guilt that he didn’t
appreciate. “But that can’t be—”
“I don’t mean his kindness to the dowager countess,”
Constance said. “Though that’s admirable.”
“You actually admire me for something?” Marcus
asked drily.
“I’m referring to an incident in Piper’s Mead—the
village where I grew up—some three years ago,”
Constance said.
Lucinda leaned forward eagerly. Marcus had no idea
what Constance was about to say. Instinct told him to
be wary, but short of clamping a hand over his wife’s
mouth, he couldn’t stop her.
“I was walking to the village to buy thread when I
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
encountered a group of youths who were—” Constance
swallowed “—abusing a puppy. They were kicking it as
if it were a—a ball.”
Lucinda gave a squeal of revulsion.
“This is hardly fodder for polite conversation,”
Marcus said. He recalled the event, but hadn’t
recognized Constance as the young woman he’d found
sitting in the roadway, the pathetic animal cradled in her
lap.
“I dispatched the boys without much bother,”
Constance said. Marcus found himself wondering how
she had achieved that. “But the puppy was near dead.”
Lucinda moaned.
Marcus half expected to have to ring for smelling
salts; this story wasn’t fit for the drawing room.
Constance would do better to extol his legendary
largesse toward his tenants at Christmas. Generosity on
an earlworthy scale.
“Spenford came along in his curricle,” Constance
said.
“I took up the dog and had my groom look after it,”
Marcus said quickly. “Anyone would have helped that
wretched animal.”
He remembered now that the girl—Constance—had
bitten her lip fiercely, saying in the shakiest of voices
that she didn’t dare cry, or the dog might feel its pain
more keenly.
Which made no more sense now than it did then. Nor
did it make sense that she had taken his assistance so
much to heart that she still remembered it with such
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clarity.
“Many men would have decided the creature was
beyond help and would have put it out of its misery,”
Constance countered with surprising firmness.
“Better indeed to have ended its suffering.” Lucinda
cast Marcus a reproachful look.
Marcus couldn’t remember why he hadn’t.
“I was surprised he didn’t,” Constance admitted.
“This was no treasured pet, Mrs. Quayle—Lucinda—
escaped from Palfont or another estate. This was a
mongrel of distinctly unattractive appearance and surly
manner. But Lord Spenford used his handkerchief to
clean the blood from its body—” Marcus was oddly
reminded of handing her his handkerchief in the coach
yesterday and her refusal to accept it “—and gave it
water from his own flask.”
Lucinda shuddered. Marcus shrugged apologetically.
“He took the puppy home and gave it to his stable-lad
to look after.”
“Kind indeed,” said his cousin.
“And there ends the tale,” he said heartily.
“Not quite,” Constance contradicted him. What a
surprise. “Your mother’s stable-lad is the son of our
gardener. I learned from John that the puppy didn’t at
first fare well. That unless you personally