offered his
food he wouldn’t eat.”
“A stubborn creature,” Marcus said impatiently.
Constance turned to Lucinda. “So the earl took the
puppy into his care, nursing it back to health.”
“I had no idea you were so tenderhearted Marcus,”
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his cousin said, astonished.
“Harper did most of the work,” he muttered, not
entirely truthfully. Harper had claimed the dog made
him sneeze.
“Where is the animal now?” Lucinda glanced around
as if she expected it to dash out from behind the
curtains.
He lifted one shoulder. “When it was recovered I sent
it to Chalmers. I was relieved to be rid of it.” He heard
the hint of defiance in his own voice. His father would
have been appalled at the amount of time he’d devoted
to a dog so unsuited to either a useful occupation like
hunting, or the privileged life of a pampered pet.
“That’s the most romantic story I ever heard,”
Lucinda said.
Marcus rolled his eyes.
“Romantic?” Constance queried.
“Quite obviously, Constance—” Lucinda paused for
dramatic effect “—you fell in love with our
tenderhearted earl.”
No! Exactly what Marcus had entered this room to
prevent: ridiculous conjecture about this being a love
match. Now Lucinda would consider she had full
justification to spread the story his countess was
besotted with him. And he with her.
“Not at all,” he said lightly. “Constance fell in love
with the puppy. Isn’t that right, er, my dear?”
He waited for Constance to agree.
Instead, he heard a choked gurgle. Turning, he found
her face fiery red, an unflattering scarlet that bore no
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84
resemblance to the pink-tinged blush extolled by the
poets. Her brown eyes were tortured as she stared at
him in a mute appeal—distressed, but hopeful—that
reminded him very much of that puppy.
Comprehension dawned. And with it, horror.
Lucinda was right. His wife had married him for love.
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Chapter Seven
Why had Marcus reacted so oddly to a story that
showed him in a positive light, Constance wondered as
she lay awake early on Sunday. She was accustomed to
early rising on this, the busiest day in her family’s
week. Bligh had not yet arrived with her cup of
chocolate, an indulgence Constance was keen to enjoy
again.
Marcus had bundled his cousin out of the house
yesterday with a haste that would have been rude with a
less intimate acquaintance. He’d informed Constance he
would dine at his club, speaking with a rigid self-
control she didn’t understand. A footman had confided
the earl was unlikely to return before the small hours of
the morning.
“Very odd,” Constance said aloud to herself.
Unfortunately, she didn’t fool herself. She could no
longer avoid the suspicion lurking in the back of her
mind. That Marcus’s ill humor was the result of
Lucinda’s suggestion that Constance was in love with
him.
If only Constance had managed to come up with a
lighthearted riposte that would have treated Lucinda’s
comment as an amusing joke. But the horror in
Marcus’s face had filled her with humiliation and she
hadn’t been able to say a word.
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Instead, she rather feared her eyes had done the
talking…and that they’d betrayed her.
It’s not such a terrible thing, is it, for me to love my
husband? Awkward for me, perhaps, when my feelings
aren’t returned, but why should it anger him?
Besides, he might think she loved him, but he
couldn’t possibly know it. And since he had such a big
opinion of his own worth already, it was probably best
if he didn’t.
Constance abandoned any immediate plans to “show
Marcus another way” to live. She would channel her
energies into acting as if Lucinda had never said such a
thing, as if the embarrassingly desperate look Constance
had given him had been about something else entirely.
That would be more than enough of a challenge.
She adjusted her pillow so the morning sunshine
streaming through the double sash window didn’t
directly hit her eyes. Once again, it was clear she had
slept alone. Yesterday had been excusable, after their
long journey. But today…
Would it be very proud of her to hide the fact of her
husband’s lack of interest?
Before she could think too hard, Constance moved to
the other side of the bed and snuggled into the pillows
there. She squirmed about, then decided to stay where
she was, since the sun did not blind her in this position.
When Miriam arrived a few minutes later, both sides
of the bed looked well-used.
“Good morning, my lady.” The tiniest flicker of the
maid’s eyes took in the rumpled bedding.
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Constance was glad she’d made the effort. Marcus
should be equally glad—he would hate to be the subject
of gossip below stairs.
“Have you found out where his lordship worships?”
Constance had charged her maid with that task last
night.
“It seems his lordship’s church attendance is
irregular. The dowager normally attends St. George’s
on Hanover Square, but in her illness she has a curate
visit to