The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,23
earliest convenience.”
With another bow, he left the room.
Left Constance alone. Again.
She sank down onto the little stool at the dressing
table and picked up in the small, ivory-framed mirror.
She faced herself in the glass. Faced the truth, not some
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
fantasy about warm eyes and shiny hair and a kind heart
making Constance Somerton the treasure of the Earl of
Spenford.
She had married a man she believed had chosen her
above others. When that proved untrue, she’d clung to
her “knowledge” that he was a kind man, a praying
man, and the hope that those qualities could be the
foundation of a loving marriage.
He claimed to have been made a fool of. Truth was,
she was the fool.
Shame welled within her, shame that she’d been so
naive. That she’d judged him a fine man on so little
acquaintance. That she’d walked without question into
the kind of marriage that was not what God could
want—most certainly not what she wanted.
She would be overlooked once again, and it was her
own fault.
The girl in the mirror mouthed a protest.
No more.
Her vehemence, the tremor of anger that shook the
hand holding the mirror, surprised her. Constance
thought for a moment. Then she spoke aloud, a new
vow, and watched her reflected mouth form the words.
“He will not send me away. I will not go.”
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Chapter Eight
It was all very well to decide she wouldn’t go to
Chalmers. Conveying that decision to her husband was
another matter.
For almost the next two weeks, Constance didn’t see
Marcus. He was always busy in his study, or out riding
in Hyde Park, or some such thing. She didn’t want to
draw attention to his neglect by communicating through
the servants, and he took care to avoid chance
encounters. In the evenings, he went out in society,
leaving behind a wife who owned six beautiful evening
gowns but had yet to wear any of them.
Her new morning and afternoon dresses were wasted,
too, because although she’d received several notes from
society ladies welcoming her to London and expressing
a desire to make her acquaintance, no one had called to
see her. Protocol dictated she couldn’t make calls until
she’d been called on. Since she doubted every lady in
the ton entirely lacked manners, she had to assume
Marcus was in some way responsible for her being
more or less ignored. Possibly he’d said she was busy
nursing his mother.
She had attempted to call on Lucinda, at her mother-
in-law’s suggestion, only to discover Lucinda laid low
by the influenza. A mild case, the butler had informed
her, but Mrs. Quayle was not up to receiving visitors for
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
some days. Constance had left a note of condolence.
The next step was Lucinda’s.
Now it was nine o’clock on Thursday evening.
Constance had dined early with the dowager, had reread
her mother’s latest letter and written a reply, and was
now sewing in the smaller of the two drawing rooms,
with Miriam for company. Mr. Bird had at last given his
approval for Helen to travel, and tomorrow, they were
to leave for Chalmers—their trunks were packed.
Unless Constance dug her heels in, she would be gone
from here before nine in the morning. She contemplated
the prospect of a last-moment standoff with her husband
in front of Dallow and her mother-in-law, and wasn’t
certain she could carry it through.
She set down her stitching—a new embroidery of a
Bible verse, to grace her new bedroom—with a sigh.
“My lady?” Miriam looked up from her repairs to a
stocking. “Is there anything you need?”
A loving husband. “Nothing at all,” Constance
assured her.
“I hope you will like Chalmers,” Miriam said
tentatively. “’Tis a place close to his lordship’s heart.”
Constance had given up disordering her pillows after
a few days, so she had no doubt the servants speculated
about her marriage. She set down her needle. “Did you
see much of Lord Spenford when he was younger,
Miriam?”
The maid lifted her stitching to the light and
appraised it critically. “Not exactly, my lady. He and
Mr. Harper were friends—”
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“He and Harper? His valet?” Constance couldn’t
imagine it.
Miriam nodded. “Mr. Harper’s father is the head
gamekeeper at Chalmers. Mr. Harper’s just a year
younger than his lordship, so as lads they used to go out
shooting and fishing together.”
“You must have been just a child,” Constance
suggested.
“I particularly remember Lord Spenford from when I
was around ten, my lady, so he would have been
fourteen.”
“What was he like?” Constance asked.
“To be honest, my lady—” Miriam poked her needle
into the stocking and set it down “—I mainly had eyes
for Tom—that’s Mr. Harper. Quite besotted, I was. But
I will say his lordship was kind. He’d always give me a
fish to take home, and he’d gut it first, which there was
no call for him to do. My mother’s a washerwoman.
She does the