in the air—if it hadn’t been
impossible from her inferior height, he would have said
she was looking down on him.
“My plague of headaches has vanished as if it never
existed,” she said. Her voice was gentle, but held an
edge that gave him cause for alarm. Who knew what
she might blurt out next?
Marcus tugged her in his direction. “You are just in
time to dance the waltz with me. After that, I’ll
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introduce you to our friends.”
Perhaps she’d wanted to attend one London party
before she left for Chalmers. Moving with a
determination that cleared a path, he led her toward the
dancers. Finding a space in the crowd, he turned to face
Constance, and set his left hand at the curve of her
waist. The ease with which he found that curve through
the fabric of her dress unsettled him. Her shiver
reminded him it was the most intimate touch they’d
shared…and it was in the middle of a crowded
ballroom.
“I’m not very familiar with the waltz,” she whispered
urgently. “I’ve only danced it with my sisters, and have
always taken the man’s part.”
“Which explains why your hand is at my waist,” he
said, relieved to pinpoint the cause of his feeling off
balance. Quickly, she lifted her hand to his shoulder. “I
will keep you on course.”
Marcus swept her into the opening steps. For the
benefit of their audience, he curved his lips as he gazed
down at her.
She stumbled. “What are you doing?”
“I’m smiling at you.” He steadied her.
“It gives you the appearance of toothache,” she said.
He loosened his jaw, but kept the smile. “I find it
strange that you regularly question my manners, but
appear to have none yourself. How dare you come
here—”
She forced a public smile of her own—if his looked
anything like hers, no wonder she’d found it alarming.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“No, sir,” she hissed through bared teeth, “how dare
you? ”
He faltered, then recovered. “Do you accuse me of
something, madam?” he asked pleasantly, aware his
tone, if not his words, would be picked up by others.
“How dare you make a vow in front of God to be my
husband, then plan to send me away?”
They waltzed past Lady Jersey, the woman whose
good opinion would influence the rest of society. Her
eyebrows were raised in a way Marcus did not consider
positive.
Constance noticed, and lowered her voice—he
supposed he should be thankful for small mercies. “The
Bible says marriage makes two people one flesh. We
cannot be one if we’re living in different parts of the
country.”
“That is irrelevant. You will leave for Chalmers in the
morning,” he said smoothly.
“I can’t do something I believe is against God’s
design for our marriage. Before I left the house tonight,
I informed Dallow and your mother’s maid there has
been a change of plans.”
Marcus felt his jaw drop. He snapped it shut. “You
promised to obey me,” he reminded her harshly, the
ability to feign delight in her company deserting him.
He almost didn’t care. “I’m telling you—I’m ordering
you—to go to Chalmers.”
“My first obedience is to God,” she said. “So unless
you want the indignity of physically carrying me and
forcing me kicking and screaming into your carriage…”
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Her words conjured the image; he shuddered. Surely
she didn’t mean her threat? His eyes narrowed as he
assessed her countenance. The eyes were soft and
warm, the nose unremarkable, the lips—he skimmed
quickly over them—pliant. Nothing to suggest such
outrageous rebellion.
But then, there was that chin.
“There is no purpose in you staying,” he said as he
swept her into a turn. She seemed to think he owed her
explanations, and he could reason as well as anyone. “I
want a wife who appreciates the honor and consequence
of being the Countess of Spenford. Who’ll assume the
position with dignity and pride. Not someone who
values an innkeeper’s health over my needs, a puppy
over an earldom.”
“You’re too proud,” she agreed, as she smiled a
greeting at Lucinda, whirling past in her husband’s
arms.
He came to a sudden, complete stop. Momentum
carried Constance forward to crash into his chest. The
momentary brush of her softness against him, before
she drew back, contrasted so starkly with her direct
words, he was peculiarly dazed.
“What did you say?” he demanded.
The spark in her eyes suggested that not only had he
heard right, but she was willing to repeat her
accusation. Marcus relinquished his dance hold, and
grasped her elbow to steer her toward the balcony,
where doors stood open to admit the evening air. He
helped her over the threshold.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“Let us avoid any confusion,” he commanded, as
soon as they were clear of the ballroom. “You’ve made
it clear you won’t be the kind of countess I want. I will
therefore settle for a countess who stays out of my way
and does nothing to damage the reputation