of my
family.”
A breeze lifted the hair her maid had arranged to curl
at her neck. “Surely that’s not enough,” she said. “I
presume you wish for an heir.”
“I—that is—of course I do,” he sputtered.
“Eventually.”
“I, too, wish to have children. Soon.” She blushed
furiously, but lifted her chin anyway. “I married you in
good faith. You ought to come to my bedchamber.”
Rigid with shock, Marcus couldn’t even glance
around to see if anyone had overheard.
“That’s not all,” she said. “I want a man, a husband,
who will love me as he promised to at our wedding.”
He recoiled, drawing the attention of old Colonel
Barnett over by the balustrade, enjoying the company of
the Duchess of Havant. Marcus’s kind of people, who
knew how the dance of London life should be played
out.
Marcus focused on Constance, his wife, who had
absolutely no idea how to live her position. “You’re
mad if you think I will be that man,” he said bitterly.
“You will leave tomorrow.”
And as for the—the bedchamber business, he would
decide when that should happen.
She said nothing. Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight.
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“I am accustomed, madam, to getting what I want,”
he warned.
“I, sir, am not,” she admitted.
It should have been a concession of defeat.
But it sounded very much as if the parson’s daughter
had just declared war on the pride of Spenford.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Chapter Nine
At quarter past seven the next morning, Miriam
stopped in the doorway of the servants’ dining room,
just off the kitchen.
I can’t avoid the man forever. She forced herself to
keep moving forward. “Good morning, Cook, Miss
Powell. Good morning, Mr. Harper.”
Cook set down her teacup and returned the greeting,
as did Miss Powell. Tom Harper looked up from his
plate. He grunted.
“Did you say, ‘Good morning, Miss Bligh?’” Miriam
asked, as always unable to let him get away with his
high-handedness.
Predictably, he scowled. It was all he ever did around
her. Just as well, Miriam reminded herself, considering
that Tom Harper’s smile had been known to have a bad
effect on the strength of her knees.
Far better that he should be a grunting, surly giant,
with not so much as a polite word to say in the
mornings.
Miriam helped herself to some of the ham Cook had
set out for the servants’ breakfast. The maids and
footmen were still busy with their early-morning duties,
but now was a brief chance for the more senior servants
to eat before their employers woke, needing attention
and food. Mr. Dallow arrived in the kitchen, sparking a
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round of greetings. Tom was perfectly civil to the
butler, Miriam noticed.
She sat on the same side of the table as Tom, at the
end unofficially reserved for female staff, across from
Miss Powell. This way she wouldn’t have to look
directly at him. Not that he was still any kind of
distraction.
Miss Powell pushed her chair back from the table.
“Time I went to lay out my lady’s dress. You said the
coach would be brought around at nine o’clock, Mr.
Dallow?”
“Did you not see the note I slipped under your door,
Miss Powell?” Dallow said. “Their ladyships won’t be
traveling to Chalmers, after all.”
“Her ladyship was restless, so I slept on the truckle
bed in her dressing room,” the older maid said.
“They’re not going? You’re certain?”
“His lordship didn’t say anything,” Tom objected.
“I left you a note, too.” Dallow tut-tutted at this
wholesale ignoring of his written missives.
Cook stood up as she gulped the last of her tea. “Are
you saying I’m to cook for the whole family today, Mr.
Dallow?” she asked, neatly converting her curiosity into
an inquiry about her work.
“That’s right,” Dallow said.
“Did his lordship require his mother to stay here?”
Tom said, confused.
“My lady doesn’t wish to leave London,” Miriam
explained. “It was her decision.” She realized
immediately that in her attempt to show off her
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
knowledge to Tom, she’d over-stepped propriety. A
good lady’s maid didn’t share her mistress’s rebellion
with other servants.
Harper’s frown deepened. Which Miriam would have
said wasn’t possible.
On her way out the door, the cook tsk-tsked. “It’s not
my place to comment on Lady Spenford’s behavior,”
she began.
“Indeed it is not,” Mr. Dallow said frostily.
“But any Christian knows a wife must obey her
husband,” she called over her shoulder.
The nodding of heads around the table supported her
assertion. Mr. Dallow couldn’t argue with so plain a
truth—he had to satisfy himself with a quelling look.
Miriam couldn’t argue, not in her heart. She’d been as
shocked as anyone at her mistress’s outright
disobedience.
“No one knows what goes on between a man and his
wife,” she ventured in the countess’s defense.
“Will your mistress be nursing the dowager
countess?” Miss Powell asked.
“I believe she’ll be going out and about more,”
Miriam said, more hopeful than certain.
“If that’s so, you’ll need to do a better job of dressing
her,”