The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,29
she was
conscious of her odd figure, all angles and sharpness
where a woman should have curves and softness. His
jaw firmed, as if he saw nothing to please him. “Why
don’t you just admit you can’t do this job, give the
countess a chance at making something of her looks
with a real lady’s maid, and go home?”
He might as well have punched her in the ribs, she
felt such a shaft of pain. “This is my home now, Tom
Harper, as much as yours,” she said, anger
strengthening her voice. “You telling me I’m no good
doesn’t make it true. It just makes you the kind of man
my father was.”
It was the worst insult she could think of, and anyone
acquainted with the Bligh family knew it.
Tom’s face turned a deep, brick-red.
“That might have been an exaggeration,” she
muttered.
Too late—Tom had stalked from the room,
surprisingly light on his feet for such a big man.
Miriam smacked her forehead with her hand. Why
had she gone and said that? Few men were as bad as her
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father, who’d taken every penny Miriam’s mother ever
earned, doling only the occasional farthing back to her.
He’d been more than generous with his insults—
“You’re worthless” being his favorite—with a
backhand across the cheek if the mood took him. Which
it regularly did. The day he’d run off with the baker’s
wife had been Miriam’s happiest moment.
To compare Tom to him…she’d just mortally
offended the one person in this house who might offer
some useful advice for her work.
And she liked to think she was clever!
CONSTANCE LAY ABED for some time after she
woke, in no hurry to descend to breakfast. Savoring her
victory. She had defied Marcus, and had won!
“Are my trunks still unpacked, Bligh?” she asked, on
a sudden spurt of fear that Marcus might have devised a
way to get her into that coach.
“Of course, my lady.” Finished with brushing down a
morning dress of rose-pink muslin, Miriam shook out
the dress. “Did you want them packed again?”
“No, no,” Constance assured her. “We’re staying
here.”
But now that she’d triumphed, what next? She’d told
Marcus she wanted a real marriage, and children. Over
the course of a long night spent tossing and turning,
she’d realized just how far she was from that goal.
Although she’d fancied herself in love with Marcus, she
barely knew him—and he knew her even less. To talk
of building a marriage on such ignorance was stupidity.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
She and Marcus needed to spend more time together.
But he would still be fuming from last night—any
request for his company would likely be rebuffed. The
only thing that might bring him to her side was a fear
she might embarrass him.
Constance pushed her blankets aside and stepped out
of bed. “Bligh, I suspect I shall receive a few morning
callers today. But later, I’d like to go riding. Could you
tell Dallow to have a horse readied for me at four
o’clock? Nothing too frisky.” Beyond walking in the
garden in the center of Berkeley Square, she’d hardly
been outdoors since she arrived in London—suddenly,
she craved fresh air.
“Yes, my lady.” Miriam helped her into the muslin
dress. “Will I set out your new riding habit?”
Constance nodded. “I’ll also need you to give Harper
a message for Lord Spenford.” She thought for a
moment. “Tell him I plan to ride in Hyde Park at four.
And tell him my riding skills are not the best.”
If she knew her husband, the prospect of her tumbling
from her horse, and thus embarrassing the precious
name of Spenford, was just the thing to guarantee her
Marcus’s company.
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Chapter Ten
Marcus was already waiting when Constance stepped
through the front door at four o’clock to greet the
groom who held the reins of an exceptionally placid-
looking bay mare. Her husband’s black steed was
dancing with impatience.
“Good afternoon,” Constance greeted him cheerfully,
as she stepped onto the mounting block.
Marcus did not appear to be finding the afternoon all
that good. He inclined his head in a cold nod. “You
look tired, madam. Did you sleep badly?” He had the
nerve to sound hopeful.
How rude!
“I slept like a baby,” Constance assured him. Which
was true, because in her experience babies never slept at
all. She didn’t know where that ridiculous expression
came from.
The groom helped her onto the horse. “Minerva here
won’t give you any trouble, my lady,” he assured her,
as he adjusted the single, larger stirrup that came with
her sidesaddle.
Her pale blue kid half boots peeked out from her blue
cotton nankeen riding habit. Constance sat tall—easy
enough since the horse wasn’t moving—knowing the
slightly military tailoring of the fitted jacket showed her
figure to advantage. She patted the bay’s neck. “I can
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tell she’s very good-tempered. Just like Lord Spenford.”
The groom smothered what might have been a cough,
if