one was to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Shall we go?” Marcus snapped. Without waiting for
a reply, he set off.
Confident that even she couldn’t go wrong with a
horse this placid, Constance spurred Minerva into a
walk.
Marcus didn’t speak to her as they rode, though he
returned the greetings of several other riders. Constance
didn’t mind; she was too busy concentrating on steering
her mount along the busy street. With five sisters and
only two horses in the family, she seldom rode in
Piper’s Mead.
“Good girl,” she murmured to Minerva. “Lovely,
steady girl.”
Marcus cast her an impatient look. “There’s nothing
lovely about that plodder. Now Sheba here is an elegant
mount.” He patted his horse’s neck. Sheba tossed her
head.
Constance peeped up at him around the feather that
curled somewhat distractingly over the brim of her hat
to sit just within the edge of her vision. “I can’t think
why anyone would prefer that high-strung creature to
my sturdy Minerva.” She paused. “Though perhaps you
choose your horses on the same criteria as you choose
your wife.”
He barked a laugh. “That was an outrageous thing to
say, madam.”
“No one heard,” she comforted him. “The Spenford
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reputation is still intact.”
He rolled his eyes. “Here we are, Hyde Park.” He
gestured with a sweep of his arm. “Where did you wish
to ride?”
“I don’t know the park at all,” she admitted. “I shall
follow your recommendation.”
He muttered something that might have been, “That’ll
be a first.” Then he tapped his horse’s flanks with his
heels and headed along a wide bridle path at a trot that
wasn’t too fast for her. Making sure her crop was tight
in her grasp, she rode alongside, aware of his regular
glances to check she wasn’t about to disgrace him with
her lack of horsemanship.
When they pulled up in the shade of a stand of oak
trees, Constance took the opportunity to survey the
people around them. This, she knew, was the time of
day to see and be seen, hence the park was filled with
carriages of all kinds: curricles, phaetons for the more
sporting men and a few daring ladies, more sedate
barouches for the older ladies. Here and there, riders
like her and Marcus conversed in groups.
“Do Mr. and Mrs. Quayle ride in the park?” she
asked, to break the silence.
“It’s more common to ride with one’s friends than
with one’s spouse,” he said.
“How odd. My father spends most of his time with
my mother, except when he’s writing his sermons,”
Constance said. “He says there’s no company he’d
prefer.”
A heavy sigh reminded her Marcus didn’t find stories
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
of her father terribly fascinating.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
Before she could stop herself, Constance spurted a
laugh.
“I am perfectly serious, madam.” But the corners of
his lips tugged.
“I cannot believe an intelligent man like you would
wish for a wife who never thinks,” she said. “Now you
acknowledge me to have a virtue,” he said. “When
Lucinda tried to enumerate my charms, you wouldn’t
agree with any of her suggestions.”
“She didn’t mention your brain,” Constance pointed
out. “Which I have concluded is very fine.”
Their gazes met, caught.
“I felt it only fair to say so,” she said awkwardly.
“I appreciate your fairness,” Marcus said. After a
moment, he added, “You said you’ve been thinking?”
Constance almost didn’t share her idea—they seemed
to be in unusual accord, and it seemed a shame to
disturb the peace. “I wish to go out with you in the
evenings.”
“I’m afraid my club isn’t open to ladies.”
“With the obvious exception of your club,” she said
patiently. “Marcus—” at his start, she realized she’d
addressed him by his Christian name “—it’s not right
for you to go about as if you’re still a single man. I
intend to claim you as my husband in the eyes of the
world.”
“Claim me?” He wound his reins around one hand to
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steady his horse. “I’m not some newly discovered
island full of barbarians to be colonized.” He was
something of an island, Constance reflected, the way he
refused to open his heart. But as the poet Mr. John
Donne said, No man is an island entire of itself. “You
are already excessively civilized,” she agreed.
He narrowed his eyes. “There is no such thing as
excessively civilized. I might have guessed you didn’t
know that.”
“From now on,” she said, “I’ll accompany you to all
the evening events to which we are both invited. During
the day, I will pay and receive calls, as befitting my
position as your wife. I had three callers today—I don’t
believe I disgraced you with any of them.”
“Did you tell any of your callers you don’t consider
my wealth and status to be of any importance?” he
queried politely.
“I managed to restrain myself,” she assured him.
“If you wish to accompany me, you will need to
behave in a manner befitting