The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,31
the Countess of Spenford,”
he warned. “No going out alone at night to the home of
people you haven’t met.”
“I needed to find you,” she said defensively, aware in
the cold light of day that her excursion to the
Rotherams’ had been eccentric, to say the least.
“You could have sent a messenger—do you think I
would have refused to return, when my mother could
have been ill?”
Was he saying he wouldn’t have returned just for
her? Inadvertently, her hands tightened on her reins;
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Minerva danced a little. Constance slackened her grip.
“I didn’t think of that. But that reminds me—I thought
your mother looked rather pale this morning, didn’t
you?”
“No, I did not. Do I have your word you will behave
correctly?” he asked. “If you’re uncertain of anything,
ask me, or my mother, or Lucinda. But as a first point,
remember that London ways are a good deal more
restrictive than country ways.”
“You have my word,” Constance said.
HOW MUCH FURTHER should he push this? Marcus
wondered. He rapped his knuckles against the pommel
of his saddle as he thought. He couldn’t very well
refuse to take her out with him, when half the ton had
seen her perfectly healthy at the Rotheram soiree last
night. But it was important to do this on his
terms…even if it meant covering a subject he had no
wish to discuss.
He cleared his throat. “And, er, you will make every
effort to hide your, er, infatuation with me?”
He judged that look in her eye to be a desire to slap
him. Good thing she’d just vowed to behave correctly.
And that, as he’d pointed out the day they married, she
wasn’t the slapping sort.
“No need to hide it,” she said airily. “It’s over.”
It took a moment for her words to sink in. “I beg your
pardon?” Marcus said.
She combed her fingers through her mare’s mane.
“After much thought, I have concluded you were right.
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My feelings for you were a childish infatuation based
on a perception of virtues you don’t possess.”
“What do you mean, I don’t possess them?” And how
did she manage to couch her insults as good news?
“Not that you don’t have other virtues,” she assured
him.
“You’re too kind,” he said tightly.
“After all, we have already agreed you are intelligent.
And…well, I’m sure there are others,” she finished
briskly.
“How sure?” he asked.
“My point is,” she said, “a childish infatuation is no
basis for a marriage.”
“No.” That was unarguable.
He bit down on the urge to argue.
“Therefore, I have relinquished it.” She snapped her
fingers. “It’s gone.”
Marcus should have whooped for joy. “How can it be
gone?” he asked.
“It simply no longer exists. It was a figment in the
first place, and now it is nothing.”
“You’re saying you were in love with me,” he said,
“but now you’re not?” The sense of offense that came
over him was most peculiar.
“I thought I was in love,” she corrected. “But as you
pointed out, it was absurd.”
“Quite,” he agreed. Yet somehow, agreeing it was
absurd for her to be in love with him didn’t feel right,
either.
“I wish to start again,” she said, “in building a more
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realistic emotion toward our marriage.”
“That is excellent news,” Marcus said mechanically,
still trying to rid himself of a sense of rejection.
“Marriage should be founded on respect and duty.”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have said duty—she might bring
up the bedchamber again.
“Marcus,” she said, “I believe that if you and I both
work hard, a true and deep love can grow between us.”
“A true and deep regard, ” he amended.
“Love,” she countered. “I intend to love you, Marcus.
I intend for you to love me.”
Marcus flinched. “But you just said—”
“A mature love,” she interrupted. Marcus could never
remember his mother interrupting his father, but his
countess thought nothing of it. He blamed the Reverend
Somerton. For the interruption and the mature love
idea.
“My position hasn’t changed from last night,” he
informed her. “I do not plan to love you. I don’t see
love as an admirable quality, and I have loftier concerns
to occupy me.”
For a moment, she looked daunted. And with those
circles of exhaustion around her eyes, unexpectedly
frail. He had an odd urge to reach out and grasp her
fingers. To transmit some strength to her.
Then she said, in that sermonizing way of hers,
“Time will tell. And time is the one thing we do have in
our favor.”
If she had any more strength, England could have
sent her off to battle Bonaparte single-handed.
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“You do as you wish,” he said. “So long as your
behavior in public is entirely correct, I don’t care what
fantasies you entertain.”
She paled, swallowed visibly. Perhaps he had been
too harsh, Marcus thought uneasily.
“Look, there’s Mrs. Rotheram.” He pointed out their
hostess from last night riding toward them in her
barouche, in company