The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,32
of Lady Mottram. A welcome
distraction. “Did you send her a card of thanks this
morning?”
“Of course I did,” she said coolly. “But I shall go and
talk to her now—it will be nice to converse with her in
less awkward circumstances.”
Before Marcus could instruct her further as to what
she should or shouldn’t say, his wife dug her little heels
into Minerva’s obliging flanks and trotted toward Mrs.
Rotheram.
Marcus caught her up just as she joined the women.
“My dear Lady Spenford,” he heard Mrs. Rotheram
say. “I was just telling Lady Mottram what a pleasure it
was to meet you last evening.”
Marcus gritted his teeth. More likely, she was telling
Sarah Mottram how Constance had arrived alone. How
she had been witnessed dancing rather tensely with her
husband. How the Spenfords had left early, before one
o’clock, and neither bride nor groom had held a
honeymoon look in their eye.
“The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Rotheram,” Constance
said with a demureness Marcus couldn’t fault. He could
only wish that demureness could be directed at him.
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He introduced Constance to Lady Mottram, and they
exchanged the customary pleasantries.
“Spenford, how is your dear mother?” Lady Mottram
asked.
“Very well, ma’am,” he said.
“Actually, she seemed somewhat fatigued today,”
Constance said.
Had he specifically said, Do not contradict me in
public, or had he foolishly assumed that was obvious?
“My mother is better than she has been in weeks, but
still has moments of fatigue,” he said pleasantly.
Constance pursed her lips, but didn’t argue.
“Are you going to Viscountess Lynley’s ball this
evening?” Lady Mottram asked.
Neither Constance nor Marcus answered.
Marcus knew why he wasn’t talking. This was where
he would have to commit to spending his evening with
his unworldly, argumentative wife.
Lady Mottram cleared her throat in further inquiry.
“I think not,” Constance said. “I must admit, I’m
rather tired. It was so hot last night.”
“My dear, you said you slept like a baby,” Marcus
reminded her.
Her eyes narrowed.
For the first time since he’d woken up from his own
troubled sleep fuming at his wife’s outrageous behavior,
Marcus sensed he had the upper hand.
“Certainly we will attend the viscountess’s ball,” he
said. “Though we’ll arrive late.” In his mind, Marcus
ran over the stack of invitations he had sorted through
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over the past week.
“How late?” Constance asked.
“Not before midnight, I imagine,” he said carelessly.
“Remember, my dear, we’re to dine with Admiral
Ferguson—” he must send a card informing the admiral
his wife would accompany him “—then to attend a
music performance at the Finches’.”
Constance had paled, the circles beneath her eyes
growing visibly darker. Marcus hoped her maid had
some trick for concealing them.
“Three events in one evening,” she said.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to squeeze in Mrs.
Robson-Burke’s card party, my dear,” he said
regretfully. “But you’ll be pleased to hear Viscountess
Lynley is known for the excellence of the breakfast she
serves.”
“Breakfast!” Constance exclaimed.
“At four o’clock,” Marcus said affably. “The
Lynleys’ ball is a famously late night, and the
viscountess doesn’t like to send her guests home
hungry.”
“It’s true,” Mrs. Rotheram assured Constance. “My
husband rates it the best breakfast in London.”
It was, of course, quite disgraceful for Constance to
whimper. But in a spirit of magnanimity, Marcus
forgave her.
He found himself in a much more cheerful frame of
mind as they rode home. Constance would have no
chance of a restoring nap before their evening activities.
Tomorrow would be the same, as would the day after
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that. With the Season in full swing, Marcus gave his
exhausted wife a week, at most, before she begged to be
sent to Chalmers.
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Chapter Eleven
I have nothing to complain about.
If Constance told herself that often enough, maybe it
would sink in. After all, she’d insisted Marcus take her
with him to Society events, and for the past two weeks
he’d done exactly that.
With a vengeance.
She stifled a yawn and forced her tired eyes to focus
on the soloist singing on the stage below their theater
box. It was the first act of the Italian opera that was
their first engagement of the evening, barely seven
o’clock. Tonight wouldn’t end until the small hours—
they had a card party and two suppers to get through
first.
Goodness, that singer had a piercing voice!
Constance rubbed her temples.
Observant as ever, Marcus noticed her discomfort
from where he sat on the other side of their hostess,
Lady Annabelle White, in the slightly curved box. His
forehead crinkled in concern. Constance forced a smile.
His mouth tightened, but he turned back to continue his
discussion with their host, Sir Hugh, of something
called the Coinage Act, a piece of legislation apparently
designed to define the value of the pound relative to
gold. Fascinating.
She supposed it was kind of him to look worried. But
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spending so much time together, he’d had every
opportunity to develop some affection