The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,33

for his wife by

now.

She had married a slow learner.

Constance dragged her attention back to the ladies,

who were chatting alternately about the performance

and about Lord Byron’s latest bizarre behavior. Lady

Annabelle kept twisting to talk to the two ladies behind

her, in the second row of the box. It seemed attending a

performance in London was as much about talking as

watching and listening. Constance ventured the

occasional opinion—on the opera, not Lord Byron—but

constrained as she was by her promise to Marcus to say

nothing improper, she didn’t dare be as blunt as she’d

like. Small wonder the ladies didn’t find her

conversation interesting.

Realizing her eyelids had drifted dangerously

downward, Constance fanned herself with her new silk-

and-ivory fan in the hope of creating a rousing breeze.

It was a beautiful fan. Her wardrobe of clothes and

accessories had grown significantly to keep up with the

round of parties, suppers, concerts. Her hours of sleep

had decreased markedly.

Every night, as they drove home from the evening’s

entertainments, Marcus asked her if she was ready to

travel to Chalmers for a rest. Every night, she told him

no…then fell asleep in her corner of the carriage, not

waking until he touched her shoulder as they arrived

home. It was an odd ritual that had developed between

them.

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Constance realized the conversation around her had

moved on. Lady Annabelle was talking about her much-

loved aunt.

“She has undergone the most miraculous recovery

under the care of a new physician,” Lady Annabelle

said. “Her heart palpitations have almost entirely

ceased.”

“Which physician is that?” Constance asked, with

more enthusiasm than she should probably display.

“The Dowager Countess of Spenford is in the care of

Mr. Bird.”

Constance had formed no good opinion of Mr. Bird.

He may be the finest doctor in London, but his manner

was stiff and prescriptive. He preferred to make his own

assessment rather than engage in discussion with his

patient. He certainly brought no cheer to the sickroom.

Although her mother-in-law had seemed much

improved immediately after Constance arrived in

London, Constance felt her condition had deteriorated.

She’d told Marcus of her fears for his mother’s well-

being. But he was so convinced his “bargain with God”

would keep Helen safe, he wouldn’t take her seriously.

Mr. Bird had said the dowager might get worse before

she got better, so Marcus saw her worsening condition

as a positive sign.

“This new doctor is a younger man, Mr. Gerald

Young,” Lady Annabelle said, “newly returned from

Paris. His specialty is heart illnesses.”

“Marcus—” in her excitement, Constance leaned

across her hostess “—Lady Annabelle is telling me

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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE

about a new physician, Mr. Young. He may be able to

help your mother.”

The lift of his eyebrows pointed out that she’d used

his Christian name in public. Which she wasn’t to do

unless they were with close friends. She suspected he’d

rather she didn’t do it at all.

“Mr. Bird is the finest of his kind in the country,” he

said. “I doubt there’s anything this other fellow can do

that Mr. Bird hasn’t thought of.”

“I am sure you know best in the matter of your

mother’s treatment, Lord Spenford,” Lady Annabelle

said coyly. “My dear aunt is an eccentric, so she had no

hesitation consulting Mr. Young, but I believe much of

his practice is among the lower classes.”

Exactly the wrong thing to tell Marcus.

Lady Annabelle fanned her face with subtle grace.

Constance had heard of “the language of the fan” and

its flirtatious messages, but she needed an interpreter.

She suspected Lady Annabelle’s fan was saying

something more than Look at my fine eyes and

charming pout. Constance sighed. Here we go again.

She’d stopped being shocked by the willingness of the

ladies of the ton to flirt with other women’s husbands,

but it still made her crazy.

She told herself they meant nothing by it. An

accepted part of the “fun” of an evening like this was

flirting with members of the opposite sex. She doubted

all these women wanted to start a full-blown affair with

Marcus.

The only saving grace was that Marcus did not flirt

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back. Ever. Constance wasn’t sure why—if she had to

guess, she would say his pride stopped him from

unbending enough to flirt. Who would have thought

Marcus’s self-regard would have a positive aspect?

She was relieved he was nothing like Sir Hugh,

currently peering through his opera glasses at the rather

lovely young singer on the stage. Constance suspected

there was more that interested him than her soprano

voice.

Sir Hugh had made no attempt to flirt with

Constance. No one ever did. And although she was

grateful—she would have no idea how to respond,

beyond a clumsy set-down that Marcus would doubtless

consider rude—she also felt the snub to her lack of

beauty and charm.

What would Isabel do? Her sister always knew how

to behave, delivered every line perfectly. She would be

amusing and gracious and astonish every man here with

a fineness of

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