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