mind that matched her fineness of face and
figure, all without overstepping the mark of flirtation.
Ah, well.
Lady Annabelle tapped Marcus’s knee with her fan—
goodness knows what that meant—as she made some
coquettish remark. The woman was quite beautiful.
Only a year or two older than Constance, but with a
sophistication that must surely draw the interest of any
man.
Marcus laughed at something she said, and his face
broke out of its stern lines. Lady Annabelle looked as if
the goose had just laid a golden egg at her feet.
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She leaned in closer to Marcus, affording him an
excellent view down the front of her low-cut dress, had
he been looking.
He wasn’t looking.
If Marcus did feel an attraction to another woman, he
wouldn’t reveal it in public, Constance realized
miserably. He would visit the woman in the security of
her own home….
Was that how he spent his days? Was that why he
was yet to consummate their marriage?
Marcus is a Christian, she reminded herself. Albeit a
Christian who let his faith serve him, rather than one
who served his faith.
I shall not judge my husband. It is wrong.
But it was hard to hold that thought as Marcus grew
more animated in his conversation with the other
woman. More animated than he ever was with
Constance…if you didn’t count their arguments.
“Are you unwell, Lady Spenford?” Lady Annabelle
asked. “Your color is high.”
Constance found herself the scrutiny of all in their
box. Knowing how unfavorable the comparison
between her scarlet face and Lady Annabelle’s
porcelain complexion must be, she fidgeted with her
program. “I am quite comfortable,” she said.
Marcus nodded approval—he wouldn’t like her to
make a fuss.
Constance blurted, “Lady Annabelle, may I lend you
my cloak?”
“I beg your pardon?”
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Constance’s voice quivered, but she wouldn’t stop. “I
assume it is for warmth that you lean so close to my
husband.”
A gasp from the woman behind her. One of the other
gentlemen gave a strangled laugh. Sir Hugh lowered his
opera glasses. His gaze traveled over Constance—she
wanted to apologize for drawing attention to his wife’s
misconduct. But when he spoke to his wife, he was all
amiability. “By George, the countess has you there, my
dear.”
Lady Annabelle had straightened away from Marcus,
whose countenance resembled a thundercloud. “Your
company is so refreshing, Lady Spenford,” she said.
Constance winced, then decided to take the
compliment at face value. “You’re too kind, Lady
Annabelle.” She had the pleasure of seeing a look of
impatience cross that woman’s face and of hearing a
faint, stifled snort from Marcus. “What a remarkable
player the first violinist is,” she continued, and turned
her attention to the orchestra below.
AFTER THE OPERA, the card party and the two
suppers, Marcus and his wife traveled home in the
Spenford carriage, the usual three feet of space between
them. Rain beat down on the roof, its din closing them
in their own little world.
Though it was almost two o’clock in the morning,
Marcus felt unusually alert. Constance’s chastising of
Annabelle White had turned a dull performance into
one of the more entertaining evenings he could
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
remember. Though he shouldn’t see it like that.
“Do you plan ahead how you will draw unwelcome
attention to yourself?” he asked her, more curious than
annoyed. “Or does inspiration strike you in the
moment?”
“The evidence of my eyes strikes me,” Constance
said. “That woman was flirting with my husband.”
“Lady Annabelle was being friendly. She meant no
harm.”
“She was leering at you in the exact same way her
husband was leering at that singer.”
“She was perhaps a little forward,” Marcus admitted.
“But as the daughter of a duke and heiress to a fortune
of imposing dimensions, no one will judge her.”
Whereas they wouldn’t hesitate to judge Constance in
her attempt to castigate Annabelle. Which, he had to
admit, was unfair. “I didn’t respond to her approach,”
he pointed out.
“I appreciate that,” Constance said. “But frankly,
Marcus, I’m sick of women fawning all over you every
time we go out.”
“That’s your parsonage upbringing talking,” he said
uncertainly. Uncertain, because a part of him was
flattered at what looked much like jealousy. Even
though he disapproved of jealousy as a petty emotion
suited to the lower classes.
“Their behavior is improper,” she said. She added a
muttered, “And inexplicable.”
He surprised himself by chuckling. “Ah, yes. You
find me so proud, such poor company, it must seem
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strange when other women show interest in me.”
“I’ve noticed that by and large they’re not women of
sense,” she said.
He laughed. “I’d thought you might be too tired to
lance me with one of your insults.” Even he found their
current schedule punishing. But he had a point to make:
however determined she might be, Constance did not fit
in with ton ways. Tonight was just one more example.
Life would be easier for both of them if she would give
up this idea she had