The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,36

than civilized

around her.

“Or—” she said, glancing at the clock that hung

above the doorway that led upstairs “—it’s two o’clock

in the morning and I’m naturally tired. I assume there’s

no sign of our lord and lady?”

He shook his head. “But Lord Spenford said they

won’t be very late.”

Miriam’s humph told him she considered two o’clock

to fall firmly into late territory.

Tom watched a lick of wax form down one side of

the candle. “I’m sorry for what I said. Last time. I didn’t

mean to bully you.”

She spread her fingers on the tabletop. They were a

little work-roughened, but even just a few weeks as

lady’s maid had softened her hands. Tom was glad.

“I shouldn’t have said you were like my dad,” she

said. “Few men are that bad, thank God.”

“So I’m bad, but not as bad as your father?” he

clarified ruefully.

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She grinned, but it turned into another yawn.

“Though maybe you were right about this job being too

much for me. I feel like a wrung-out dishcloth, and

there you are looking as prime as one of his lordships

grays.”

She thought he looked prime? Tom had to work hard

not to puff out his chest. His gaze traveled over her,

over her angular face and what he could see of her

slender figure. “You’re skin and bones, Miriam.” Blast

it, that wasn’t what he meant…but he wasn’t about to

fix it with a compliment. That would be asking for

trouble.

The warmth in her eyes faded.

“I meant you’ve got thinner,” he said awkwardly. Ah,

why did he even bother? He was a blundering idiot in

the words department, and never more so than when he

was talking to Miriam Bligh.

He shouldn’t even be noticing her figure in the first

place, let alone its shrinking. But that would be like

expecting a dawn fisherman not to notice the sunrise.

She heard the concern in his voice and relaxed. “I

may be a few pounds lighter—with these late hours, I

often don’t have the energy to eat. I didn’t realize the

earl and countess would go out quite so often.”

Tom rested his forearms on the table. “Aye, I must

admit, his lordship wasn’t quite so sociable before he

was wed. They haven’t been home before two o’clock

any night this week.”

Miriam groaned. “Don’t remind me. Last week was

just as bad.” The thought provoked another yawn; she

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146

pressed her fingers to her lips. “Do you think it’ll

always be like this?”

Her gloom made him smile. “Until the Season ends.

Once we’re back at Chalmers we’ll be right.”

Her head drooped. With an effort she raised it. “I

shouldn’t complain. I wanted this job, wanted the extra

money.”

Tom felt himself blush and hoped she couldn’t read

his mind. To think, he’d wondered if she’d sought the

position in an attempt to be close to him! A futile

attempt, it would have been, but he was still contrarily

disappointed to know it hadn’t even been made.

“I didn’t pick you as the mercenary type,” he said.

“If you mean you thought I’d be content to let my

children grow up not knowing where their next meal is

coming from…”

“What children?” he asked. “Are you planning to

marry?” With difficulty, he kept his voice light. He

tried not to think about her marrying, having another

man’s children. As if not thinking about it could prevent

it!

Her cheeks pinkened. “Not at this stage.”

“You won’t ever, if you stay in this job too long,” he

warned. “Look at Powell.” Her shoulders stiffened, and

he realized how that sounded—his cursed clumsiness

with words again. “I’m not trying to tell you to give it

up,” he assured her.

She relaxed again. “What about you, Tom?” she

asked. “Are you promised to anyone?”

He shook his head. She’d implied more or less the

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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE

same question a few weeks ago, when she’d asked his

whereabouts the night the countess had decided to stay

in London.

Now, at the news of his ongoing bachelorhood, a

little smile curved her lips. Did she remember that kiss?

She’d been fourteen, he’d been seventeen. That’s where

it began—if you didn’t count the weeks before that he’d

spent just noticing her—and there it had to end.

If ever he doubted that it had to end, he only had to

imagine telling her the whole truth to be convinced

again.

“Do you have a plan for making the countess more

presentable?” he asked, more harshly than he intended.

The smile dropped from her lips. Businesslike, she

pulled the pile of periodicals toward her. The topmost

was open at a page with pictures of ladies in various

dress styles.

“I’ve been reading these,” she said.

“Fashion magazines?” Tom asked.

“Summer Fashions from Paris.”

“What’s wrong with English fashions?”

She rolled her eyes and pushed the periodical toward

him. “Look.” She indicated the caption beneath a

drawing of a lady wearing a green coat and a hat

sporting

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