far too many—in Tom’s opinion—matching
feathers. “Pelisses of embroidered silk organdy are all
the rage in Paris for evening dress. I should think they’d
be too delicate to last more than a few months, not to
mention completely impractical, but isn’t it beautiful?”
Tom glanced briefly at the page, then pushed it back
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toward her. His head had started to ache, right on the
very top, as if someone had conked him on the noggin
with a hammer. It was warm in here, warmer than you’d
expect given the fire had died down some hours ago.
“Being a good valet, or a good dresser, isn’t about
aping a picture in a magazine,” he said gruffly. “It’s
knowing what works for your master. Or mistress.
Instinct—either you have it, or you don’t. Then it’s
about attention to detail.”
“So you’re telling me you take no interest in the
fashions,” she said, disbelieving.
This was why he hadn’t wanted her here—she’d
never been able to let things rest. To accept that not
everyone did things her way.
From upstairs, he heard the unmistakable sound of
the door knocker hitting the front door. Then, the night
footman hurrying to open it.
“They’re home,” Tom said unnecessarily.
Miriam was already feeling for the pins in her hair,
making sure she wasn’t disarranged.
As Tom headed up to the bedchambers, he heard her
boots on the servants’ stairs behind him.
He climbed faster, making sure his longer legs
increased the gap between them with every step.
FROM THE LANDING, Constance saw Marcus
talking to Dallow in the entrance hall. She wasn’t
entirely sure how they’d left things last night. She’d
dozed off in the carriage…was he angry with her for her
words to Lady Annabelle at the opera, or not?
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Her stomach growled a reminder of the need for
breakfast, so she grasped the stair rail and began her
descent.
“Good morning, Marcus,” she said when she reached
the bottom.
His head jerked around, as if it still surprised him to
discover every day that he had a wife.
Perhaps his memory wouldn’t suffer such a lapse if
he spent part of the night in her bed, she thought tartly.
To her astonishment, after handing her a small pile of
letters from her family, Marcus followed her into the
dining room. Usually, he breakfasted before her.
As Constance helped herself to some ham from the
platter on the side table, she darted a curious look at
him.
Catching her in the act, he grimaced. “You’re right,”
he said, “my boots are below their normal standard.
Harper is ill.” He served himself some ham, about triple
the quantity Constance had. “Gregory, the footman, did
my boots.”
“Is Harper’s illness serious?” she asked. She
wondered if Miriam knew Harper was sick. If her maid
was worried.
“I don’t suppose so.” Her husband added a slice of
rare beef to his plate. “Dashed inconvenient, though.
Gregory is a long way off Harper’s standard.”
Constance inspected his Hessians and found them as
glossily perfect as always. “How awful for you,” she
said. “I do hope Harper will be well enough to clean
your boots soon.”
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He reddened. “He’s not on his deathbed. Someone
would have told me.”
“I gather you didn’t ask?”
He ignored that and pulled out a chair. Seated, he
served himself a slice of fresh-baked bread. “I have a
meeting with my bankers today. If ever there was an
occasion where I should look every inch the imposing
Earl of Spenford…”
“Oh.” Constance could understand that. “I don’t
suppose it would help if I said you always look
splendid.”
“Not at all.” Then he added gruffly, “But thank you.”
They ate in silence for a minute or two.
“I tried to look in on your mama, but Powell said
she’s still sleeping,” Constance said. “She seems more
tired lately.”
“Sleep is part of the healing process. Her condition
seems much the same to me.”
Constance bit her lip. No doubt he wanted it to be the
same, or better. But in her view, the dowager was
getting weaker—one had only to hold her hand on a
regular basis to detect a failing grip.
An idea struck her. Really, a very naughty idea…but
also a very good one. “Have you summoned a doctor
for Harper?”
“Dallow gave no indication that he needs one,”
Marcus said. He suddenly looked genuinely concerned.
“Do you have reason to think Harper is seriously ill?”
“There are conditions going around,” she said
vaguely. “I don’t like to think of him suffering if a
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doctor might help.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair. “Yet again, you
lavish your concern on a servant. Would you worry this
much if I were ill?”
“Far more,” she blurted, her heart thumping in fright
at the thought of him feverish, or in pain.
He set down his bread and stared at her. The room
was silent, except for the muffled rumble of carriage
wheels in the street outside.
“You’re my husband,” Constance said feebly.
“So…your concern