would be the sort of good work
one would expect of a Christian wife.” It was as if he
could think of no other rationale. Was it really so long
since anyone other than his mother had cared about him
for himself?
Afraid she would show pity, and embarrass him,
Constance chose to joke. She said thoughtfully, “If
you’d wanted a wife devoted to good works, I’d have
recommended my sister Isabel.”
He gave her a warning look, though his mouth
twitched.
“She’s a little young,” Constance said, “but I know
that doesn’t—”
He cleared his throat ominously, and she subsided.
She returned to her food, satisfied she’d made it plain
that if he were to fall ill, her concern would not be born
of Christian goodness.
After a moment, Marcus said abruptly, “You may tell
Dallow to summon a doctor for Harper, if you wish.”
She fought the urge to beam. “The sooner your boots
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152
are restored to their former glory, the better,” she
agreed.
He chuckled, shook his head at her deliberate
misinterpretation. Then he picked up the newspaper the
footman had set next to his place.
Constance
watched
him
read,
watched
the
intelligence in his eyes, the absorption in his face.
The silence now was warm…could even have been
companionable.
If Constance hadn’t felt guilty.
She was truly worried about Harper, she assured
herself, and would like to think she would summon a
doctor to him regardless of her other motives.
What mattered was that she had carte blanche to
summon a physician of her choosing. As soon as
Marcus left for his club, she would pen a note to Mr.
Gerald Young asking him to see both Harper and the
dowager.
What harm could there be to request a visit from a
respected physician recommended by so notable a
person as Lady Annabelle White?
Except…while Marcus hadn’t forbidden her to
consult Mr. Young, he’d made it plain he didn’t want
her to. And now, just as he’d softened enough to show
his concern for Harper, and to tolerate the possibility of
Constance caring for her husband, she was about to do
something that would displease him.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Chapter Thirteen
To Constance’s chagrin, Mr. Young didn’t arrive
within the hour. He sent a note to say he would attend
toward three o’clock, after he finished his rounds at St.
Mary’s Orphanage. A part of her approved of his
refusal to rate a wealthy patient ahead of his poorer
ones…but another part of her wanted to assert privilege
and insist the man drop everything for the Dowager
Countess of Spenford.
Constance sat with her mother-in-law, penning a
letter to her family, then working on her embroidery. A
few more weeks and the verse would be finished. She
was considering giving it to Marcus…but she wasn’t
sure if he would appreciate its sentiment. Every so often
she set down her work and clasped the dowager’s hand
on the counterpane. The return grip was feebler than it
had been last week. Feebler still than the weeks before
that.
When Dallow knocked on the door to announce Mr.
Young’s arrival, the dowager was enjoying a much-
needed nap. Constance instructed Dallow to take the
physician first to Harper. Thankfully, Marcus usually
stayed at his club until at least five o’clock. It would be
easier if he didn’t come home while the doctor was
here.
When the butler knocked again, she sprang to her feet
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with relief and went to greet him at the door of the
dowager’s room. She was equally relieved to find the
doctor appeared perfectly normal, dressed in a dark coat
and a white shirt almost as immaculate as her husband
would wear. He looked in no way a quack.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Young.” She shook his
hand. “How is Tom Harper?”
The man smiled his approval of her concern. “A
middling case of influenza. His fever is high just now—
I’ve given instructions to your housekeeper for how
he’s to be nursed. He won’t be fit for duties for another
week, at least. A few weeks for full recovery.”
Constance foresaw another three or four days, at
least, of Miriam being so distracted she’d lay out odd
slippers for Constance or forget her gloves. Her maid
hadn’t taken the news of Tom Harper’s illness well—so
much for her insistence she had no further interest in the
man.
“Mr. Young, allow me to introduce you to the
Dowager Countess of Spenford.” Constance led him
into the room.
After greetings had been exchanged, she prepared to
leave.
“My dear, please stay,” Helen said. “I’m not—not
quite strong enough to explain myself today.”
“Of course.” Constance squeezed her hand. At Mr.
Young’s request, she told him as best she knew the
treatment Mr. Bird had decreed. Helen filled in the
gaps.
“In the past week or so, her ladyship’s symptoms
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
have worsened,” Constance concluded.
“Mr. Bird says my condition will continue to
fluctuate,” Helen said. “I may feel much better next
week. But…it would be nice to have a clearer
prognosis.”
“We shall see,” was all