The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,41
say it now could
only mean she was losing hope.
“Forgive me, I must speak plainly,” she said. “This is
too important. Marcus, I know you’re unhappy.” She
clutched a fistful of blanket in her left hand. “Forgive
me for not having had the—the strength to teach you
what matters most.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, horrified. She
was ill, her mind was doubtless wandering.
Constance started to weep. Marcus wished he could
do the same. To think his mother had been facing her
own mortality, had been terrified at the prospect and
hadn’t said a word. Had he been so intent on having his
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way, on curing her through prayer and the attentions of
Mr. Bird, that she’d been unable to tell him how she
felt?
“You feel ill right now, but wonderful things can
happen,” he said desperately. “God works in mysterious
ways.”
There was still time for the Almighty to uphold His
end of their bargain.
Constance hiccuped, then cleared her throat. “Can
mysterious ways include sending a new physician with
a new treatment?”
His head snapped around; he stared at her.
She cannot die, he told her with his eyes.
Have faith, he fancied her steady gaze transmitted in
reply. But if that was her message, even she didn’t look
entirely convinced. She couldn’t promise Mr. Young
was sent by God, and Marcus knew it.
His gaze measured her. Measured his mother’s frail
form. Measured the hours of life that remained…if
Young was right.
“Very well,” he said to Young. “We’ll try your
treatment.”
Her eyes still closed, his mother smiled.
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Chapter Fourteen
Marcus sent his apologies to the Quayles and the
Mottrams, both of whom expected to see him and
Constance that evening. Their absence at their other
engagement—the Duchess of Havant’s ball—wouldn’t
be noticed.
At seven o’clock, Mr. Young returned as promised
with the medicine. Marcus supported his mother with
an arm around her shoulders while she swallowed it.
If the dose was incorrect, any adverse effect would
likely be experienced tonight, the doctor said. Though
there was always a risk, every time she took it, the risk
was greatest the first time.
“I’ll stay with her,” Marcus announced. He turned
down Constance’s offer to sit with him. Whatever
happened would be on his head.
THE NEXT DAY, Sunday, Constance pulled on her
morning dress, asked Bligh to hurry up with the
fastening and went straight to the dowager’s rooms.
“She’s sleeping,” Powell said in answer to
Constance’s light rap on the door with her knuckles.
Then, a half smile broke the severity of her expression,
telling Constance all she needed to know.
When Constance clasped Powell’s hands and
squeezed them for joy, the maid blinked away tears.
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“Don’t dither in the doorway, my lady, go on in,” she
scolded. “The patient slept better than you did, by the
look of you.”
As Powell had said, the dowager lay sleeping. Marcus
dozed on the chair next to her.
It was the first time Constance had seen him asleep.
He looked…maybe not exactly tranquil…but his
forehead was clear, his strong mouth a little less
intimidating in repose. He’d loosened his cravat; she
could see the column of his bare throat. His
vulnerability struck her, reached into a place in her
heart.
Perhaps she made some small noise, for his eyes
opened.
It took a moment for him to focus on her. Then he
jerked upright. “Mama…”
“She’s sleeping,” Constance assured him. “It’s
morning, past nine o’clock.”
He yawned. Then ran a hand around the back of his
neck to ease cramped muscles. The movement
emphasized the breadth of his chest.
Constance transferred her attention to the bed. “She’s
breathing more easily.” The dowager’s lips were pink,
without the blue tinge that so often framed them.
Marcus moved to stand at her shoulder, displacing
cool air with his warmth. Constance’s skin prickled.
Under their combined scrutiny, his mother woke up.
Her eyes widened. “You’ll have me worried I’m
about to die, standing there like a pair of mourners at a
graveside,” she said.
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“You’re not about to die,” Marcus said firmly.
Constance smiled. “You seem well, Mama.” She
wondered if Helen remembered what she’d said last
night about Marcus being unhappy. He’d been visibly
shocked, but no trace of that showed in his face now—
only relief.
Hearing her mistress’s voice, Powell hurried in from
the dowager’s sitting room. “My lady, how are you?”
“I feel…” The dowager stopped. She pressed a hand
to her chest. “I feel… easier here. Powell, I do believe I
could manage some breakfast.”
The maid raced off before her mistress could change
her mind. A few minutes later, wary of tiring the
patient, Marcus and Constance left, too.
“I know one night is too soon to talk of miracles,”
Marcus said as they walked downstairs together—like a
true husband and wife, Constance thought. “But…”
She murmured her agreement. It was tempting to
hope.
Marcus stopped, a stair below her, so the difference
in their heights was greatly reduced.
“I have you to thank,” he said.