The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,42

“Believe me, you have

my sincere gratitude.” His gratitude wasn’t what she

wanted. Maybe, if she’d allowed Bligh a few minutes to

style her hair more becomingly… Too late now. “It’s

Mr. Young who deserves your thanks,” she pointed out.

“He will have them,” Marcus said. Almost, but not

quite, humbly, he added, “I apologize for doubting you,

Constance.”

She almost tripped and fell down the stairs. Not at the

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apology—he had called her Constance! Although he’d

referred to her by her Christian name to his mother,

he’d never directly addressed her thus.

Marcus grasped her elbow. They finished their

descent of the grand staircase joined like that.

THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, Marcus decided his

mother’s continued improvement required suitable

thanks to the Maker. He would attend the worship

service held in Mama’s bedchamber each week. He’d

never particularly enjoyed the sermons of Mr.

Robertson, the curate from St. George’s who came in to

preach and administer the sacrament. But an hour of

tedium, even one starting at the surely ungodly hour of

nine o’clock, was a small price to pay: his mother felt

so well, she’d declared her intention of coming

downstairs one day soon. Mr. Young had been visiting

daily, and according to his stethoscope, the dowager’s

pulse had slowed almost to normal. Even the fact that

Mr. Bird had washed his hands of his patient when he’d

heard of her experimental treatment couldn’t dampen

the mood of optimism.

Marcus arrived in his mother’s room to find

Constance there already. He was almost accustomed

now to having her around the house, and accompanying

him in the evenings. He nodded a greeting, not wishing

to interrupt the curate’s conversation. She did have a

nice smile, nice lips, he observed. Some people might

think her bottom lip should be fuller, but he liked its

ready curve. He found himself smiling back at her.

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“If your lordship is ready, we will begin.” The curate

glanced at his watch, as if they were all champing to say

their prayers.

Pestifying man—he had such an air of zeal about

him. Marcus formed a reply that would set him in his

place…but then he noticed the cocking of Constance’s

head. She was probably expecting him to deliver a

snub, and would use it to confirm her outrageous view

that Marcus was too proud. “By all means,” Marcus

said with extreme grace.

Constance dropped her gaze to her Bible. Ha!

The warm glow of defeating his wife’s expectations

sustained Marcus through the first prayers, including

the reciting of the Lord’s Prayer. Constance had a fine

voice, he noticed. Clear and warm. No wonder his

mother liked to have her at her bedside.

Then it was time for the sermon. The curate set down

his prayer book. “If it pleases your lordship, in recent

weeks we’ve taken the liberty of dispensing with a

formal sermon, and instead discussed the reading from

the New Testament.”

That must be Constance’s doing. Any woman who

could convince a preacher to forgo a long-winded

sermon was a jewel in Marcus’s estimation. “By all

means,” he agreed.

“My lady, will you read the verses to us? Here, use

my Bible. It’s open at the correct place.” As the curate

handed his Bible to Constance, his fingers brushed hers.

Constance seemed oblivious, but Mr. Robertson

blushed.

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Blushed?

Marcus’s gaze sharpened on the man as Constance

began reading. The curate’s eyes were fixed on

Marcus’s wife. Twice, he closed them briefly, as if

transported to some delightful place. A spiritual place,

Marcus assured himself. The curate could have no

interest in the countess.

Half an hour later, he revised that opinion. The curate

was more than interested in the countess. He hung on

her every word as if she were wisdom personified.

Constance did have some interesting views on the

scripture under discussion. Irritatingly interesting—

Marcus had no firm opinion of his own to defend, and

didn’t want to discuss something of which he wasn’t

entirely certain.

No doubt Constance would deem that a sign of his

pride.

He rolled his eyes as the curate entreated her to see

his point of view. If the man had more gumption,

Constance would be less inclined to question him!

Though perhaps that wasn’t true—she questioned

Marcus all the time.

“Sir, I cannot,” she said with good humor. “I wrote to

my father after we talked last week, and here is his

reply.” She pulled a folded piece of paper from a pocket

concealed in the rose-pink silk dress that suited her

complexion, and handed it to Mr. Robertson. “I hope

you don’t mind my asking his opinion?”

“My lady, I’m honored that you considered my views

worthy of bringing to your esteemed father’s attention,”

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Mr. Robertson said.

Sycophant! Marcus thought. What was Constance

doing, writing to her father about the preacher, anyway?

Did she write about Marcus, her husband, too?

If so, what did she say?

Suddenly, Marcus wasn’t sure he wanted to be the

subject of her letters.

The curate had an annoying habit