“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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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
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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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
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