The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,43
of soundlessly
mouthing the words as he read. Marcus tried not to
watch. When the man had finished, he looked up,
smiling.
“What a wonderful mind your father has, my lady.”
“He certainly does,” the dowager agreed from her
bed. Her voice grew stronger every day.
Constance glowed. “Thank you, Mr. Robertson,
you’re very kind.”
Marcus scowled. The preacher couldn’t have chosen
a better way to win Constance’s favor.
“If we could discuss how your father’s views affect
our understanding of today’s passage,” the curate
prompted.
Constance needed no encouragement to talk about her
confounded father—in moments, an animated debate
was underway. Marcus’s mother took part, and it was a
thrill to see her so alert. Which she had to be, since if
she hadn’t forced herself into the conversation, all the
curate’s attention would have gone to Constance.
The man should be ashamed of himself—how dare he
make eyes at another man’s wife?
Marcus couldn’t fault Constance’s behavior. She was
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doing nothing to attract the clergyman. Indeed, there
was nothing in her to attract the man. Unless he had a
weakness for a fine figure and a stubborn chin.
And a sweet smile.
And an inquiring mind.
And a kind heart.
Entirely possible, Marcus conceded. Constance had
probably been reared to make an excellent wife for a
churchman.
He can’t have her. The moment of possessiveness
surprised him. But it was only natural, he decided. He
hadn’t taken his vows lightly, despite what Constance
might think.
“You have an excellent mind, your ladyship.” The
curate was now groveling as he closed his Bible. The
service was over, Marcus realized.
“You’re too kind, Mr. Robertson.” She extended her
hand to him in farewell.
For one shocked moment, Marcus thought the man
would kiss her fingers, necessitating his swift ejection
from the house.
But it turned out Robertson was only after an
innocent handshake. Marcus was disappointed.
The curate took his leave of the dowager. Marcus
stood at the top of the stairs as Dallow bowed the man
out, and felt better once the curate was off the premises.
He pondered his reaction to the man’s behavior as he
headed for the stables for his morning ride. Constance
had asked if he would object to a gentleman flirting
with her. He’d said he wouldn’t. But now… The
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curate’s not a gentleman, he told himself. He’s not
Constance’s equal, which is why I was disturbed. He
felt vaguely uncomfortable declaring one of God’s
workers to be unequal. Scripture probably had
something to say about that, and no doubt Constance
could quote chapter and verse on the subject.
So if the curate was her equal…did Marcus object to
the man flirting with his wife?
He did, as it turned out.
Rather strongly.
“I THINK I’LL pay a visit to Tom Harper,” the
countess said.
Miriam felt the blood leave her face. She set down
her lady ship’s hairbrush. “Why, my lady, have you
heard that he’s worse?” She’d been worried sick, ever
since she’d heard Tom had influenza.
Lady Spenford met her eyes in the mirror as she said
calmly, “No, Bligh, I believe he is much improved. But
I doubt Lord Spenford has found the time to see him,
and one of us should.”
Miriam pressed a hand to her chest, trying to still its
panicked thudding. “May I come with you, my lady?”
She’d been touched by Tom’s apology to her last
time they spoke, and she’d never showed it. And to
think, he’d been worried about her health, when he
must have been feeling rotten himself. That wasn’t the
behavior of a man anything like her father.
“You realize Harper is still in bed?” the countess
asked.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“I’ve done plenty of nursing of my brothers, my
lady.”
“And Harper is like a brother to you?”
It took Miriam a moment to realize her employer was
teasing.
Certain she was blushing rosily, she said, “Not
exactly, my lady.”
“I shouldn’t tease,” Lady Spenford said. “I know
you’ve been worried, Bligh. It’s partly for your benefit
that I’m planning this visit.”
If that didn’t prove the countess was a true lady,
Miriam didn’t know what did.
And so, on their way out to the shops, dressed in their
outdoor clothing—Miriam with a shawl over her gray
dress and Lady Spenford wearing a dark red spencer
over a white muslin dress—they made their way to the
male servants’ basement quarters.
Miriam had never been down here before—and now
she had, she was very pleased to be female. Better a
poky attic room with some natural light than one of
these dark spaces. And she knew from the other
servants that this was a modern town house, with better
servant accommodations than most.
There was nothing improper about her visiting a male
servant with Lady Spenford, but still, Miriam felt
awkward as they crossed the threshold of Tom’s room.
Until she noticed the chair next to the bed was
occupied by one of the junior housemaids—a girl
Miriam judged too forward by half.
“Mrs. Matlock asked me to bring some soup down