the
opera. Might I point out, her behavior bore no
resemblance to the curate’s, which was not flirting. ”
“Lady Annabelle was unsubtle,” Marcus said. “You
need to be able to identify more intelligent flirtation.”
“You are accusing Mr. Robertson, a curate, of
intelligent flirtation. ”
“More intelligent than Lady Annabelle’s,” he said.
“Anything would be,” she agreed. He smiled
The catch of her breath told him his smile affected
her. Which in turn piqued his own attention. He found
his senses on alert, and had to feign relaxation.
“So,” he mused, “where shall we start?”
“I have no desire to indulge in such behavior,” she
said, pleasingly short of breath.
Marcus realized he was enjoying himself…and he
was very much looking forward to flirting with his wife.
“We’d better not attempt too much to start with,” he
said. “After all, you’re the daughter of a country
parson.”
“Hopelessly rustic?” she suggested.
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He scanned the elegant green silk of her dress. “Not
hopelessly.”
“You’re too kind,” she murmured.
“My point is…” He had to think for a moment to
recall his point. Something about his wife’s wide, warm
eyes was distracting him. “My point is, if you can’t
recognize the cleverer kinds of flirting, you may
inadvertently yield to it.”
“Thus damaging the Spenford reputation,” she
suggested.
“It’s possible.” Though in truth he hadn’t thought of
that.
“Men don’t flirt with me, Marcus.”
“The curate did.” He saw a gleam of annoyance in
her eyes, and hurried on. “So did the major. You dance
with men at the parties we attend. Are you telling me
not one has complimented you on your appearance?”
“They’re only being courteous,” she said.
He didn’t know whether to be relieved that gentleman
paid her compliments, or annoyed.
“Has anyone ever complimented you so as to make
you feel uncomfortable?” he demanded, momentarily
dropping their game.
“I did have to tread on Lord Atherton’s toes at the
Ballys’ rout,” she reflected.
Marcus laughed. Old Atherton had a shocking
reputation; he was glad she’d put him in his place.
“Anyone else?”
She shook her head. “The gentleman I stand up with
most is Lord Severn, and he’s never too forward.”
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Severn? My best friend? Come to think of it, Marcus
had noticed his friend dancing with his wife once or
twice. Severn wasn’t a man who danced with women
out of charity. Or out of politeness.
“So…you enjoy Severn’s company?” he asked.
Constance considered the question; Marcus found
himself on tenterhooks.
“He is always interested to talk to me, or at least he
gives that impression,” she said. “And his temperament
is sunny.”
Marcus made a noise in his throat suspiciously like a
growl. No one had ever called him sunny.
Thankfully, Constance didn’t appear to hear.
“Perhaps Lord Severn is a little too sunny,” she
reflected.
“An excess of sunniness can be irritating,” Marcus
agreed.
“He doesn’t appear to think very hard,” Constance
continued.
“You get that with these sunny fellows,” Marcus said,
blithely ignoring that Severn possessed one of the
sharpest minds in England. If his friend chose to
conceal his intellect beneath a frivolous attitude, he
must suffer the consequence.
Marcus made a note to watch his friend when he
danced with Constance in the future.
As they walked, he allowed his fingers to brush hers.
She drew in a sharp breath.
Marcus stared straight ahead as he said, “You should
be aware that when a gentleman touches your hand, like
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
this—” he did it again, producing another little indrawn
breath “—he is flirting.”
“I see,” Constance said, her voice strangled.
They walked on. Occasionally, Marcus’s fingers
brushed hers. The air between them seemed heavy.
Marcus, who always knew the correct thing to say,
wondered where this conversation was going…and why
his brain was sluggish, his tongue too thick in his mouth
to form graceful words.
They stumbled across the copse when he thought it
was still a few minutes away.
He’d been both right and wrong remembering it as
special. The foliage was identical to every other copse
in the park—oaks and pines, bluebells growing at their
base. And yet…
“These trees are older,” Constance said. “Look how
thick they are, how high the canopy.”
Marcus nodded, pleased. “The place feels somehow
majestic, doesn’t it? Inspiring.”
“Inspiring?” She grinned. “Does this mean you plan
to quote poetry, like the major?”
“Some men use poetry as a flirtation device,” he said
dismissively.
“I like poetry,” Constance admitted.
“Others find a well-placed compliment allows a more
personal approach.”
“Too easy to veer into flattery,” she disagreed. “If a
man should wax lyrical over my beauty, I should
consider him a fraud.”
“You mustn’t speak of yourself that way,” Marcus
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said, shocked.
“You consider it too self-effacing for the Spenford
pride?” she asked lightly.
“No!” He stopped, forcing her to do the same.
“Constance, you are the woman God made you. You’re
not a famous beauty, but you have charms that anyone
can see.”
She blinked. Her mouth opened, as if to speak, then
she closed it again.
Somewhere above them a bee buzzed lazily. The
sweet scent of bluebells,