The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,47
mixed with crisp pine, hung in
the air.
“If you were flirting,” Marcus prompted her, “you
would ask me to list those charms.”
His eyes held hers, and he was conscious of a strange
sense of anticipation. She licked her lips.
“Will you?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Will you list those charms?
His head swam, as if the heat of the sun had blasted
its way through the canopy. It felt as if the words he
chose now would mean something far more than the
combination of vowels and consonants. Lord, may I
choose well.
He scrutinized Constance’s face. “Your forehead is
clear and honest.”
No mistaking the flash of disappointment.
“A wonderful attribute in a chambermaid,” she said.
She was right. He grimaced, and tried again.
“Your wit is sometimes subtle, sometimes not, yet
always intelligent.”
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Her eyes widened. “Thank you.” She would have
walked on, but he held up a hand to stop her.
“A list is more than two items,” he said. He settled on
her visage again. “Your eyebrows have a fine arch.
Your eyes are expressive, as I have told you before.
They convey warmth and compassion, two qualities that
are very appealing. Your nose is straight and true—
neither too big nor too small.” He considered it, then
nodded once. “All in all, I consider it a fine nose.”
“Thank you.” Her lips curved, drawing his attention.
“Your mouth has proven adept at delivering the set-
downs you deem necessary to keep a man’s pride in
check,” he said. “But when I look at your lips, I
see…softness.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Then I glance just an inch or two lower, and
encounter that chin.” He touched his thumb to her chin.
She stilled. “So much stubbornness, so much
determination in one little chin,” he mused.
“Stubbornness is not considered an attractive quality
in a woman,” she said. “Not by most men.”
“Yet some men,” he said, “might find the contrast
between such a chin and the soft lips above it
intriguing.”
Her entire face reddened. “You—you are indeed an
accomplished flirt, sir.”
Marcus didn’t feel accomplished. He felt like a boy
just out of the schoolroom, with no lessons learned that
could help him here.
I will kiss her. Had he known all along, deep down,
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that this was his plan? Marcus couldn’t say—he only
knew that he had to kiss her right now. He settled his
hands at Constance’s waist, anchoring her. Her eyes
widened. He lowered his mouth to hers.
Sweet was the word that filled his head, like the swell
of flutes in a Mozart concerto. After a moment of
shock, she responded, and sweet became seeking and
finding.
Right.
When Marcus lifted his head, he was shocked to find
himself none too steady. Constance quivered in his
hold.
“Marcus?” she whispered.
He cleared his throat. “We’d best return to the others.
They’ll be wondering where we are.”
She nodded.
He took her fingers, and they started on the way back,
her slender hand tucked tight in his.
AS THEY WALKED, Constance hardly dared breathe.
That kiss…so tender and yet underpinned by some
stronger emotion. Her mouth still tingled.
And now, Marcus held her hand…. She curled her
fingers more tightly in his, as if to convince herself the
contact was real.
It felt like a miracle. As if God had answered her
prayers and opened her husband’s eyes to the
possibilities of a true marriage. To kiss her like that, he
must feel something for her. At least the seeds of love
that might grow into something as strong and
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dependable as these ancient oaks.
Please, let it be so.
“Constance,” Marcus said suddenly. He stopped, and
his grip on her hand forced her to stop, too.
When he said no more, just stood staring down at her,
she asked, “What is it?”
His gaze alighted on her lips, as if he might kiss her
again. Instead, he took her other hand in his.
“It is time…” He hesitated. “I am your husband, you
are my wife. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Yes! He was saying he cared for her, and now he
wished to make their marriage real!
Overwhelmed, she nodded.
Pleasure, and gratitude, filled his face. He lowered his
mouth toward hers.
“There you are!” Lucinda exclaimed, as she and Lady
Bracken emerged around a twist in the path, closely
followed by Lord Bracken and Jonathan.
The whole party came to a halt as Marcus sprang
back from Constance.
“Oh, my,” Lucinda trilled. “We’re intruding on the
love-birds.”
“I say, Spenford,” Lord Bracken said, “can’t go
treating your wife like some little housemaid.”
His ribald comment—and the suggestion a gentleman
could force his attentions on a servant—made
Constance flinch. Marcus’s face had darkened—he was
equally outraged. Constance reached for his hand—the
eyes of everyone in their party moved to their joined
fingers. She didn’t care. Marcus had claimed her as his
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wife with that kiss.
“Surely, Lord Bracken,” she said, “a husband and
wife may show their natural