affection for one another.”
Lady Bracken tittered. Constance waited for Marcus
to deliver one of his ever-so-polite set-downs.
With what seemed to her showy deliberation, he
pulled his fingers from hers.
No! Constance’s gaze flew to his face…and found it
stony. Don’t do it, she cajoled him silently.
“My wife is young,” he said, his tone languid with
disinterest. “It does no harm to humor her.”
Constance’s jaw sagged; quickly, she snapped it shut.
Humor her? He had kissed her with such tenderness,
held her hand with affection, and now he dared claim he
was humoring her?
I am his wife! I am entitled to his affection!
That, it seemed, didn’t matter. When they returned to
the lawn where the groom was setting up the picnic,
Marcus joined the men and was in no time engrossed in
a discussion of some upcoming horse race. The women,
treating Constance with amused but nonmalicious pity,
engaged in an animated conversation about the latest
styles in half boots.
Constance stood alone. Dismissed.
THEY ATE A quiet dinner at home that evening.
Marcus had planned to attend the Travers’s rout, but
those plans had changed. Constance agreed with his
decision to stay at home, as he expected. After all, she
had told him as plainly as a lady could without uttering
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indelicate words that she wished their marriage to be
established completely.
As did he. More than he would have believed
possible, he wanted to be in union with his wife.
All through the long ride home from Richmond Park,
the men on their horses, the ladies in the coach, Marcus
had remembered that kiss. And thought of where it
would rightly lead. He’d pictured Constance in the
coach, talking with the other women, her mouth
smiling, her brown eyes warm, her thoughts elsewhere.
She’d been quiet when he’d handed her into the
vehicle—as distracted as he, despite Bracken’s tasteless
comment necessitating a sharp rebuff.
It is time, he told himself, as he ate the dinner Cook
had prepared with less than his usual interest. They had
committed to a lifetime together, committed before
God.
When Constance went upstairs early, at nine-thirty,
Marcus took his cue from her and followed soon after.
Anticipation fizzed in his veins as he prepared for
bed.
“That will be all, Harper.” He dismissed his valet.
It seemed to take an age for the man to leave the
room. It had required all Marcus’s willpower to keep
his gaze from the door that connected his chamber to
Constance’s, from making his intention embarrassingly
obvious.
Once he was certain Harper wouldn’t return for some
forgotten item, Marcus took a step in the direction of
her door. It occurred to him to ask God’s blessing on
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the union…but he was at the door now, and he didn’t
want to waste another moment. His wife would
doubtless have done all the praying they needed.
He pictured her waiting for him. Innocent and eager.
Anticipation rose. It was past time for this.
The door handle was cool beneath his grip. Marcus
turned it, and pushed.
The door didn’t open.
Odd. Still, it hadn’t been used in years; perhaps the
wood had swelled in the damp of many winters. He
pushed harder; it didn’t budge. He didn’t want to do
anything so undignified as put a shoulder to it…or so
embarrassing as summon a servant to help.
Then it dawned on him. It may be locked. Having
been unused so long, there was every chance it had at
one stage been locked and left that way.
Marcus rapped his knuckles against the door.
“It’s locked,” Constance said, so close to the door
that he jumped.
“Is the key in the lock?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes.”
Knowing she was only inches away had set his heart
thumping. “Can you turn it?” The words came out
slightly hoarse.
“I can,” she said.
He waited.
“But I won’t.”
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Chapter Sixteen
Constance pressed her palm to the door to steady the
tremor in her hand. Beyond these two inches of wood
was her husband. Wanting admittance to her chamber.
The admittance she had by implication agreed to grant.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, his voice low and
intimate.
He hadn’t even realized how he had hurt her! He was
insufferable.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said.
“What?” The door handle rattled. “Constance, open
the door, so we can talk.”
“No,” she said. “And the door to the landing is
locked, too, so don’t bother trying that.”
A muffled imprecation told her she’d thwarted his
next strategy. “Constance, what’s going on?” he said,
impatient.
She bunched her nightdress between her fingers as
she pressed her mouth to the crack where the door met
the jamb. “You dismissed me as of no account to your
friends today.”
“What? When? I didn’t—” he broke off.
So, he remembered.
“That wasn’t dismissing you,” he said gruffly. “It’s
no one else’s business that my wife and I kissed.”
“You made me look stupid. You made it clear my
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feelings are not yours, that