they’re of less importance to
you than your pride and your reputation.” Even now,
she found herself blinking back tears.
Again, a bitten-off oath from Marcus. But he didn’t
argue. Because they both knew, those things were more
important to him.
After some moments, he said tightly, “I apologize for
hurting your feelings.”
“Is your jaw uncomfortable from gritting your teeth
so hard?” Constance inquired.
She was rewarded with a thump on the panel nearest
her ear.
“You are my wife,” he said. “You wish to have
children, and so do I. This is our duty before God.”
She pressed her lips together. Nothing worse than
having one’s own words thrown back at one. “Did you
consult God at all in this matter?” she asked, aware she
sounded priggish.
His silence was her answer.
Then he said, “You promised to obey me. As your
husband, I command you to unlock this door.”
A part of her dearly wanted to. She wanted to be a
true wife, to comply with her vows. If she unlocked the
door, Marcus would come in. He would kiss her again,
and she would not be able to resist.
In the end, she would give herself to a man who did
not value the gift the way he should. The way God
intended.
And yet…he was right. She had promised to obey. A
physical union was part of marriage, and Marcus had
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every right to demand it.
Guide me, Lord, please.
The door handle rattled again.
Constance grasped the key. “Very well,” she said, “I
will open the door if you wish.”
He muttered something that might have been, About
time.
“But let us be quite clear,” she said.
He groaned.
“You are ordering me to obey you.”
“That’s right,” he said with a patience she knew was
feigned.
She half turned the key. “So you understand I am
opening the door out of obedience?”
“Yes.” But he sounded uncertain.
“And nothing more,” she said.
A pause. “What do you mean?”
“I will be united with you as your wife out of
obedience. If that is enough for you, then so be it.”
ON THE OTHER SIDE of the door, Marcus paused.
He’d been about to issue an order to open up
immediately. But what was Constance saying? And
why had he married such a devious woman whose
every utterance required careful interpretation? Who
took such easy offense.
Though, perhaps he had not been entirely considerate
in his choice of words earlier.
Still, he was her husband. And right now, he was
expected to tolerate a wife with strong views—regularly
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expressed—as to his deficiencies, while enjoying none
of the pleasures of the married state.
It wasn’t fair.
He’d kissed his wife today and realized he wanted to
know her the way only a husband can. Right now, with
the moonlight slanting mysterious and silver across the
room, with his wife, and the marriage bed, just inches
away, that interest became urgency.
He would have her.
Constance had said she would obey. That was
enough.
Wasn’t it?
Marcus recalled her sweet, willing response to his
kiss. And realized he would not wish for less than that
willingness.
Confound it!
“Marcus?”
Her anxious query told him he’d thumped the door
with his fist. He dropped his hand to his side.
“Your obedience is no longer required,” he said.
Silence.
He pressed his ear to the door.
There came a faintly discernible, “Why not?”
Now she wanted to talk about it?
“I shall not trouble you on this matter again,” he said
against the wood. He imagined the words vibrating into
her little ear. And suddenly, he couldn’t bear to leave
things there. “If you wish me to come to your
chamber,” he said, “you will need to invite me.”
A part of him hoped she would invite him that very
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moment. Not out of duty or obedience, but out of… Not
love. He didn’t want love. But more than obedience.
“Good night, Marcus.” The farewell seemed right
against his ear where it pressed the wood.
Marcus sighed. He spread his fingers on the panel,
imagined her fingertips against his. “Good night,
Constance.”
He lingered there another moment, but there was only
silence.
He hoped she was satisfied.
Because he most certainly wasn’t.
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Chapter Seventeen
Miriam directed the chambermaid to hurry about her
work making the countess’s bed.
“I have three changes of clothes to lay out for the
day,” she scolded the girl, who was being remarkably
slow. “You’re in my way.”
“Sorry, Miss Bligh,” the girl muttered, her
accompanying glance more resentful than regretful.
Miriam puffed out a breath. “No, I’m sorry. I’m a
regular grouch this morning, Katie. Don’t mind me.”
Katie grinned. “For a moment I thought you were
turning all high-and-mighty on me, like Mr. Harper.”
Miriam shuddered. “Heaven forbid. No, my problem
is lack of sleep, that’s all.”
“Still, at least with Mr. Harper, it’s the face of an
angel scolding you,” Katie said dreamily. “You can
forgive him anything.”
“Whereas I have the face of a bran-cake, I suppose,”
Miriam said tartly.
Katie clapped a