The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,51
had tried to help Miriam, taking her to see
Tom. She deserved the same consideration in
return…even if it was presumptuous.
Tom swayed slightly on his feet.
Miriam darted forward and grasped his arm, as if that
could stop him falling over. Despite his illness, the flesh
beneath his jacket seemed firm. Muscled. “You’re not
well.” She pointed to a carved mahogany chest at the
end of Lord Spenford’s bed. “Sit there.”
That he didn’t argue, merely sagged onto the chest,
was a sign of how ill he felt.
“Will you sit with me?” he asked. “There’s room for
two.”
Miriam hesitated a moment before she joined him.
She reminded herself her improved status meant that
even if someone were to catch her sitting here, it would
be no crime on her part.
Tom shuffled along to make room for her. He was
certainly broader than the lad she’d kissed ten years
ago. She hadn’t been this close to him since then. If she
turned her head to the right he could kiss her, soon as
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look at her.
Why would he kiss me, when he made it plain he
considered it a big mistake the first time around? She’d
been fourteen years old, newly employed at the big
house. He’d been seventeen. Already a man in his own
mind, but she still saw the boy she’d tagged after.
When he’d kissed her as they walked home from
church, she’d thought life couldn’t get better than this.
She’d thought it meant he loved her.
Stupid. As they walked, she’d prattled on about
anything and everything, certain he was hanging on her
every word the way she hung on his. And the next day,
he’d been so cool, so distant—it was if their lips had
never touched. He’d never looked at her with that
particular warmth in his eyes again.
Soon after that, Miriam had learned to read—she’d
spent most of her hard-earned wages, the first year,
paying a senior housemaid to teach her, believing that if
she could read, she’d have more chance of
advancement. As she improved, the dowager had lent
her some books, romantic stories, and Miriam learned
that the world was full of girls who naively thought men
had love on their minds, rather than something baser.
She would not be so easily fooled again.
Except…with Tom this close, his mouth right in her
line of vision, her pulse had taken off on an unseemly
romp. His eyes held hers, and that familiar gleam
warmed her up.
“Are you feeling better for sitting?” she asked
quickly.
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“Much.” Yet he sounded hoarse.
Instinctively, she reached out to touch his forehead.
He froze.
His skin was a little too warm, though not
dangerously so. “You have a slight fever,” Miriam
muttered, feeling rather feverish herself, all of a sudden.
He gave the barest nod. “Doctor said I’d have a few
more turns afore this got better.”
Miriam removed her hand from his brow. She didn’t
bother suggesting again that he ask the earl for more
time off. But in her head, she most disrespectfully
castigated Lord Spenford for his intransigence. She’d
read that word in a book last week, and when she’d
mouthed it aloud, the way she thought it should be said,
it had felt perfect.
Tom shifted, as if he was about to stand.
“Maybe if Lord and Lady Spenford were happier in
their marriage,” Miriam said quickly, with a meaningful
glance toward the connecting door, “they might not stay
out so late at night. Then we wouldn’t be so tired, and
you wouldn’t be ill.”
“No point wishing that,” he said. “Not when they’re
unequally yoked.”
“They’re what?” Miriam knew the scripture
reference, but couldn’t see how it applied here.
“How can a marriage work when a man and a woman
are so different?” he said.
“They’re of the same class,” Miriam said. “They’re
both Christians.”
“He’s the Earl of Spenford,” Tom said, as if that
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made any amount of intransigence acceptable. “He
heads one of the noblest families in England, presides
over large estates, has all the bearing of his station. She
is the daughter of a parson, country-raised, without
fortune, without presence.”
“What does that matter?” she demanded. “We’re all
equal in God’s eyes. You, me, the earl, the countess.”
He drew in a shocked breath. “You’ll not go setting
yourself up the equal of your mistress.”
“Not in this world, no,” she agreed. She grinned. “But
in the next…just watch how I swan around in my fine
white robes!”
He shook his head, disapproving, but amused.
“We can’t do much about the countess’s lack of town
polish, or noble lineage—though she’s wellborn
enough,” Miriam added. “But her presence—that’s my
job.” She admitted the truth: “I’m not good enough.”
“You put things together not too badly,” he said.
It was such faint praise, yet more than she deserved.
Miriam didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She settled
on a watery chuckle.
“Her ladyship’s hair could be more artful,” Tom said.
“Trouble is, you’re