butler here at Chalmers since
before Tom was born. You didn’t tell Buddle
anything—you laid a few words out and the butler
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222
decided if he would pay them any heed.
“Certainly, my lord.”
Lord Spenford picked up a piece of paper from his
dressing table and read from it. “Her ladyship
specifically mentions some rugs, and a pair of wall
hangings. Also some lanterns, brass candlesticks and a
set of stacking bowls.” He offered Tom the paper.
“You’d better take this list.”
“I can remember, my lord.” Blast it, Tom was going
to have to force a comment about the countess into the
conversation, and somehow make it sound natural. He’d
never been good at that kind of thing. But it was the
least he could do for Miriam…and since he wasn’t
prepared to offer her anything else, he would do it.
“I, er, I’ve noticed before that you have a remarkable
memory, Harper.” The earl sounded stilted. Was he
complimenting Tom?
Tom didn’t know where to look. “Too kind, my lord,”
he muttered. The earl looked just as embarrassed.
The awkward compliment could only be the
countess’s influence. Tom should grasp the opportunity
to keep his promise to Miriam.
“It will be nice to see a ball in the London house
again,” he said. “Lady Spenford will be a most gracious
hostess.”
When Lord Spenford stiffened, he realized he’d said
it all wrong. It wasn’t for servants to pass judgment on
their master or mistress. The fact that every servant in
the land did so regularly and brutally in the privacy of
below stairs made no difference.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“Beg pardon, my lord,” he said, aware of sourness
welling inside him. He knew other valets who were
close to their masters. Servants who knew their place,
of course, but that place was one of more-than-servant.
A more-than-servant could have made the comment
Tom just did without causing offense.
Tom had more reason than most to be on close terms
with his master—for years, he’d missed their boyhood
friendship—but Lord Spenford maintained a strict
distance.
Tom had been thrilled to be offered the position of
the earl’s valet. Now, though he’d never give it up, it
wasn’t enough to make him happy. A man’s job
couldn’t be his whole life; he needed connections with
others. But the connections that, apart from his parents,
had meant the most to Tom—the friendship with young
Marcus Brookstone, and his stupidly tender feelings for
Miriam—were beyond his reach.
WATCHING TOM GATHER gloves and a hat, Marcus
wondered why his valet had turned so morose. This was
what Marcus got for trying to cheer the man up in a
misguided attempt to be more Constance-like in his
attitude to his servants: an even worse fit of the sullens.
He felt rather sullen himself, but he wasn’t about to
show it. He had no reason for dissatisfaction; he was an
earl in possession of his noble estate—even if
yesterday’s meeting with his manager had covered
difficult ground. The discussion of the tenants’ rents
and the shortfall between them and the cost of repairs
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would depress anyone.
Occasionally,
at
times
like
this,
Marcus’s
responsibilities weighed too heavily.
He reminded himself how peaceful it was here. No
troublesome wife popping up to ask awkward questions
or blurt out some insult…or to deliver the ultimate snub
of locking her bedroom door against her husband….
He quashed that thought and instead focused on the
more positive fact that these days he didn’t have to
worry about his mother. From the day of his marriage,
that burden had been lifted. First by knowing Constance
cared almost as much as he did for his mother’s well-
being. Then by the improvement Mama had shown
under Mr. Young’s care. Thank You, Lord. He surprised
himself with the spontaneous prayer.
He wondered what Constance was doing right now.
Writing to her precious papa, or stitching that Bible
verse, most likely. He wondered which verse she’d
chosen—he hadn’t wanted to ask in case it was
something intended for his improvement. He hoped she
hadn’t taken a chill—it was noticeably cooler today
than yesterday.
Beyond the window, the skies were a pale, cloudless
blue that promised a return to summer’s heat in the
afternoon. She would probably be fine.
“If you could stop staring at that hat and hand it to
me, Harper, I’ll be on my way,” Marcus said.
“Certainly, my lord.” Harper passed him the hat. The
valet had worn a glum expression ever since they left
London—anyone would think he’d be glad to come to
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
the country, after his illness. Marcus would have liked
to scold him out of his doldrums…but doubtless
Constance would tell him he was inconsiderate, that
something must be bothering Harper for him to drop his
usual prompt, respectful manner.
Marcus wouldn’t put it past her to somehow guess
that he’d scolded his valet—with her tender heart, she’d
expect him to find out what bothered Harper, then to
sympathize.
Much more practical to tell the man that if he knew
what was