knew, though—he wouldn’t bother to
check the status of the connecting door between their
chambers here at Chalmers.
“Mama is fine,” Constance said. “We left early and
took the journey slowly, hence our late arrival.”
An awkward silence fell.
“I’ve been fishing,” he said. He wished he was
carrying the string of fish, so she would see his
prowess. See the provision he’d made for their meal.
“How nice.”
More silence.
Hang it, he’d forgotten to mention he’d taken Harper
fishing. It would sound contrived to do so now.
“The estate looks very beautiful, driving up the
avenue,” Constance said.
“It’s regarded as one of England’s finest.” And he
didn’t care if that sounded proud; he was proud of
Chalmers. “But it’s also my home,” he added, “and I
love it for that.”
“Home is a wonderful thing,” she agreed.
She smiled and her eyes warmed, and Marcus
couldn’t look away.
In that moment he knew just what he should do for
her, by way of a surprise.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Chapter Twenty
It was such nice weather, the dowager had suggested
sitting in the rose garden. Servants had carried out
chairs and a table, and lemonade, setting them in the
shade of a copper beech. Lastly, two footmen had
carried out the dowager countess herself, an undignified
process she’d forbidden Constance to watch.
Once they were settled, Constance was quite content
sitting with her mother-in-law. Despite previously
having refused to rusticate here, she’d fallen in love
with Chalmers. The home was much grander than she
considered necessary, even for an earl, but it felt
welcoming. As for the grounds…if she tried to imagine
the Garden of Eden itself, it could not look too
different.
She sat back in her chair, eyes only half-open,
listening to the chattering song of a sedge-warbler
lurking among the shrubbery. The bird reminded her of
home, of summers spent in the rectory garden with her
sisters. She felt a pang of homesickness.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” Marcus entered the rose
garden from the west portal.
“Marcus, my dear.” His mother stretched out a hand.
He squeezed it, but moved swiftly on to Constance.
Taken by surprise, she was a moment late in extending
her fingers. She received the same squeeze, but it
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seemed to her his hold lingered.
She still felt awkward facing him, having refused him
his conjugal rights. And she was still hopping mad, as
her sister Charity liked to say, that he’d denied having
any feelings for her in the presence of his friends in
Richmond Park.
“Such a scowl,” he murmured, and she realized those
sentiments were written all over her face. “Would it
help if I told you I have a surprise for you?”
Constance should say no, of course, but she hadn’t
received many surprises in her life. “Perhaps,” she said
grudgingly.
His mouth twitched.
Before she could ask what the surprise was, a dog of
indeterminate hue raced through the west portal, and
ran right up to Constance, where it began an
enthusiastic sniffing of her slipper. Instinctively, she
reached down to scratch its ears; it promptly turned its
tongue to her hand.
Something about its multicolored face and eager eyes
struck her as familiar. “This is the dog you saved those
three years ago!” she said. “Marcus, what a wonderful
surprise.”
“Yes,” he said. “And no.”
Still rubbing the dog’s ears, she looked up at him.
“Yes, it’s the same dog,” he explained. “But this isn’t
the surprise—he must have followed me from the
stables. Go away, boy.” But he didn’t sound particularly
anxious to be rid of the dog, which ignored him.
“Clever puppy,” Constance crooned. The pup lay
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
down, rolled on its back, begging to be petted.
Constance obliged. “Aren’t you a beautiful boy?”
Its tail thumped the grass.
“Constance, dear, I hate to contradict you, but that is
a very ugly dog,” the dowager countess said. “Marcus,
did you really save it? When?”
Marcus’s eyes met Constance’s, their expression
rueful. She didn’t want to have the discussion about
how she had fallen in love with him that day, and nor, it
seemed, did he. “A long time ago, Mama,” he said.
“What’s his name?” Constance asked Marcus.
“I believe the stable boys call it Dog.”
She snickered. Excited to hear his name, the dog took
off on a crazy circuit of the garden.
“Marcus, can’t you stop that thing bounding around
my roses?” his mother asked.
“That’s a much better name for him,” Constance
approved. “Bounder.”
The dog turned its attention to Marcus, nuzzling its
head against his boots, then jumping up in excitement
when
Marcus
patted
him
while
grumbling
halfheartedly.
“He dotes on you,” Constance said.
“He needn’t bother,” Marcus said. “It’s not mutual.”
The same thought must have flashed into his mind as
hers, for he looked embarrassed. Constance’s eyes
stung.
“Could we get back to my surprise?” he asked stiffly.
“Oh, yes.” She managed a steady voice. “I’m sorry,
please continue.”
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He gave her that impatient look that she knew meant
he wasn’t dependent on her permission. “I wrote to your
father last week.”
Apprehension curled