your judgment is
somewhat misguided?”
Her eyes narrowed. “My judgment is not misguided.”
He chuckled. “Now, what else do I like?” he mused.
As he contemplated her, tension rose. Was he taking
so long because he couldn’t think of anything, or just to
tease her?
“My determination?” she suggested, helping him
along.
He shook his head. “I do not like that. What else did
you ask about? Ah, yes, affection.”
Constance’s stomach lurched.
His gaze drifted past her, to the fireplace. Above the
mantelpiece, she knew, hung a portrait of his father. A
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man who would surely have despised her as an unfit
bride for the Earl of Spenford.
Marcus’s voice was clipped as he said, “I have
affection for you, Constance.”
Constance started. “You do? But…what…”
“You will need to take my word on this,” he said
haughtily. “I don’t wish to discuss the particulars.”
She had no idea what he meant. Was it the kind of
affection he showed Bounder—Marcus tolerated
Bounder when he was in the room, and forgot his
existence when he wasn’t—or was it something more?
“So this regard, this affection will be visible to my
family?” she asked.
“I don’t believe in showing my feelings in public,” he
said.
She gritted her teeth. “My family is your family.
They are not public. ”
He crossed one leg over the other. “Will your family
see affection from you to me, Constance? Or will they
observe nothing other than disapproval and a desire to
contradict me?”
“That’s not how I behave,” she said. Was she like
that? She knew she could be stubborn and she had
expectations of how a husband should be… Goodness,
I’m just like Marcus! Fixed in my views, quick to judge.
“Marcus, I’m sorry,” she said. “The last thing I would
want is to insult you in front of my family.”
“Expedient for you to reach this conclusion now,
when you’re negotiating my cooperation,” he observed.
“You know I wouldn’t do anything out of
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
expediency,” she retorted. “And I have for you all those
things you have for me—admiration, liking, affection—
doubtless in far greater degree.”
“Doubtless,” he said, “since you are so much worthier
a person than I.”
But he was smiling.
“I admire your care for your mother,” she said,
though he hadn’t asked. “Also, the consideration that
prompted you to order a carriage for my parents. I like
your humor—sometimes just thinking about things
you’ve said makes me smile.”
His chin drew back; he eyed her with suspicion, as if
she might be jesting.
“I like to have you beside me,” she said. “Even when
we’re arguing, I prefer your company above others.”
That was a big admission, so she hurried past it. “I like
that you took Harper fishing.”
To her surprise, he reddened. “You heard about that?”
“Bligh told me.” She pleated the muslin of her skirt
beneath her fingers, an attention Bligh wouldn’t
appreciate later when she had to deal with the wrinkles.
“As for affection…” She paused.
“There is really no need to elaborate,” Marcus said
coolly.
But Constance saw the flash of need in his eyes, and
once again felt awful that she had shown him so much
criticism, and little affection. The very thing his father
had done—that her own motive was self-defense didn’t
excuse her.
“I have affection for your contradictions,” she said.
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“That your worst qualities are also your strengths—
your certainty, your authority.”
“I see,” he said, so slowly it was plain he didn’t see.
“But mostly, my affection is because you are you.”
His brows knit. “You mean, I’m your husband, so
affection is your duty?”
“I mean,” she said, “I have affection for Marcus
Brookstone, the man. Regardless of whether you are my
husband or not, I have affection for you. Regardless of
all circumstances.”
He seemed to catch his breath. Then he said lightly,
“You astound me. Even if I were the husband of
another woman?”
“Of course not!” She started to laugh.
“So what you are saying, wife, ” he said, and a shock
went through her, “is that you and I have enough regard
to put aside our differences when your family is here,
and focus on those things that promote unity.”
“Yes,” she said, though it fell short of what she might
have hoped for. “Please.”
He took her hand. Shook it. “Then it’s agreed. We
have a truce.”
“CONSTANCE,
MY
DARLING!”
Her
mother
enveloped her in an embrace as welcome as it was
stifling.
Constance hugged her back, not caring that they were
in the public eye, outside the house on Berkeley Square,
her family fresh out of the coach.
“It’s wonderful to see you all.” In that moment,
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Constance meant it. “Isabel, how are you?” She
embraced Isabel. “I feel as if I haven’t seen you for
years, not weeks. And you, sweet Charity, I’ve missed
your encouraging words.” As she hugged her youngest
sister, she was aware of Amanda alongside. The
upwelling of anger took her by surprise. No, she had not
forgiven Amanda, even though Amanda had