The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,65

tuck her hand in his arm

and to pass Reverend Somerton into the care of his own

wife.

The Summer Exhibition room was crammed with

people. Paintings crowded the walls as high as the

ceiling, only inches between them, making it hard to

focus on the attractions of individual works.

Marcus suggested to Constance that they escape the

squeeze, and view one of the permanent exhibits by the

increasingly popular artist, Mr. J. M. W. Turner.

The room dedicated to Mr. Turner’s work was far

quieter. Marcus could see why—he found the paintings

murky.

“This is extraordinary.” Constance stopped in front of

a watercolor titled Hannibal Crossing the Alps.

Marcus squinted, but couldn’t distinguish either

Hannibal or the Alps amidst what seemed to be mostly

gray and black swirls. “It’s very indistinct.”

“But so romantic,” Constance said. “One can feel the

grit, the imminent triumph.”

“Can one?”

“They say Mr. Turner has the ability to elevate

landscapes to the same art as portraits.”

“Really?” Marcus said doubtfully.

Constance swatted his forearm. “There are so many

beautiful paintings at Chalmers. Perhaps you would like

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to add Mr. Turner to your collection.”

“This more interpretative style would be out of

place,” he said. “One can immediately see the talent in

every work in the gallery at Chalmers. With the

exception of the portrait of my great-great-grandfather,”

he added. “Leonardo himself couldn’t have made him

look good.”

But Constance didn’t appreciate his little joke. Her

face stony, she said, “I prefer Mr. Turner’s style. I’m

willing to look beneath the surface to discern beauty.”

Marcus realized that somehow he had offended her.

She was prickly because of Amanda’s presence, he

decided. The troublemaker was on her way over now,

arm in arm with Charity.

“Can you believe these paintings?” Amanda’s eyes

widened fetchingly. “I’ve never seen such a drab mess

of colors in my life—all but a blur. Who could possibly

like them?”

Not for the first time, Marcus understood his wife’s

irritation with the girl. But the way she was babbling, he

guessed she was nervous, that she’d steeled herself to

address him and had dragged her younger sister along

as unwitting moral support. She was bent on making

herself sound smart and sophisticated, and was failing

dismally.

Beside him, Constance had stiffened. Instinctively, he

put a hand to her shoulder. Beneath the brim of her

bonnet, his thumb slid over the knot of muscle at the

nape of her neck. He heard the catch of her breath.

“On the contrary, your sister and I were just admiring

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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE

Mr. Turner’s work,” he told Amanda, undergoing an

instant conversion to admiration of the murkier style of

painting. “He is extremely talented—anyone who

knows the least amount about art will tell you so.”

Constance turned a surprised face toward him.

“Oh,” Amanda said. “Well, Charity agrees with me.”

Marcus smiled at the younger girl, who was blushing.

“It’s natural that a schoolgirl will look to someone

older and wiser for guidance in such matters. But

though you may be older, Amanda, you are far from

wiser.”

He half expected Constance to protest, but she didn’t.

Charity’s mouth had dropped open in astonishment.

Amanda paled. “You shouldn’t—”

“No,” he said, “you shouldn’t. You would do well to

speak only when you have understanding.”

He was aware of Constance, standing stock-still. He

was aware of the skin of her nape beneath his thumb,

aware he did not wish the caress to end.

So he kept talking, addressing himself now to Charity

and ignoring Amanda. He recalled details of Mr.

Turner’s biography, which he had read in the

newspaper, and influences on the man’s talent. By the

time he finished, his audience had expanded to include

Constance’s entire family, not least the dreaded

Reverend Somerton.

Under that man’s scrutiny, Marcus cleared his throat.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if one day he’s more highly

regarded than our greatest portraitists,” he concluded.

“What do you think, my dear?” he asked Constance.

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She blinked up at him, as if mesmerized. It was,

Marcus discovered, a pleasing sensation to have

mesmerized—and silenced!—his wife.

Then she smiled, and the curve of her lips possessed a

beauty he hadn’t previously noticed. “I think you’re

absolutely right,” she said.

“Then it’s true what they say, there is a first time for

every thing,” Marcus teased.

“There must be,” she agreed simply.

Amanda sighed, indicating boredom. Marcus gritted

his teeth. The girl deserved some discipline.

If Marcus and Constance were ever to have a

daughter…

He froze. He had just thought of having children.

With his wife. Indeed, with whom else, he mocked

himself.

Still, for the first time, he could envisage Constance

holding a babe in her arms. Could envisage her

besottedness with the infant. And he wanted to see that.

Wanted to be a part of that tableau.

Could he be starting to care for his wife? To…love

her?

No, that was not in his nature. He certainly wanted to

kiss her again. That was natural between man and wife.

Equally natural was this odd mix of possessiveness and

protectiveness—not so different from