The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,70
such gravity, she thought he
was going to confess to being that Clapham Common
Killer that had been in all the newspapers, “I can’t
read.”
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Can’t read what?” Miriam asked, confused.
Tom stared at her, wild-eyed. “Nothing! At least,
almost nothing. I can’t write, either.”
“But…” None of this made sense. “You’re a valet.
You must be able to read.” She realized immediately
she’d said the wrong thing. His face turned red as a
radish. “I mean, his lordship must sometimes need you
to…” She trailed off, her mind boggling at the idea of
Tom Harper, the man she’d idolized forever, not being
able to read or write.
“I learned to remember well,” he said. “If Lord
Spenford tells me a list of items he needs, I memorize
it. I can read numbers, and a lot of street names—I
know the shape. As for the post—letters from the
peerage bear a family crest, so I can tell who they’re
from.”
“I know the old earl didn’t bother much with school
for his tenants’ children,” Miriam said, “but couldn’t
you have learned later?” Like I did.
“My dad tried to teach me my letters, but I wasn’t
any good at it. You see,” Tom said bitterly, “you
already think differently of me. I knew, when I kissed
you back then and you started telling me all your plans
for educating yourself… I knew your view of me would
change if you knew I couldn’t read.”
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“It hasn’t changed,” she protested. Halfheartedly. It
wasn’t Tom’s fault he couldn’t read…but it did mean
he wasn’t quite the man she’d thought he was. She
pondered, just a few seconds, but long enough. “It
doesn’t change my feelings,” she said, and meant it.
“Not right now, maybe,” Tom said. “But it will one
day, when the excitement’s worn off, and then—” His
voiced hitched. “Then you’ll despise me, Miriam Bligh,
and I couldn’t live with that.”
Before she could argue…before she knew what to
say…he wheeled around, pushed open the door, and
left.
CONSTANCE HAD JUST finished her second dance
of the evening with Marcus. As she’d predicted, it took
place in the middle of the evening—which in this case
happened to be midnight.
The ballroom was stifling hot, thronging with people.
Surely all three hundred invited guests had turned up!
When the music finished, they wended their way
through the crowd to the dowager.
“Mama, how do you feel?” Marcus asked.
“Never better.” Helen smiled at her own exaggeration
as she fanned herself with a fan of palest gray kid. “This
is quite the most successful ball I’ve given, and it’s you
who makes it so, Constance.”
“That’s kind of you, Mama, but an outright lie.”
Helen chortled. “I mean it! Sally Jersey tells me you
said that the blue of her dress doesn’t suit her.”
Constance winced. She sensed Marcus’s shocked
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gaze on her. “Lady Jersey said it first.” Goodness, it
sounded like one of the frequent squabbles she’d had
with Amanda, which they’d run to their mother to
resolve. “I tried to demur, but Lady Jersey practically
ordered me to agree. Besides, she was right. Even I,
who know little of fashion, could see the color was
insipid.”
“Sally said she wishes her friends had been as
honest,” Helen said. “She’ll likely tell everyone the new
countess is a very good sort of woman. Which in the
ton’s book is a triumph.”
“Were you as honest with Lady Jersey, Mama?”
Marcus asked.
“Of course not.” Helen’s smile was almost impish. “I
told her the blue looks wonderful. She all but rapped
my knuckles with her fan, she was so annoyed.” She
chuckled.
Marcus shook his head, clearly mystified by the rules
of female friendship.
“Now, you must excuse me,” Helen said. “I promised
Mr. Young I would retire by midnight, and I see it is
past that hour.” She stifled a yawn, and suddenly looked
exhausted.
“I’ll help you upstairs,” Marcus offered. He glanced
at Constance. “We’ll help you.”
“That will only draw attention. I’d rather leave
quietly.” Helen did let him help her stand. “Wave to
that footman, darling. He can help me.”
Marcus did so. When the footman and one of his
colleagues had the dowager literally in hand, he kissed
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his mother’s cheek. “Good night, Mama.”
She touched his shoulder, then Constance’s, with her
fan. “Promise me the two of you will waltz together
again before the night ends.”
“I promise,” Marcus said.
When she was gone, Constance said, “Do you think I
should apologize to Lady Jersey about her blue dress?”
The woman had unrivaled power in the ton. If she gave
Constance the cut, her social life would be over,
countess or no. At least, her social life among the
people who mattered to Marcus.
“It sounds as if she liked your bluntness,” he said.
“She said she did,” Constance admitted.
“How odd, to like such a thing,” he said lightly.
Something passed between them, a connection so
fleeting, but so powerful, Constance