The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,72
twice with
Severn, and had been forced to warn his friend to be
more moderate in his attentions. Severn had had a good
laugh at that. But now, it was Marcus’s turn to dance
with Constance, and he would enjoy it to the full.
He found her talking to elderly Lady Gage, who
wielded her ear trumpet as a lethal weapon. When
Constance caught sight of him, her face lit up. Marcus
had the strangest sensation in his chest, a warmth that
swelled and lingered.
“My dance,” he said. It was far from gracious, but
due to that chest contraction and the ensuing lack of air
in his lungs, those were all the words he could muster.
She didn’t seem to mind. She slipped into his arms as
if God had made her for that very purpose.
Maybe He had.
Marcus turned the thought over in his mind and found
he rather liked it. The music swelled, and they began to
move.
It took a few moments for him to realize Constance
wasn’t her usual, talkative self. “Is everything all
right?” he asked.
She nodded. Then she moved closer to him,
convincing him of her reply.
They waltzed the length of the room, Marcus
enjoying the sensation of her body pressed to his, the
clasp of her fingers. It dawned on him the top of her
head was precisely the right height for him to drop a
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
kiss there—how could he not have noticed before? As
they executed a turn that put his back to the rest of the
room, he experimented. Yes, indeed, the perfect height.
His kiss had not gone unnoticed. Constance raised her
gaze to him. She looked almost shy, which he wasn’t
accustomed to with her.
“Marcus,” she said, “I’ve been thinking.”
His heart sank. Her thinking usually involved some
defect in his personality that required rectifying. Or
some homily from her father that he would feel
compelled to live up to. But her eyes were anxious, so
he said, “What is it?” with as much grace as he could
dredge up.
“You said…” She paused. “A while ago, you said I
must invite you to my bedchamber. If I wanted you
there.”
This was what she wanted to talk about? Here? Now?
Marcus’s jaw sagged as her parents—her parents, hang
it!—whirled past them.
“Do you remember?” Constance asked.
He nodded. How could he forget, when the hope of
that invitation was never far from his mind?
She licked her lips, those lips he’d kissed not nearly
enough. “I am inviting you,” she said.
It took a second for her words to sink in. Then
Marcus found himself grinning, out of control. He
pulled Constance closer, delighted in the tremor that
shook her. “Tonight?” he murmured against her ear.
He felt rather than saw her nod.
Tonight.
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Chapter Twenty-Five
Constance dismissed Miriam the moment her
nightdress was on and her hair brushed. She’d already
heard Harper’s heavy tread pass her door. She waited
until Miriam had had time to reach the servants’
staircase. Then, pulling on her dressing gown, she went
to the connecting door and unlocked it.
She felt no nervousness at the prospect of uniting
with the husband she loved, and who loved her back.
How long would it be before he felt confident enough to
admit it to himself, she wondered. How long before he
would admit it to her?
It doesn’t matter. It is the heart that matters.
When she opened the door, Marcus was waiting, still
in his evening clothes. He took a step toward her, then
another. Then she was in his arms and he was kissing
her with a ferocity that startled, but did not shock her.
“My sweet Constance,” he murmured against her lips.
“My wife. How I have longed for this.”
“I, too.” She kissed him back, until his mouth grew
more tender, his pace adjusting to her inexperience.
A loud pounding on the door of his chamber broke
them apart. Marcus sprang back. “Who is it?” he
barked.
“My lord, it’s Dallow.” The butler sounded agitated.
“Your mother…my lord, please come.”
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Even before Constance had drawn in a breath of
alarm, Marcus had reached his bedroom doorway. He
wrenched open the door. From where she stood,
Constance could see Dallow’s face, ashen. He was
saying something about the dowager, about her ringing
for help, then falling.
Lord, no, please.
She hurried into Marcus’s room, her dressing gown
more than proper enough to be seen by the butler. “I’m
coming with you,” she told Marcus.
He didn’t look at her as he strode to his mother’s
rooms, the other side of the landing. The door stood
ajar, sobbing came from the bedroom. They found
Powell, kneeling on the floor, cradling the dowager’s
head in her lap.
“I’ve sent the carriage for Mr. Young,” Dallow said
quickly.
Marcus scooped his mother up from the floor and
gently set her on the bed. He motioned Powell to
silence as his fingers felt for a pulse in the dowager’s
wrist.
The eyes