of his troubles, not
the solution.
When he thought of all he’d done—the lengths he’d
gone to to save his mother’s life. And despite the fiasco
of marrying the wrong woman, his plan had seemed to
be working. Seemed, even, as if the outcome might be
happy all around.
Now Marcus cursed himself for the weakness to
which he’d succumbed. Before the ball, he’d caught
himself entertaining idiotic ideas like canceling his
appointments with his steward and his bankers, and
spending time with Constance. Insanity!
With the clarity of hindsight, he could see he might
have been falling in love with her—and he felt like a
man who’d had a narrow reprieve from total loss.
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Marcus had spent years building himself into the perfect
earl; to weaken now, to succumb to infatuation, would
be disaster.
Momentarily, the memory of his wife’s soft mouth
tempted him. He shook off the temptation. The fact
was, his wife had found him lacking from the day of
their wedding and had never allowed him to forget it.
She’d said outright she required him to change in order
to be the man she wanted. In her own way, she was as
demanding as his father.
So the fact that she now was grief-stricken, that she
needed him… Irrelevant.
The roar of the crowd told Marcus the fight had
started. In the ring, Tom Cribb planted an early facer on
his opponent. The crowd roared approval. “He’ll have a
black eye tomorrow,” Harper said with grim
satisfaction.
As the fight ebbed and flowed, punches thrown on
both sides, crowd crowing and groaning, Marcus had
never felt so alone. So bereft.
He hated it.
How had the Earl of Spenford been reduced to this—
this sniveling wreck of his former self?
Ever since he married Constance he’d been gradually
losing control of his carefully guarded emotions, he
realized. All those feelings he’d instinctively known
could derail his stability and that of the earldom had
somehow been given free rein in her presence, and now
they’d taken over his life. It felt as if his mother had
died—had been able to die—because Marcus had lost
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
control.
I’ve been a fool. His head had been turned by a pair
of brown eyes and soft lips. It wasn’t without precedent.
Years ago, weak blood had allowed Marcus’s
grandfather to behave like a lunatic for love. The same
blood coursed through Marcus’s veins.
He knew what he had to do. Undo the damage of the
past few months. Revert to his true self, take rightful
pride in his position, demand the best of everyone. Rely
on himself, and no one else—mortal or divine. His life
worked best that way.
And if that life left no room for a wife like Constance,
then so be it.
In the ring, the hapless loser finally found his mettle
and lunged at his opponent. The punch connected; the
match was over.
“MY LADY, THERE’S a black silk dress here. The
style’s old, but the fabric is in excellent condition.”
Miriam held up the dress for Constance to see.
They were in the dowager’s rooms, sorting out her
belongings. The job rightfully belonged to Powell, but
the maid had been distraught at the mere prospect, so
Constance had given her the day off.
“Quality fabric, indeed. Do you think Powell could
make use of it?” Constance would wear black for six
months, then the lighter colors of half-mourning for
likely another six. She suspected Powell, who’d been
left a generous bequest in the dowager’s will, would
like to do the same.
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“I’ll ask her, my lady.” Miriam set aside the black
dress.
Constance returned to the box of trinkets she was
perusing. The dowager’s will had specified small
bequests to various servants, both money and paste
jewelry. Constance was seeking out the pieces
specified.
She’d told Marcus her intention; he hadn’t quibbled.
Probably because he wasn’t speaking to her.
If only they’d never held that ball! The dowager
wouldn’t have stayed up so late, and might never have
died. Constance wouldn’t have allowed her father to
convince her of Marcus’s love, a conviction now
proven wrong. She would never have lifted the lid off
her own feelings and allowed her own love to spill over.
Because now, she was deeply, truly in love with
Marcus. Just as there seemed less chance than ever he
would return her feelings. What hope was there for
them if they couldn’t talk about anything that mattered?
Constance clicked her tongue. “Why must men be so
thickheaded?”
“Stupid,” Miriam agreed.
For a moment, Constance thought she meant Marcus,
and was about to reprimand her. “You’re referring to
Harper,” she realized.
“Stupid as the day he was born,” Miriam said grimly.
“Blind, too. Can’t see what’s right in front of him.”
“It’s so hard to know what to do with them,”
Constance said. “Does one wait until they get over it?
Or does one confront them?”
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“A girl could be waiting a mighty long time,” Miriam
observed.
“Confrontation, then?” Constance asked.
Miriam snorted.