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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In her own way, she was as proud as her husband,
Constance realized. She hadn’t seen him in two days,
but she’d been reluctant to reveal that state to the
servants. Now she humbled herself and told Dallow to
ask her husband to see her in the salon on his return
home.
Unfortunately, that necessitated her staying up until
midnight.
“Where have you been?” she asked, the moment he
set foot in the salon. She sounded like a nagging Nellie.
She tried to soften the words with a smile.
He didn’t smile back. “At my club.” His tone said, my
whereabouts are not your concern.
“In mourning?” But the practices of mourning were
far more relaxed for men; she shouldn’t imply criticism.
Constance set down her embroidery. “Marcus, there’s
something I need to say to you. It’s important. Please,
sit.” She let out a breath of relief when he sank onto the
chair opposite. “I owe you an apology.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“It has occurred to me that I’ve judged you too
harshly.”
He froze.
“It wasn’t my intention,” she continued. “I wished
only to share with you what I saw as the essential
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attributes of a strong marriage. I shouldn’t have implied
that you’re in any way not good enough. I imagine that
must have been distressing after the way your father did
the same.”
A frown gathered between his eyes. “My father?”
Oh, dear, she was making a mess of this.
“What could you be implying I’m not good enough
for?” His voice was clipped. “To be the Earl of
Spenford? To save my mother from an untimely death?
Or to marry a humble parson’s daughter?”
“All—I mean, none of those— It’s not about how
good we are. Marcus, please, I’m trying to tell you…”
“That you have finally decided I am acceptable as a
husband?” he said coldly.
“That I love you!” She clapped a hand to her mouth.
She had wanted to gently confess the depths of her
feelings. Instead, she had shrieked them like a banshee.
“We have had this conversation before,” he said
coldly. “It did not please me the first time.”
“That was before I knew you,” she said. “I loved an
image of you that was, in some ways, wrong. But in
other ways very right. As I’ve come to know you, I
have come to love your good points and your bad—that
is, your not-so-good ones.”
“I might have known this would come around to my
defects,” he said.
“You’re the kind man I always thought you, even if
you don’t want to be,” she said. “I love you for your
sense of humor, and your intelligence and your instinct
for goodness.”
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
He shook his head. “I thought I was too proud for
you.”
“You are! But I love that, too. I love that you disdain
caring about others, and yet you do it anyway. I love
when you get that prickly overreaction to an
impertinence, and you look down your nose and you
sound so haughty.”
“You’re mad.” He moved, as if about to stand.
She grasped his arm. “It would only be mad to love
you if you’re still sure you can never love me back,”
she said.
She was mad, to have issued such a challenge.
His face was white, his mouth taut. “I wanted you, as
a husband should want his wife.”
She did not fail to notice his use of the past tense.
“I protected you, I provided for you,” he said. “I have
been faithful to you. I did my best, and it wasn’t good
enough for you, or for God. My mother is dead. So, no,
I have no thought of loving you.”
The words were a stab, calculated to wound. But she
saw the pain in his eyes and her heart broke for him.
“Tell me what I can do for you.”
He stared at her for a long time, as if he couldn’t
quite believe she was offering him anything of herself
after his rejection. Then, he said, “If you truly love
me…”
“I do.”
He stood. “If you truly want what is best for me, you
will leave London and return to Chalmers.”
“Marcus, no!” She wanted to help him, not to leave
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him!
He turned toward the window. “I don’t want the
burden of your love. I want my life as it was…though
of course it won’t include my mother. I want to be busy
with the earldom, to walk among people who value
what I value.”
They were back here, back where they’d been
moments after their wedding, despite all that had
happened in the meantime. To steady the shaking of her
hands, Constance picked up her embroidery—and
promptly jabbed herself with the needle.
“Ah!” Tears, so close to the surface already, flooded
her eyes as she sucked the tip of her finger.
“You’re hurt.” Marcus took a step toward her, then
stopped.
He’d made it plain they owed each other no