The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,78
duty of
care.
“Yes, I am hurt,” she said. His wince said he realized
she didn’t refer to the needle prick. “But that—” she
drew a shuddery breath “—that is not your concern.
Tomorrow I will have Bligh pack my things. On
Thursday I will leave for Chalmers.”
If she’d hoped he would change his mind, she was
disappointed.
Marcus bowed, and left the room.
HAD ANY WOMAN been ejected from her marriage
in such sumptuous style as Constance was?
The coach had been freshly painted, the cushions
upholstered in new royal-blue velvet.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“My lady, this looks very nice.” All morning, Miriam
had been trying to raise Constance’s spirits. Quite a
challenge when her own eyes were red-rimmed. The
words rang hollow.
“Very fine,” Constance agreed, equally hollow.
“This is for the best, my lady,” Miriam said.
“Distance and time can be marvelous healers. And we’ll
sleep better in the country,” she added forlornly.
Dallow had informed her they would travel as far as
Chertsey today, and would stop at the Lion & Unicorn
for the night. Marcus had bespoken a private parlor for
her there.
Her trunks and Miriam’s valise were strapped on the
back, the liveried coachmen ready. Dallow stood at
attention, ready to farewell her.
Where was Marcus?
Surely he wouldn’t let her leave without saying
goodbye.
Just when Constance had dallied as long as she
reasonably could, adjusting her bonnet, checking the
contents of her reticule, the front door opened and
Marcus appeared.
“You are ready?” he asked.
Constance nodded, her eyes full of mute appeal that
he ignored. In her black dress and bonnet, she doubtless
looked as colorless as when she had arrived here.
He descended the steps. “I wish you a pleasant trip,
my lady.”
Anxiety crossed his features. Was that because she’d
once threatened to go kicking and screaming? Was he
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worried she would make good on that threat now?
She would not.
She didn’t understand God’s plan, nor His timing.
But she understood her husband didn’t love her and
intended never to do so. Perhaps it was her fault,
marrying him out of a stubborn adherence to her
youthful infatuation, rather than seeking divine
guidance and leaving her feelings out of it.
It made no difference now.
She held out a hand to him. “Goodbye, Marcus.”
He took her gloved fingers, stared down at them, then
lifted her hand to his lips, an old-fashioned courtesy.
“Constance…” he said, before he met the hurt in her
eyes, and flinched.
“Let us acknowledge this is the end,” she said. “You
made your choice. I accept it.” She’d rehearsed this
speech, but it came out stilted. She discarded her
learned lines and said desperately, “Perhaps it’s even
for the best—I have no stomach for further pain,
Marcus. Nor, I imagine, do you.”
He nodded.
“We won’t need to see each other,” she said. “An
annulment…hopefully there will be a way.” For the
first time, she was wholeheartedly glad they had never
spent a night together.
“Hopefully,” he echoed thinly, his voice devoid of
hope.
He stepped aside to allow her into the coach
alongside Miriam.
“Goodbye, Constance,” he said.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
He stood back, gave the word to the coachman, and
they were off.
As the coach reached the corner of the square, a rush
of regret had Constance leaning out the window,
undignified, looking back. If Marcus was watching her
depart, if he showed any regret…
The road was empty, the front door shut.
“Dash it, Harper, what does a man have to do to get a
decent cravat around here?” Three hours after
Constance left, Marcus flung the crumpled white linen
to the floor of his chamber. He was late for his game of
snooker with Severn.
“I’m sorry, sir, try this one.” The valet handed over
another cravat.
In fewer than five seconds, Marcus had made a hash
of that one, too. He muttered an imprecation. “How am
I supposed to concentrate on this thing when my agent
is bothering me about the need to increase rents? I wish
I’d never agreed to meet the man.”
Which was not something he’d ever felt before. His
responsibility to his estates was paramount.
Harper handed over another cravat. Judging by his
closed eyes, he was praying it would take the shape
Marcus’s fingers required.
And that was another thing. His blasted valet was
more morose than ever—it was depressing having him
around. Marcus was hanged if he was going to take
Harper fishing again; he’d sooner wash his hands of
him.
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He pulled his concentration back to the task at hand.
It shouldn’t be so difficult.
Confound it! The third cravat joined the others on the
floor.
“What have you done to these cravats?” Marcus
snarled. “What you haven’t done is supervised the
starching properly. You know I like them starched to
just so. You know—”
“My lord!” Outrageously, Harper interrupted him.
“Perhaps your inability to tie your cravat is not the fault
of the starching.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Indeed? And what would
you consider to be the cause?”
He didn’t expect his valet