gave me to leave this house.
May I be excused now to pack my things?”
Marcus snapped his head around. “Of course not, you
fool. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
Harper bowed. “Yes, my lord. Should I assume I am
no longer dismissed?”
“Yes, you dashed well should. Now, get my driving
coat.”
“My lord?”
“I can hardly ride to Hampshire without it,” Marcus
growled.
“No, my lord.” Harper started to smile.
Marcus groaned. “I always swore the world would
never see the Earl of Spenford chasing after a woman,
mad with love for her.”
“I should think not, my lord,” his valet approved.
“Unfortunately, Harper, that is exactly what the world
is about to see.”
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Constance felt far better than she thought she would by
the time they pulled up at the inn at Chertsey.
In part, her state of wellness was due to Marcus. Not
only because the carriage had apparently been resprung
since she’d last felt ill in it. As they quit London,
Miriam had produced a tin, containing of all things a
ginger cake. Cook had baked it on the orders of Lord
Spenford, Miriam said. Ginger was a remedy for travel
sickness.
Whether it was the ginger, or the sustaining power of
Marcus’s thoughtfulness, Constance didn’t feel near as
ill as she had last time.
Just angry that a man so kind should be so reluctant
to admit to his finer qualities. So reluctant to love and
be loved.
Constance allowed the innkeeper to help her down
from the carriage. Miriam went to the servants’
quarters, while the man showed Constance into a
pleasant parlor. “My best, your ladyship,” he assured
her. With the fire leaping in the grate it was warm and
welcoming.
Constance set her bonnet on the table, peeled off her
gloves, then sank onto the window seat. A nice dinner,
and an early night—that was the sum of her ambitions.
A tap sounded on the door. She smiled at the maid
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who entered.
“A restoring cordial, my lady?” the girl offered a tray.
“Yes, please.” She took a sip of the drink and closed
her eyes.
When the girl opened the door to leave, a hubbub of
noise leaked in. Constance could hear a male voice,
raised. A female voice, pleading. Possibly crying.
“What’s going on?” she asked the maid.
“It’s a family from down south,” the maid said.
“They traveled to London because their son was sick
there. He died before they arrived—they’re on their
way home to bury him. It was all unexpected, so they’re
very upset.”
Constance shuddered. “Poor things.”
“The missus is near hysterics,” the maid confided.
“They wanted a private parlor, but…” She shrugged.
“Is it a matter of money?” Constance’s hand went to
her reticule. There was no denying the Spenford fortune
had its uses.
“No, my lady. They seem well-to-do enough. It’s just,
they’re not Quality, and with all three private parlors
bespoke…”
Constance understood. If the grieving family had
been high enough up the social ladder, the landlord
might have forced two lesser persons to share a parlor
in order to accommodate the family.
She glanced around the comfortable space she
occupied alone. “I insist they have this room,” she said.
The maid shook her head. “Oh, no, my lady, Mr.
Walker won’t hear of it.”
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“He will hear of it right now. It just depends whether
you will tell him, or I will.” Constance had no idea she
could sound so imperious.
The maid responded instantly to such countesslike
behavior, scurrying to convey her orders to the landlord.
How odd, Constance thought, that she should
discover a benefit of her position just as she was about
to relinquish it.
MARCUS PULLED UP at the Lion & Unicorn Inn
toward five o’clock. He handed the curricle’s reins to a
waiting hostler and jumped down.
He patted the neck of one gray horse, then the other.
“Good fellows,” he said. “Excellent timing.”
Harper descended from the other side of the curricle
with considerably more caution, tottering as he hit the
ground. He was distinctly green around the gills.
Marcus eyed him with affectionate impatience.
“Since when have you been such a poor traveler,
Harper?”
“Since three hours ago, my lord.” The valet closed his
eyes as if waiting for the world to settle. It was several
seconds before he opened them again and looked
around. “This was no ordinary journey.”
Marcus lost interest in his valet’s delicate stomach.
He should be more concerned, of course; Constance
would expect it. But he wasn’t, and if she didn’t like it,
she could tell him so to his face.
Assuming she would speak to him at all. He had
hopes—he’d been able to pray during the wild ride
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down here, and felt better for it. It had been a relief to
put his trust in God, Who suddenly seemed much more
reliable than himself.
Now, though, confidence leached out of him.
Constance had every right to disbelieve his love. To
refuse a man