LITMIR.BIZ

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wife, he had no sentimental attachment to her sister.

      If he came, he would forge a bond intended by God to unite man and wife.

       Probably, he would not come.

       But perhaps he would.

       If Amanda was to be believed—she knew far more about it than any young lady ought—even the highest-ranked gentlemen looked forward to their wedding night with eagerness.

       Could the intimacy God had designed overcome anger?

       Of course it could.

       Constance pinched her cheeks in the hope of bringing some color.

       It had been probably thirty minutes since she left Marcus. He must by now be in his own room. She listened, but heard nothing through the thick walls. She wondered if he’d had a new nightshirt made for the occasion, and stifled a giggle.

       Would he come?

       He’d said there would be no annulment. He was punctilious in the performance of his duties, or so everyone said, and this was indeed a duty.

       Constance arranged her hair about her shoulders. A nice sheen, Miriam had said. Maybe she should light another candle, to allow the sheen to be displayed.

       Vanity, she chided herself. What must God think of her?

       Oh, dear, she hadn’t prayed tonight.

       Constance slipped out of bed and onto her knees. With this deep carpet, a far more comfortable experience than at home. She prayed quickly, one eye cracked open to watch the door from her husband’s chamber, and finished with a request for God’s forgiveness of her haste.

       She felt better when she was back in bed. More peaceful.

       The candle sputtered, causing a moment’s alarm, then it strengthened again. Real wax, not tallow, as they used at home whenever there was no company. The smell was far more pleasant.

       Smell. Her mother had given Constance a small pot of precious perfume. Surely a bridegroom would prefer a fragrant bride on his wedding night?

       If he were to come.

       She slipped from bed again, scurried across the room like a thief, found the perfume on the dressing table. She dabbed a little on each wrist, and behind her ears, as she had seen her mother do. She sniffed her wrist. Floral. Sweet.

       Once more, she settled herself against her pillows. She would not get out of bed again. She would be at peace, ready to welcome her husband.

       She wished he would come.

       “Your cravat survived the day in excellent shape, my lord,” Harper, Marcus’s valet, observed as he removed Marcus’s left boot.

       “You were right, as always, Harper,” Marcus said. “The Mathematical was the style for the occasion.”

       Harper inclined his head. “I’ve had enough years dressing your lordship to know what’s what.”

       Marcus smiled as he stifled a yawn.

       “A very long day,” Harper said sympathetically, pulling off the other boot. “The second time this week you’ve driven all the way to Hampshire and back.”

       “I remember both occasions only too well, thank you,” Marcus said.

       Harper chuckled. “Miss Powell said her ladyship, the dowager countess, seems well.”

       “Her improvement makes the long journeys worthwhile,” Marcus agreed.

       His mother’s renewed strength had the quality of a miracle. Proof that the Almighty had accepted the bargain Marcus offered. He was inordinately thankful, at least as far as his mother was concerned. As for the rest…no denying the day hadn’t turned out as planned. One could almost think the Lord intended a joke.

       Marcus sighed. He wouldn’t trade his mother’s health for anything…but to have married a sparrow, when his position commanded a—a swan, and in such humiliating circumstances. He wasn’t yet convinced his bride was innocent in this. Surely the sister, Amanda, would have confessed to Constance—no sibling would be that “mischievous.”

       If she’d confessed, and if Constance had decided to take advantage of what she dared consider his lack of courtesy in failing to remember which sister was which…it wouldn’t be so strange. Plain as she was, she must have had limited marriage prospects. With bitterness he’d realized at the wedding breakfast that every other Somerton sister was livelier, and prettier, and more charming than the one he’d married. Which heightened his suspicions of a plot.

       It had happened before—Marcus may not read his Bible often, but he knew the story of Rachel and Leah. Jacob fell in love with the beautiful Rachel, but at the wedding, his scheming father-in-law substituted his other daughter, Leah. Marcus imagined a veil had been used on that occasion, too. He couldn’t remember if the text stated as much, but he’d always assumed Leah, the older girl, to be an old maid, with no prospects of marriage.

       And now, he, Marcus, Earl of Spenford, one of England’s most eligible bachelors, had rescued a soon-to-be old maid.

       The worst of it was, people would say he must have been mad with love for her to choose her over her sisters—the kind of vulgar display of emotion to which he would never stoop. The kind of vulgar display against which Marcus’s father had issued dire warnings, that had seen his grandfather almost destroy the earldom. The day the ton saw the Earl of Spenford sick at heart, chasing after a woman, would be a marvelous day indeed!

       Marcus was glad his father wasn’t here to witness the debacle. The previous earl had made no secret that he doubted Marcus was worthy of the title. Marcus had spent every day of every year after his brother’s death proving himself, becoming a sincere imitation of his father. By the time his father died, he had almost succeeded.

       At least his mother liked his bride. Marcus felt tension leave his shoulders at the thought. Indeed, he had inadvertently chosen her favorite Somerton girl. Or someone had, he thought wryly, as he unbuttoned his shirt.

       Next time he negotiated with the Almighty he would be more specific in his demands.

       Harper held out a nightshirt. “Is the countess—the new countess—satisfied with her maid, my lord?”

       “I presume so.” Marcus took the nightshirt. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

       Harper brushed at a speck on Marcus’s coat before he replied. “Mrs. Collins sent Miriam Bligh up from Chalmers. You know what she’s like.”

       “Should that name mean something to me?” Marcus said. Harper knew better than to refer to those days before Stephen’s death, when Marcus had spent much of his free time with the servants’ children. Back then, Harper had been the gamekeeper’s son and Marcus’s friend. Back then, everything had been different.

       The valet ducked his head. “I know something of the skills and demeanor required for a senior lady’s maid, my lord.” He deftly removed any personal history from the discussion. “Miss Bligh has limited experience and a tendency to argue with her superiors. The position may be above her touch.”

       It wasn’t like Harper to speak ill of anyone without cause.

       Marcus didn’t want an incompetent dressing his countess. Especially this countess, who would need a skilled servant to make the most of her appearance.

       He slipped the nightshirt over his head. “I will talk to her ladyship.”

       Harper bowed. “I’ll leave these candles alight, my lord. For when you return.”

       Return? He wasn’t going—

       Blast! It was his wedding night.

       Was that why Constance seemed nervous?

       Or had he imagined her nerves?

       Yet if her nerves were imaginary, the duty was very real.

      

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