Marcus said sourly, “this is no longer your home.”
She recoiled. “But…you cannot mean to stay married to me? Not after Amanda’s trick.”
He took grim satisfaction from her shock. “I don’t know if your sister’s letter is true, or whether it’s part of some elaborate deception. Either way, your family has made a fool of me, and that’s something I cannot forgive.”
The carriage jolted over a bump in the driveway; she clutched the door handle.
Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose as he brought himself back to what really mattered. “But my mother is deathly ill. She awaits tidings of my nuptials. I will not disappoint her. We’ll attend the wedding breakfast for a minimum time, then leave for London as planned.”
Constance swallowed. “You mean…an annulment later?”
It irritated him that she asked with such hope. He was the one entitled to hope this was all a nightmare from which he would awaken.
“Since I am not insane,” he said coldly, “and since you are indeed, or were, Miss Constance Somerton and not a fraudster—” and since I have no stomach for telling the world I was duped by a sixteen-year-old chit “—there will be no annulment.”
Chapter Four
The hours spent on the drive to London were the longest of Constance’s life. The coach was comfortable beyond her experience…but she experienced it alone.
Marcus rode with the groom, which she felt certain must provoke speculation in that servant’s mind. What bridegroom didn’t want to spend the hours after his wedding with his new wife?
A bridegroom who’d married the wrong bride.
The man who had so warmly reassured Constance at the church, apologizing for his tardiness, kissing her fingers, had believed he was talking to Amanda.
His shock was understandable, as was his sense of being deceived. Any man who believed himself to be marrying one woman would be…disappointed to find himself bound to another. But Constance was innocent in the matter, as he would surely realize. Sooner or later.
Through the coach window, she eyed his square-set shoulders. He was doubtless thinking on it right now. He was not an unreasonable man.
He is a proud man.
Her mother’s warning came back to her.
Who was Constance to accuse him of excessive pride, when her own pride was smarting? Nor could she condemn his anger, when she was furious with her sister.
They reached a particularly rough patch of road, and Constance braced herself in her corner. It was obvious that due to the dowager countess’s precarious health they were traveling as fast as possible, and no coach could be so comfortable as to remove all discomfort.
By the time they stopped at an inn outside Esher to change horses and to dine, Constance felt as if she might throw up.
The innkeeper’s welcome was hampered by his heavy head cold and accompanying cough, but he ushered them into his best parlor, where the earl asked what she desired to eat.
“Just a little bread,” she said. “Thank you.”
His mouth compressed, but she wasn’t about to explain the combination of exhaustion and nausea that precluded anything more substantial. At least he no longer radiated hostility…although that could be for the benefit of the landlord. She took it as a good sign that he ordered a hearty meal, even though he looked as tired as she felt.
“How much longer is the journey?” she asked, to break the silence left in the wake of the innkeeper’s departure.
“Less than two hours. Mama will be trying to stay awake in the hope of seeing me. Us.”
His mother. The reason for their wedding. The reason he was mistakenly wed to Constance.
“She will be pleased?” Constance asked tentatively.
His lips flattened. “Yes.”
“My lord—” She broke off. “What should I call you?”
“Most people call me Spenford,” he said. “My mother and my cousin Lucinda call me Marcus.”
Not much help. She’d heard that ton couples didn’t necessarily address their spouses by their Christian name.
“You may call me Constance if you wish,” she prompted.
He looked baffled.
She pressed on. “It’s not my fault, sir, that you married the wrong wife.”
“So you claim.”
She ignored that aspersion on her honesty. “My father says—”
“Is your father to be quoted in our every conversation?” he asked.
Her cheeks warmed. “He is the wisest man I know.”
“Nevertheless, I don’t wish to hear his views.”
She clenched her jaw. “Here is my view, then,” she said. “You’re angry, I understand that. I’m angry, too.”
His chin jerked back. “You are angry! What have I done—”
“At my sister,” she snapped. “I’m so angry with Amanda I could—I could slap her.” She realized her voice had risen, her chest was heaving. And her husband was eyeing her quizzically.
“You don’t look the slapping sort,” he said, surprisingly mild. “Have you ever slapped anyone before?”
“Er, no,” she admitted. “But if Amanda were here right now I would do it.” Her sister had wisely not shown her face at the wedding breakfast.
He raised one eyebrow, which even in her ire she could see was a handsome trick. “I don’t believe you,” he taunted.
She puffed out an irritated breath, ready to defend her violent tendencies…and suddenly deflated. He was right. “I don’t suppose you would ever hit a woman?” she asked morosely.
“Of course not!”
She sighed. “There’s not much point wishing Amanda here then, is there.”
One side of his mouth twitched in what might almost have been a smile, except there was nothing to smile about. “I certainly don’t wish she were here,” he said.
For an instant, there was something like camaraderie between them.
Then the landlord entered with their food. He and the maid began to set out dishes. As she sat in the chair the man held out for her, Constance noticed his nose was reddened from his illness. The maid seemed similarly afflicted, making heroic efforts to avoid sniffling.
“You are not well, either of you,” Constance said with concern. “The earl and I can serve ourselves. Please don’t worry.”
The maid dropped a relieved curtsy, but Marcus said, “Your carving skills will be appreciated, landlord.”
Both man and maid stayed several minutes to serve the meal.
Constance had been biting her tongue, but the moment they left, she said, “That was unnecessary. They were both clearly in need of rest.”
“So am I,” he said. “So are you. They should do the job they are paid to do.” He cut into his rib of beef. “I thought parsons’ daughters were supposed to be the forgiving type.”
It took her a moment to realize he was referring to Amanda again.
“Parsons’ daughters aren’t perfect,” Constance said.
He nodded his acceptance of her flaw. But he was right; she would need to forgive Amanda—the little wretch had even asked it of her in that note.