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Unfortunately, he omitted to mention which room he planned to retire to.
Chapter Five
A footman conducted Constance to the countess’s bedchamber. Her bedchamber.
A young woman dressed in a plain dark dress was waiting. She curtsied. “Good evening, my lady. I am Miriam Bligh, your maid.”
“Oh,” Constance said, surprised. She’d known she would end up with such a servant, but not so soon.
“I was a senior housemaid at Chalmers—the main Spenford estate,” Miriam clarified, assessing Constance’s blank look, “but I’m used to acting as lady’s maid for guests.” She rubbed her palms down her skirt. “But if your ladyship would prefer to hire her own maid…”
Constance had no idea what she preferred. But Miriam’s pleasant face and tall, angular shape were practical and oddly reassuring. “Thank you, Miriam, I’m sure you will serve. Er, I suppose I should call you Bligh.” Being addressed by her surname was a sign of superior status, just as it was for a valet.
Another curtsy, this one more a bob. “Yes, my lady, though I daresay I’ll answer to either. If you’re ready to retire, I’ll assist you in undressing.”
Constance had undressed herself, unassisted but for the occasional help of one of her sisters, for as long as she could remember. But she wouldn’t argue. Papa always said one should understand something before one sought to change it.
Did the same rule apply to husbands?
As Miriam unhooked her dress, Constance surveyed the room. The rose brocade canopy over the high bed matched the elegant curtains at the window. In addition to the dressing table with its padded stool, there was a French-style writing desk with matching chair. The carpet was woven in a floral pattern of faded reds and greens. Even in the candlelight, it was clear everything was of the finest quality.
“I took the liberty of arranging your clothing in the press, my lady,” Miriam said.
That wouldn’t have taken long.
“And I have laid out your nightdress,” the maid continued.
Constance glanced involuntarily toward the bed. The one new item in her trunk had been this nightdress of finest lawn, sewn by her mother and sisters over the past few days.
“Madame Louvier will visit tomorrow morning,” the girl continued. Correctly interpreting Constance’s murmur as one of ignorance, she added, “Madame is the best modiste in London.”
Constance would ordinarily be delighted at the thought of new dresses. But her immediate thought was that Amanda would be even more delighted, and the recollection of her sister brought a welling of sharp anger. She clenched her hands into fists.
“My lady?” Miriam held up the nightdress.
“I—yes—” she shook her fingers loose “—thank you.”
When she was attired for bed, Miriam brushed out her hair.
“My lady has thick hair,” she approved.
“The color is unremarkable,” Constance pointed out.
She was pleased the maid didn’t lie to flatter her, merely contented herself with, “The sheen is attractive.”
Certainly under Miriam’s vigorous brushing it did have more sheen than usual. In her beautiful new nightdress, her hair smooth and gleaming, Constance felt more a bride than she had during the wedding ceremony. This is my wedding night.
“If you need me, my lady, you have only to ring.” Miriam indicated the bellpull.
“The, er, the earl’s chamber?” Constance asked, as she climbed onto the bed.
“Through there.” Miriam indicated a doorway to Constance’s left. “Good night, my lady.”
Constance lay in bed, blankets pulled up to her chin, observing the shadows that flickered on the wall.
Her wedding night. She’d thought of this moment in the past few days…what bride wouldn’t? Curiosity, anticipation and—thanks to her mother’s scrambled words on the subject of wifely duty—some trepidation had mingled within her.
When her husband came to her, she would be a wife in deed as well as in name.
Would he come to her tonight? He had been angry. With good reason.
She didn’t want him to come to her in anger.
But they had struck a moment of accord during dinner, and he’d assured his mother he intended to be happy. If his anger had cooled, if he wanted to further his intimacy with the woman he had married…
He had thought he was marrying Amanda.
But he didn’t love Amanda, Constance was certain. So although he might have wished for a prettier 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.
A Brookstone never shirked his duty.
Marcus eyed the door that led to his wife’s chamber. Renewed anger surged through him. Yes, she had been kind to his mother, but that didn’t change the fact that the Somerton family had made a fool of him. He was in no way reconciled to the prospect of a lifetime with her.
Surely a man could be excused his duty when he had been duped into marriage?
Or should a man give his bride the benefit of the doubt?
By now, Marcus must be ready for bed, Constance decided. Perhaps he liked to read in bed, as she did herself. Maybe they would converse about books—though probably not tonight—and discover a shared interest that would strengthen the bond between them.
Would he stay the whole night with her? Her parents had always shared a room. She imagined it would be lovely to have a husband curled next to one in bed. Especially in winter.
Perhaps he won’t stay. It may not be the accepted thing.
Perhaps he won’t come at all.
He’d already said this marriage wouldn’t be annulled. She was his wife; he would want an heir. She may not be as pretty as Amanda, but she was not repulsive. Her hair had sheen. Her eyes were attractive.
She felt a spurt of alarm that he may not have had time to notice her eyes, nor their well-shaped brows.
She thought back over the day. He had examined her when he’d realized she wasn’t the woman he’d planned to marry, but that scrutiny had doubtless focused on her disadvantages.
His own eyes had been full of shock, then anger, yet she had still noticed their brilliant blue. Hers…oh, gracious, in the carriage her eyes had been awash with tears. No man was attracted to female tears…it was a known fact.
Constance groaned, beset by the fear that in failing to show off her best feature, her only good feature—my hair also has sheen, but he won’t have seen that, for it was pinned up—she might have given her husband no reason to come to her tonight.
