“The morning only,” the dowager corrected. “Constance mustn’t stay cooped up in a sickroom, when she has a new home and a new husband to enjoy. Good night, my dears.”
Back out in the hallway, Marcus waited until the maid, Powell, had closed his mother’s door. “Thank you for offering to spend time with Mama,” he said. “I appreciate your willingness to do your duty after today’s…difficulties.” It was an odd speech, spoken stiffly but with an underlying vulnerability that touched Constance’s heart.
“Sitting with your mother will be a pleasure, not a duty,” she said. “I’ve always been fond of her.” Would he think that impertinent, a parson’s daughter holding fondness for a countess?
His eyes searched her face, which she knew to be wan and drawn. This was the closest she had been to him since they’d exchanged their vows. She tried not to look at his lips, not to wonder if they would feel the same against her mouth as they had against her fingers.
“It’s late. You should go to your chamber,” he said.
“Yes.” Bed sounded wonderful…or did it? The realization that this was her wedding night hit her. Is he sending me to my chamber because he wants…
Perspiration broke out on her forehead—should she pull out a handkerchief, or hope he didn’t notice?
“Are you all right?” he asked, frowning.
“I don’t know where, er, my chamber…”
His face cleared. “The other side of the landing. First door on the left.”
“You must be tired, too,” she suggested.
“I have a few letters I must read tonight. I’ll retire soon.”
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