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.
He is my husband; that is reason enough.
And her figure was good, as good as Amanda’s. She must assume he’d noticed that.
She tried to calm her mind, to settle herself against the pillows. She’d never been so tired…but she mustn’t fall asleep. She didn’t want him to find her snoring, or worse, drooling. None of her sisters had made that complaint against her—Isabel was the only one who snored, a habit that took the tiniest gloss off her perfection and thus endeared her to her siblings. But Constance couldn’t count on history. It would be cruelly typical if the drama and exhaustion of the day were to bring on a sudden bout of snoring and drooling!
So she stayed high on the pillows, where her hair caught the candlelight, reciting psalms in her head. When the psalms tended to have a lullaby effect, she switched to Proverbs, always improving to the mind.
How long had she been waiting? Surely he would come soon?
She prayed for patience.
She waited.
She prayed again.
He did not come.
Chapter Six
Constance didn’t fall asleep until dawn streaked the sky. As a consequence, she didn’t wake until half past nine. She dressed quickly, refusing Miriam’s offer of a more complicated hairstyle than her usual simple knot. That left time for a brief breakfast alone in the yellow-toned breakfast room—a footman informed her the earl had gone riding early—before Madame Louvier arrived.
The couturiere insisted that every one of the prevailing styles would suit Constance’s “exquisite figure” to perfection. Constance had no idea of the prevailing styles, but was grateful.
The season’s colors, were a different matter, the seamstress said with a very Gallic moue. “Not the best, madame. You are pale, which is good, but you are in danger of being washed out. If madame will pardon me.”
Constance allowed the woman to guide her almost entirely, which delighted Madame Louvier, who departed with the promise to have the first day dress delivered by tomorrow morning. Then another day dress and an evening gown by Monday evening. The rest of the wardrobe would follow as soon as possible.
In the meantime, Constance wore her sprigged muslin, a dress that had seen at least two years’ service, to visit her mother-in-law, who seemed none the worse for her late night. That is, if one overlooked that a lady of not quite sixty years of age looked at least sixty-five.
The dowager began by listing all of Constance’s new relatives and where they fit in the family. Lady Spenford was the daughter of a duke, so between her family—the Havants—and the Spenfords, there were an inordinate number of titles. Constance only managed to store a fraction of them. One name did strike a chord, that of Marcus’s cousin Lucinda—one of the few people who used his Christian name.
“She’s Mrs. Quayle, married to Jonathan, youngest son of the Earl of Hazlemere,” Helen said. “I’d be surprised if Lucinda doesn’t visit you today. She must always be in the thick of the news.”
“I was under the impression the earl—er, Marcus—doesn’t care for gossip,” Constance said.
“True,” Helen agreed. “But he and Lucinda spent a great deal of time together in their youth. Their closeness persists despite Lucinda’s tendency to say too much. Now, my dear, am I right in thinking you have already been presented at Court?”
“Yes, Mama. My sister Serena and I were presented in the company of my aunt, Miss Jane Somerton, last year.” Her aunt was currently traveling on the Continent, not expected back in London for at least a month.
“Then there’s no reason why you shouldn’t appear immediately in society. What a surprise you’ll be to our friends.”
Did she mean a good surprise, or a bad one?
“I only hope they take the shock as well as you have, Mama,” Constance said, in an attempt at humor.
“Not a shock, my dear. Although—” she paused delicately “—I admit, this happened rather fast. It was only last Sunday I told Marcus I’d love to see him married to a nice, Christian girl. He left the next day to see your father, and here you are.”
That was such a ridiculously shortened version of the disastrous wedding story, Constance didn’t know what to say. “You have a most obedient son,” she managed.
Helen tipped her head back against her pillows. “He’s perfect,” she agreed gloomily.
Constance blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“One thing you’ll soon learn with Marcus—he always does the correct thing,” Helen said. “He never makes a mistake. Never.”
Constance could think of an enormous mistake Marcus had made yesterday at quarter past eleven. She chose not to mention it.
Helen must have sensed her doubts. “I’m not saying he’s infallible. But Marcus sets such high standards for himself. His father was the same, devoted to his duty and the earldom.”
“Those are good things,” Constance reminded her.
“I used to think so,” the dowager agreed. “But now…well, I’ve stared death in the eye over the past few months. Believe me, Constance, I don’t worry about whether my life has been dutiful enough. I worry whether I’ve loved enough.”
“Do you think one must choose between duty and love?” Constance asked.
“Not necessarily. But for Marcus…” Helen plucked at her blanket. “When he became heir apparent after Stephen’s death, his father found him lacking in the qualities he considered essential—authority and bearing and dignity. Marcus wasn’t to blame. I was too doting a mama, and he hadn’t been groomed for the title from a young age, as Stephen had. I think sometimes the poor boy despaired of attaining what my husband considered the acceptable standard for an earl.”
“So you think he became wedded to his duty to please his father?”
“I feel guilty,” Helen said frankly. “I withdrew from his upbringing, believing it the right thing to do. But in becoming the perfect earl, he’s grown intolerant of others’ weaknesses. It stops him from getting close to people.”
“You and Marcus are close,” Constance reminded her. “And lovely though you are, I doubt you’re perfect.”
Helen chuckled. “Far from it. Luckily, the maternal bond seems to exempt me from his high standards. The thing is, Constance, I don’t want to die knowing it’s at least partly my fault that my son is unhappy.”
“You think he’s unhappy?” Constance asked.
“How can he not be? He’s proud, and I believe he must be lonely. If nothing short of perfection satisfies him, he’ll never find contentment in this earthly life.”
Misgiving flooded Constance. He could never be content with her.
Helen glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Gracious, it’s past one o’clock. Luncheon will be served. You must go down.” As Constance stood, Helen grasped her fingers. “Constance, my hope and prayer is that you will soften