Книга - The Earl’s Mistaken Bride

The Earl's Mistaken Bride
Abby Gaines


As soon as Marcus Brookstone lifts his bride's veil, he sees he's been tricked. He made a bargain with God—to marry a good, Christian girl if his mother recovered from illness. But Marcus intended to marry pretty Amanda, not stubborn Constance. His next plan, to ignore his new wife, fails as well when Constance makes it clear that she wants a true union. Constance Somerton doesn't dare reveal that she's been enamored of Marcus for years.The man believes love is for weaklings. Someone needs to teach him about marriage's blessings. Someone who sees beyond his arrogance to the tender heart beneath. Someone exactly like Constance….







The wrong sister!

As soon as Marcus Brookstone lifts his bride’s veil, he sees he’s been tricked. He made a bargain with God—to marry a good, Christian girl if his mother recovered from illness. But Marcus intended to marry pretty Amanda, not stubborn Constance. His next plan, to ignore his new wife, fails as well when Constance makes it clear that she wants a true union.

Constance Somerton doesn’t dare reveal that she’s been enamored of Marcus for years. The man believes love is for weaklings. Someone needs to teach him about marriage’s blessings. Someone who sees beyond his arrogance to the tender heart beneath. Someone exactly like Constance....


“I now pronounce that they be man and wife.”

Constance’s gazed snapped to the earl. She hadn’t even been listening to that final declaration and now she was married. Just as well she didn’t attend to omens, because surely...

The worry evaporated in the warmth of the gaze Lord Spenford—her husband—turned on her.

A half smile on his lips, he reached for her veil, lifted it.

His brilliant blue eyes scanned her face.

Constance smiled shyly.

His mouth straightened into a line that could only be described as grim.

“My—my lord?” Constance’s voice faltered as she absorbed his expression.

He looked appalled.


ABBY GAINES

wrote her first romance novel as a teenager, only to have it promptly rejected. A flirtation with a science fiction novel never really got off the ground, so Abby put aside her writing ambitions as she went to college, then began her working life at IBM. When she and her husband had their first baby, Abby worked from home as a freelance business journalist…and soon after that the urge to write romance resurfaced. It was another five long years before Abby sold her first novel to Harlequin Superromance in 2006.

Abby lives with her husband and children—and a labradoodle and a cat—in a house with enough stairs to keep her semifit and a sun-filled office with a sea view that provides inspiration for the funny, tender romances she loves to write. Visit her at www.abbygaines.com.


The Earl’s Mistaken Bride

Abby Gaines






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For the Lord takes pleasure in His people; He will beautify the humble with salvation.

—Psalms 149:4


For Mary Griffiths, neighbor extraordinaire. Thank you for your enthusiasm, your treasure trove of Regency books...and all those cups of tea!

Thanks also to Dr. Gerald Young of Auckland for the use of his name.


Contents

Chapter One (#uc091b46b-dda3-5c50-b013-2471c0543ad8)

Chapter Two (#uce94cf38-4984-5fe9-a930-6e69882e2764)

Chapter Three (#ue65084a5-557a-595d-a7e2-fb76493603c2)

Chapter Four (#u0ad122dc-e454-5757-932c-f5ba467cd1bc)

Chapter Five (#u68915ad2-4f6a-5321-9605-e920238aae8b)

Chapter Six (#u8896c155-3fe8-519a-bbfc-d709d95f26a2)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

April 1816

Piper’s Mead, Hampshire, England

“I wish to marry one of your daughters.”

Marcus Brookstone, Earl of Spenford, was certain his position and wealth more than compensated for the urgent, somewhat irregular nature of the request. Every father in England would be honored to hear those words from him.

“I gathered as much from the message you sent.” Reverend Adrian Somerton removed his spectacles. “How is your dear mother?”

Marcus spread his fingers on the arms of the rosewood chair and forced himself to appear at ease. The reverend’s study was a fine enough room, but smaller than Marcus was used to. Whether it was the room, or the awkward nature of his mission, he felt hemmed in. Trapped.

He turned his neck slightly within the starched collar of his shirt, seeking relief from the constriction. He couldn’t bear to discuss his mother’s fragile condition, even with her parson. More particularly, he couldn’t bear any delay.

But the Earl of Spenford always behaved in a manner befitting his position.

“The dowager’s health is somewhat worse,” he informed the reverend stiffly. “I hope my marriage will be a source of strength for her.”

“Indeed.” Reverend Somerton’s smile managed to convey both understanding and a shared grief.

A churchman’s trick, Marcus supposed, but a good one. He wondered if the reverend had positioned the leather-topped oak desk precisely so the fall of April afternoon sunlight through the study window should bathe him in its glow, making him look as reverent as his title suggested.

Sitting in relative dimness, Marcus recalled assorted sins of which he probably ought to repent. He quelled the instinct to squirm in his seat. He was here for his mother’s sake, and the reverend’s affection for his patroness, the Dowager Countess of Spenford, was both genuine and reciprocated, which was why Marcus expected full cooperation.

A series of framed embroideries hung on the wall behind the rector. The colorful words were Bible verses, Marcus guessed, though they were too distant to read. The kind of needlecraft with which genteel country ladies occupied their time. There were five of these works of art, each presumably the handiwork of one of the reverend’s five daughters. One of them Marcus’s future bride.

“Am I to understand,” Reverend Somerton inquired gently as he polished his spectacles with a handkerchief, “your primary aim in seeking a wife is your mother’s peace of mind?”

Marcus bristled, unaccustomed to having his actions questioned by men far more important than the rector of a quiet parish in Hampshire. But this particular parson was not only the man whose sermons he’d sat through as a child, he would soon be Marcus’s father-in-law.

“I have always planned to marry, of course,” he said. “The age of thirty seemed reasonable. I’m now twenty-nine. I won’t deny my mother’s illness has spurred me to action, but only to bring forward an inevitable event.”

He didn’t mean inevitable to sound quite so distasteful.

The rector gave him a quick, assessing glance. “I fear my daughters,” he said, “lovely though they are, may lack the sophistication to which you are accustomed.”

“I have had ample opportunity to—” take my pick “—engage the interest of a young lady in London, but this has not occurred.” Rather, though Marcus might have engaged their interest, they had not engaged his.

Reverend Somerton and his wife would prove more pleasant relatives than some of the grasping parents he’d encountered in the city, he mused. The rector was of excellent birth, even if he’d forsaken his noble connections to “serve the Lord,” as Marcus’s mama put it. Two of the Somerton daughters were beauties—in the absence of fortune or title, the world would expect Marcus to settle for nothing less. His father would have insisted upon a bride worthy of the Earl of Spenford. Marcus insisted upon it, too.

“I am still at a loss to understand why you alighted on the idea of one of my daughters.” The rector’s manner remained pleasant as ever, but his persistence was beginning to grate on Marcus’s taut nerves.

“It is my mother’s desire—and mine—that I should find a Christian bride.” He schooled impatience out of his voice. “I have known your daughters at least as long as any other young lady of my acquaintance, and I hold them in the highest regard.”

No need to mention the bargain he’d struck with God on the subject. He wasn’t sure how reverends felt about mere mortals bargaining with the Deity.

Marcus Brookstone, Earl of Spenford, would bargain with whomever he chose.

He pressed into the arms of the chair, ready to leave if the reverend didn’t come to heel. “Sir, I regret to inform you this is a matter of some haste. While I would like nothing better than a courtship of normal duration—” an untruth, since he could think of nothing more tedious than courting a country miss “—upon securing your consent I must return to London immediately. I’m not happy to have left Mama even for the journey down here—her physician has said she may have only a week… .”

Mortifyingly, his voice cracked. Somerton made a hum of concern.

With the ease of long practice, Marcus set sentiment aside and pursued that slight advantage. “The marriage would take place as soon as a special license can be obtained,” he said, his words thankfully steady.

Today was Monday. He could have the license by Thursday evening and return here Friday morning. In normal circumstances, Marcus would avoid the unsavory implications of such a hasty wedding, but his mother’s failing health ensured no gossip would attach to his actions.

“I would wish the marriage to take place here.” Reverend Somerton settled his spectacles back on his nose. “To perform my daughters’ wedding services is a long-cherished ambition.”

At last, some indication the man would consent! Marcus had expected this condition, had reconciled himself to it on the journey down.

“Of course,” he said magnanimously. “All I ask is that my bride and I leave for London in time for me to present the new countess to my mother that evening.”

Somerton pressed his thumb to the distinctive cleft in his chin.

“Which of my daughters do you have in mind?” he asked. “Serena, my oldest, isn’t here. She is governess to the Granville family in Leicestershire.”

Marcus frowned. That would have to cease. The Earl of Spenford couldn’t have a sister in any form of employment.

He’d left London struggling to remember any of the Somerton girls’ names—five was a ludicrous number of daughters for any family—despite having encountered them many times previously. Not only in church, where they filled the front left-hand pew in the company of their mother, but also at dinners and receptions held at the homes of nearby gentry. Including Palfont, the estate bequeathed to Marcus’s mother, which would return to her family coffers upon her death.

She will not die. I have agreed it with God.

He’d had nightmarish visions of taking tea with all five Somerton sisters, inspecting them as if they were horseflesh before making his choice.

Thankfully, circumstance had spared him that.

“Miss Constance Somerton…” he suggested.

“Constance,” the rector said, delighted. “Why, that is excellent news.” All of a sudden he seemed more kindly disposed toward Marcus’s request.

Marcus could guess why. He’d encountered Miss Constance Somerton a short while ago in the village, when he’d climbed down from his curricle at the Goose & Gander, not wishing to be forced to prevail upon the rector for refreshment.

Having eaten, and about to leave the inn, he’d heard a female cry out. In the stable yard, he’d found the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, trying to sidestep around a young man of clearly amorous intentions.

“May I be of assistance, miss?” he’d inquired of the girl.

“Yes, please, sir.” She turned a relieved face toward him. Then recognized him. Alarm flashed across her features, putting a pretty pink in her cheeks as she curtsied. “I believe, my lord, Mr. Farnham was just leaving.”

Bellingham, the squire’s son, Marcus recalled, stammered an apology to the girl before scuttling away like a beetle. Marcus took a step after him.

“He meant no harm, my lord,” the girl said quickly. “I’m certain he regrets presuming on our friendship.”

Marcus decided to let the youth go; doubtless he’d learned his lesson. “That is gracious of you, Miss…?”

She blushed deeper. “I—I’m Constance Somerton, my lord.”

Marcus started. “How remarkable. I’m on my way to visit your father.”

“Indeed, my lord?” She’d recovered her composure and spoke with a demureness belied by the dimple dancing in her left cheek.

“Allow me to drive you home in my curricle.”

She cast a longing look toward the fine pair of gray horses an ostler was walking up and down. “My lord, Papa would not be pleased to discover me abroad in the village. It’s best if I walk home.”

“But that will take at least an hour,” he protested.

“My sisters and I walk it all the time.”

Perhaps that explained her slender figure. In which case, how could Marcus complain?

“Very well.” He executed a bow of a depth he would usually reserve for an equal in the peerage, and was rewarded with an appreciative twinkle in her near-violet eyes. “Your servant, Miss Somerton.”

Her beauty and lively nature were more than he’d dared expect. She would command the admiration of Society…he just hoped she was of marriageable age.

“My lord…” She hesitated as she curtsied. Her eyes widened in an unspoken plea.

He guessed what she wished to ask, and appreciated her delicacy in not framing the question outright. Yes, with a little guidance, Miss Constance Somerton could be the ideal bride.

“No benefit will be served by my mentioning to your father that I met you here,” he assured her.

“Thank you,” she breathed. Her hand touched his arm ever so briefly.

Now Marcus returned Reverend Somerton’s smile with understanding. Constance Somerton’s liveliness was doubtless a source of concern to her parents—he suspected the average parson’s daughter was far more docile. Not to mention her appeal to the local young men. Her parents would be delighted to have her safely off their hands.

“I believe I don’t speak out of turn when I assure you Constance holds you in the highest esteem,” Somerton said.

“I’m happy to hear it.” Marcus wondered why the man felt obliged to say such a thing—naturally all the Somerton girls would appreciate his position. He remembered there was still one potential obstacle. “Er, how old is the young lady?”

He would have put her at seventeen, better than sixteen, which would have been impossible, but still arguably too young. Though in a year or two the maturity gap between them would narrow… .

“She turned twenty last month,” Somerton said. “She is my second daughter.”

Twenty? Marcus was surprised, but pleased. Though no one would dare accuse him to his face of robbing the nursery, he hated to be the subject of gossip. His father had spent years schooling him to be worthy of his title—he would not let it fall into disrepute again.

“Unfortunately, Constance is sitting with a sick friend this afternoon,” Somerton said. “I could send for her… .”

“That won’t be necessary.” Knowing full well Constance wasn’t at a friend’s sickbed, Marcus had no desire to land her in trouble. “I must return to London—in addition to the wedding license and to reassuring my mother, there are marriage settlement documents to be drawn up. I propose an allowance of—”

Reverend Somerton held up a hand. “My lord, your family has never been anything but generous to mine. I trust you to create a settlement that will be fair to my daughter and her offspring.”

Marcus would do exactly that. His position demanded it. But still, such naïveté seemed irresponsible. “Sir, your trusting nature does you credit, but you might be wiser—”

“Naturally, I will read the settlement document thoroughly before I sign it.” The reverend smiled kindly. “If it’s not fair, I won’t sign it and the marriage will not take place.”

Not so naive after all. He knew Marcus wouldn’t risk that. The settlement wouldn’t be fair; it would be more than fair.

“Of course,” Marcus said stiffly. He gathered his riding gloves and stood.

“One more thing.” The reverend did not rise, a surprising breach of courtesy, yet his holy calling made it impossible for Marcus to take offence. Or to take his leave. “You do not love my daughter.”

Just when Marcus thought the awkwardness past!

He had the uncomfortable sensation his face had reddened. “I cannot love what I do not know.”

“An excellent reply, my lord.” Somerton’s smile bordered on indulgent. “For to know Constance is to love her.”

It was the comment of a hopelessly doting father. The kind of father Marcus had never had. He found himself touched by the rector’s paternal loyalty.

“Sir, you know enough of my family’s history to understand that a—an infatuation is the last reason I would marry,” he said. “But it is my hope a strong and natural affection will develop in my marriage.” He would not use the word love, as the parson had. Love was what a chambermaid might feel for a groom. Love had almost destroyed the Spenford earldom in the past; it would not be given the chance to do so again.

Affection seemed a proper objective for his marriage.

“I know your mother to be a lady of great faith,” Somerton said. “Do you share her faith, my lord?”

Marcus tensed, but he said lightly, “Indeed I should, sir, having listened to your sermons for so many years. However, I believe a man’s faith to be his own business.”

“And God’s,” Reverend Somerton added with a slight smile. Not before time, he rose to his feet. He came around his desk, stepping out of the sunshine that made him look so dashed holy. “You are right, my lord. It’s not for me to judge a man in his faith. However, I wouldn’t like any of my daughters to marry an unbeliever.”

“Then I’m happy to assure you, you need not fear,” Marcus said. This was the worst interview of his life—he thanked heaven a man must only be interrogated by his father-in-law once. An irritating urge to prove himself worthy of Somerton’s paternal devotion, the kind of urge he should have outgrown, made him add, “It may comfort you to know I prayed before the outset of this journey.”

Perhaps not a conventional prayer of the kind a reverend might favor…but Marcus had spoken to God, had he not?

“Thank you, it does indeed comfort me.” The reverend moved to open the study door. This awkward encounter was finished.

“I wish you Godspeed.” Reverend Somerton shook Marcus’s hand. “I will discuss your offer with Constance this evening. If she does not wish to accept, I will send word immediately.”

Living in a house filled with women must have addled Somerton’s brain. The parson’s daughter—any parson’s daughter—would be honored to marry the Earl of Spenford.

Marcus didn’t waste time pointing that out. He’d come here for a wife; he’d found one. Nothing else mattered.



The curricle pulled out of the rectory gate right in front of Constance, so close that one more step would take her smack into the side of a very large gray horse.

She gave a yelp of surprise, and the driver, who’d been looking to his left for traffic, somehow heard her over the clatter of hooves and the rattle of bridles. He immediately reined in the horses, coming to a stop.

“My apologies,” he called.

Lord Spenford! It had been an age since she’d seen him. Why was he here? She wanted to call out an assurance that no apology was needed, though in fact it was: he should have been looking. But as usual, the sight of him reduced her vocabulary to a few nonsense words and made her feel as if it had been days since her last meal. She steadied herself by reaching a hand to the brick wall that ran along the front of the rectory grounds.

Lord Spenford jumped down, still holding the reins of his grays. “Are you all right?”

His voice was exactly as Constance remembered—deep, beautifully modulated. It sent a delightful shiver through her.

He glanced behind him at the rectory. “Miss Somerton? You’ve had a shock. Should I drive you inside?”

Such consideration! Such— She realized that by now he must be wondering if she’d been struck mute since the last time they met. “I’m quite well,” she said. “Thank you, Lord Spenford.”

It sounded as if she was thanking him for almost running her over.

“I was going too fast,” he said ruefully. “In a hurry to get back to London. No excuse for such poor driving.”

“Don’t think about it,” she said. “I know you must be worried about your—about the dowager countess.”

He gave her a surprised look, then his face closed over. “Indeed,” he said briefly. “If you truly are unhurt, Miss Somerton, I will resume my journey.” He sprang back up onto the curricle. About to drive off, he checked the horses. “We will meet again soon,” he said, and smiled.

Then he was gone, and all that was left to show he’d been there was a cloud of dust and what Constance knew must be a sappy expression on her face at the memory of that smile.



“He wishes to marry me?” Constance sat stunned on the sofa in the rear drawing room, closed off from the front room except when the family had company. “Me? Not Isabel or Amanda?”

It was the answer to a prayer she’d never dared utter. A dream come true, an absurd fantasy…now about to become reality?

“He can’t have meant me,” she said faintly. Hoping against hope that he had. “I saw him outside. He didn’t say a word.” He almost killed me! Although, he had said, We will meet again soon. How could she have guessed he meant in church, at our wedding?

“Nor should he, before your father spoke to you,” her mother said. “Besides, Lord Spenford was in a hurry to return to town…but he definitely wanted you, my dear.” Her mother patted her knee, as she smiled at her father, occupying one of the Hepplewhite chairs he frequently condemned as too spindly. “Didn’t he, Adrian?”

“So he did,” her father confirmed. “Mind you, Constance, I’m not telling you the earl’s in love with you.”

“Of course he’s not,” she said quickly. “His sort doesn’t marry for love.” Unlike my sort. She frowned, still struggling to believe this marvelous proposal. “Why me?”

“His mother must have recommended you,” Margaret Somerton suggested. “Her ladyship was always fond of you.”

“That must be it,” Constance agreed. “It’s been more than a year since I last spoke to Lord Spenford. He has certainly not been enchanted by my conversation.”

It went without saying he hadn’t been enchanted by her physical charms: she had none.

“His lordship’s desire to marry now is largely to please his mother,” Adrian inserted.

Constance nodded. She did not find that odd, quite the opposite. Marcus Brookstone, Earl of Spenford, might be rumored to enjoy every pleasure of the ton, but he loved his mama dearly, always had, and Constance admired him for that.

Among other attributes.

As if he read her thoughts, her father prompted, “I was correct in assuming, my dear, that you would welcome this proposal?”

Constance felt pink in her cheeks. Her long infatuation with Lord Spenford hadn’t gone unnoticed by her family. “Yes, Papa,” she murmured. Slightly defensive, she added, “I know him to be a good man.”

Her father thumbed the cleft in his chin. “My dear, his reputation is not spotless.”

“None of us is perfect,” Constance pointed out.

“True,” her father agreed.

“Constance, you don’t find him a little proud?” her mother asked.

“Margaret!” The reverend shifted on his chair, which wobbled, causing him to mutter ominously.

“Much as I admire your reluctance to condemn people, Adrian,” Margaret Somerton said, “Spenford is widely regarded as a proud man. I preferred him before he became the heir.”

“Mama, he was just a boy,” Constance protested. “The man is always different from the boy.”

Marcus had been born the second son of the previous Earl of Spenford. Stephen, his older brother by six years, had been by all accounts the perfect heir. Until he died in a hunting accident when Marcus was fifteen.

“A delightful boy,” Margaret corrected her. “Until his father, who by the by was also a proud man, took him in hand.”

“I don’t find Lord Spenford at all proud.” The event that had informed Constance’s opinion would seem trivial to her parents. But three years ago she’d realized Marcus Brookstone was a man worthy of her deepest feelings.

“All I’m saying is, you’re not obliged to accept this offer,” her mother said. “Your father’s future may be uncertain, but we are confident God will supply.”

Constance didn’t know how, even with their faith, her parents could remain so calm. Her father’s insistence on taking the Word out to the laborers in the fields, or wherever they might be, had landed him in trouble with his bishop. He’d been accused of Methodism, of creating a schism in the parish. It was monstrously unfair, when her father held unity and inclusiveness within the church as one of his dearest tenets. There was a risk the bishop might remove him from the parish; her parents would lose their home and livelihood.

“I don’t expect any of you girls to marry if you don’t wish it,” the rector confirmed. “St. Paul himself said it’s better not to marry if one can be content in the single life, and while my heirs will never be wealthy, you will live in modest comfort. But blessed as I have been in my own marriage—” he reached across to squeeze his wife’s hand, almost oversetting his chair “—it wouldn’t surprise me if God’s providence should include loving husbands for at least some of my daughters.”

Constance’s youngest sister, Charity, vowed frequently to live with Mama and Papa the rest of her days. But in truth, Constance had expected to be the spinster of the family.

With four sisters prettier than she, she was used to going unnoticed by all, with the exception of her parents. And perhaps of older people, like the dowager countess, who seemed to find her plainness soothing.

Though the local young men were scrupulously polite in greeting her, in asking her to dance after they had danced with her sisters, no marriageable man had ever, as far as she was aware, seen her. Looked past her sisters, past all other young ladies, and chosen her.

Marcus Brookstone had.

Her mother said dubiously. “I hope the earl will know how lucky he is to win you, Constance.”

“How blessed he is, my sweet,” her husband corrected her. Though in many ways the most tolerant of men, he didn’t allow luck to be given credit for divine Providence.

Constance took a deep breath. “Papa, I believe God has given me this opportunity, and I wish to accept his lordship’s proposal. I am certain we can make each other happy.”


Chapter Two

Had he changed his mind?

Five minutes past eleven o’clock on Constance’s wedding day and no sign of a bridegroom for the ceremony that should have started on the hour.

Standing in the churchyard, trying to appear nonchalant while her body vacillated between chills and extreme heat, Constance was conscious of all eyes upon her. Most discomfiting.

She could almost feel sorry for Isabel and Amanda, the two of her sisters acclaimed as beauties. To be stared at so intently… Constance shivered in the spring sunshine.

“Cold, my love?” Isabel asked. Instilled with the supreme confidence that came with beauty, she wouldn’t understand Constance’s petrified state.

Constance shook her head. “Thank goodness you added this veil to my bonnet,” she said to Amanda. “At least I don’t have to meet the eyes of everyone wondering if the earl plans to make an appearance.”

“Veils are all the rage in London and Paris,” Amanda said, oddly defensive.

Constance patted her arm. “I trust your knowledge of the fashions, dearest, for you know I have none.” She considered taking back the reticule and small posy of flowers Amanda was holding for her, but there was too much chance her nervous fingers would shred them.

“It looks very becoming on you,” Amanda said. She’d used the same French lace for the veil as Constance’s mother had for the elegant trim she’d added to Constance’s best blue muslin dress. Without compunction, Margaret Somerton had cut into a beautiful tablecloth that had been a gift from her own mother.

The trim made a fine feature on an otherwise simple dress, drawing attention away from Constance’s face, and down to her figure. The veil, anchored to her bonnet with a cream-colored satin ribbon and reaching to her chin, achieved the same end. Constance dared not ask where Amanda had obtained the ribbon. Her sister managed to fancy all her clothes with furbelows that Constance suspected were gifts from young men.

“You realize, Amanda, as Countess of Spenford I will be in a position to offer you a London Season,” Constance said. “Perhaps next year…” So long as they weren’t in mourning for the dowager, of course. Amanda had yearned for a London Season for as long as she’d known such a thing existed.

Amanda merely squeezed Constance’s hand. Maybe she still had the headache she’d complained of earlier when she’d begged to be excused from the ceremony. Constance had in turn begged her to attend. It was bad enough to be getting married lacking one sister’s presence—there hadn’t been time to send word to Serena in Leicestershire and have her travel home to Piper’s Mead.

Now, that seemed a good thing. Serena might have had a wasted trip.

The villagers were growing restless, despite the valiant attempts of Reverend Somerton and his wife to engage them in conversation. While most of the men were working, a good number of the women thronged the churchyard, eager to witness the most prestigious wedding in the village for at least a generation. A couple of lads had taken advantage of the festive atmosphere to station themselves on the churchyard wall, normally forbidden territory. They nudged and jostled each other, enjoying the risk of an imminent fall.

“Maybe his lordship had an accident,” Mrs. Penney, the baker’s wife, suggested. “Could be overturned in a ditch on the London road.”

“Or footpads,” said Mrs. Tucker, from the Goose & Gander. “They’ll kill a man soon as look at him, these days.”

“No!” Constance said sharply.

“Sorry, love,” Mrs. Tucker said. “Don’t you worry, his lordship won’t let you down. He’s like his father in that respect. A stickler for his duty.”

Even as she spoke, Mrs. Tucker glanced at Isabel, confusion written on the older woman’s broad face. She was doubtless wondering why any earl would choose Constance over Isabel, whose fair beauty had been a source of village pride since she’d been in the cradle.

“You look lovely, Constance.” The assurance came from Charity, who, although just turned fifteen, displayed an unusual sensibility for other people’s feelings.

Constance smiled her thanks, though her sister probably couldn’t see through the veil.

Constance had never wished for beauty…at least, not since she’d accepted, years ago, that she would always be the most ordinary of the Somerton girls. Not that her face sent small children screaming for their mothers, or anything like that. She’d spent enough hours in her youth searching the mirror for signs of beauty to know her brown eyes were warm, her eyebrows nicely shaped. Those features ensured she was acceptable. And she’d inherited her mother’s excellent figure, for which she was truly grateful.

It was just…on this day, when she was about to marry one of the most handsome men in all England, she would have given much to be pretty.

“God sees the heart,” Charity reminded her, still reading Constance’s thoughts. “Perhaps He has revealed your gentle heart to the earl.”

“Perhaps,” Constance said doubtfully. She hoped the Lord hadn’t revealed her besottedness to Lord Spenford—the poor man would be mortified to know his bride cherished such romantic notions for a near stranger.

She could only hope it was indeed her gentle spirit, whether revealed through divine guidance or through the dowager, that had caused the earl to settle on her.

One of the urchins perched on the churchyard wall shouted, “He’s coming! And he’s got a bang-up rig, too.”

His mother boxed his ears for referring to Lord Spenford as “he” rather than “his lordship” and for daring to express an opinion on the earl’s conveyance. The women set to straightening their dresses, adjusting their bonnets in a panicked flurry that reminded Constance of the Bible parable about the foolish virgins readying themselves for the bridegroom.

Constance stayed still. No minimal adjustment would elevate her to sudden beauty.

“Mama,” Amanda said, “I think I’m going to faint.”

A stir of interest ran through the crowd at her words, dividing attention between her and the churchyard gates.

“Oh, gracious.” Margaret Somerton was visibly torn.

“Stay there, Mama,” Amanda told her. “I’ll sit in the side chapel until I feel better. Excuse me, Constance.”

“Of course, love. I should have let you rest at home.”

Amanda did look wan. There was no sign of the dimple in her left cheek that had inspired several young men to attempt poetry, with woeful results. As she handed over Constance’s reticule and posy, she asked with a strange urgency. “Connie, this is what you wish, isn’t it? To marry Spenford?”

It wasn’t like Amanda to show such care for others; Constance blinked away unexpected tears. “It’s what I wish more than anything,” she confirmed. Hoping it was true.

Almost before she finished speaking, Amanda was hurrying into the church. And Constance’s attention was drawn to the fine curricle pulling up behind the dowager’s coach, sent earlier from Palfont to convey the Somerton women to the church.

Constance didn’t recognize the gentleman driving the curricle, nor did she notice the groom on the back. She had eyes only for her betrothed, sitting alongside the driver.

Poor Lord Spenford would be exhausted, having traveled so far the past few days. Marcus, I must learn to call him Marcus.

But the moment the curricle stopped, he jumped down with an energy that made a mockery of her concern.

His dark hair lifted in the breeze as he strode toward her father. The crowd melted back in a flurry of curtsies and, from the boys, removal of caps.

“Sir, forgive me.” He shook her father’s hand. “We encountered an overturned post chaise on the road out of Farnham and stopped to render assistance.”

An impeccable reason for tardiness. Constance wouldn’t wish to marry a man who failed to render assistance.

Her father inquired of the injured passengers, declared his intent to pray for them.

“May I introduce you to the Marquis of Severn, who will stand with me as groomsman,” Marcus said.

His friend, the same impressive height as the earl, but to Constance’s eye not as handsome, exchanged bows with the reverend. Reverend Somerton introduced his wife to the Marquis…goodness, would the formalities never end?

Then, suddenly, they were finished, and her father was beckoning to Constance.

Isabel gave her the slightest of shoves; Constance made her way on trembling legs.

She dropped a tiny curtsy, afraid if she sank too low she would never rise again. To nurse a girlish dream was one thing; to live the reality quite another. I can’t go through with this.

The earl took her hands in his, an intimacy she hadn’t expected. His fingertips curled beneath hers, warm through the fabric of her best gloves, anchoring her.

“My dear Constance.” His smile held kindness, chagrin and an uncertainty that somehow boosted her confidence. “How fortunate I am that your nature aligns with your name, and you have waited for such a tardy wretch. Will you do me the honor of accompanying me into the church?”

Her gaze darted over his shoulder to the worn stone building she loved as well as her own home. She would enter the church a parson’s daughter; she would leave it a countess. A wife. His wife.

The earl’s grip tightened. Her doubts lifted like mist warmed by the sun, to drift away on the breeze.

“I will,” she said.

He brought her left hand to his lips, and through her glove pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Warmth flooded her, traveled directly to her legs where it had a bizarre weakening effect. Constance locked her knees, put all her energy into holding her ground.

“Come,” Spenford said, “let us be married.”



“I, Marcus Albert Edward Spencer Brookstone, Earl of Spenford, Baron Brookstone, take thee, Constance Anne Somerton…”

Constance calmed her nerves by focusing on the string of names. And reflected she would be more pleased if he were mere Marcus Brookstone.

Her father recited the next portion of the vows in the dear, measured tone that had guided her life. “To have and to hold…to love and to cherish…”

He spoke clearly, rather than loudly, but the words rang to the rafters above the heads of the enthralled congregation.

“To have and to hold…to love and to cherish,” the earl repeated firmly.

Constance let out a breath of relief. He had sworn to love her. Not today, or tomorrow, necessarily, but he would try, and when he succeeded it would be—

“Till death us do part…”

Yes. That.

She made the same vow, her voice shaking, adding the bride’s promise to obey.

Behind her, she heard a small sob. Mama. Pragmatic Margaret Somerton had surprised her daughters, and herself, with several bouts of sniffling over the past few days. Her mood had been unimproved by her husband’s assurance she was not losing a daughter, but gaining a son.

Constance slid a sidelong glance at her mother’s new “son.” At several inches taller than she, at least six feet, his height was potentially intimidating.

“Do you have the ring?” her father asked.

The earl—Marcus—turned to his groomsman. Constance had forgotten his name… Severn, that was it, the Marquis of Severn.

Severn handed over a circlet of gold. After a moment’s pause, Constance realized everyone was waiting for her.

She fumbled to free her left hand—the one he had kissed—from her glove. Marcus took her bare fingers, and for the first time they were flesh to flesh. About to be made one.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he repeated after her father.

Another few moments, and the gold band slid down her finger. Making her his.

Constance’s mind shied away from the thought.

“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder,” her father intoned.

The next phrases washed over her, until she heard, “I now pronounce that they be man and wife.”

Constance’s gazed snapped to the earl. She hadn’t even been listening to that final declaration and now she was married. Just as well she didn’t attend to omens, because surely…

The worry evaporated in the warmth of the gaze Lord Spenford—her husband!—turned on her.

A half smile on his lips, he reached for her veil, lifted it.

His brilliant blue eyes scanned her face.

Constance smiled shyly.

Marcus’s mouth straightened into a line that could only be described as grim.

“My—my lord?” Words died away as Constance absorbed his expression.

He looked appalled.


Chapter Three

“Who the blazes are you?” Marcus snapped the moment they attained the privacy of the carriage.

The girl—the woman—his wife, blast it!—shrank back against the seat, her bonnet with that veil, that—that instrument of deception, askew.

“You know who I am.” Her voice quivered as she rubbed her elbow where he’d gripped it to escort her from the church. “I am Constance… .”

She stopped. As if she had been going to say Constance Somerton, but that was no longer true, because now she was—

She could not be Lady Spenford.

Outside, the villagers cheered and shouted good wishes as the coach pulled away, headed for the rectory, for the wedding breakfast.

Thoughts and images whirled in Marcus’s head, blurred by fatigue. Could some artifice—cosmetics, perhaps?—have made her look so different last Monday? Her voice was slightly altered, but in the church he’d attributed that to nerves.

“Remove your bonnet,” he ordered.

She clutched it to her head. So much for that promise she’d made not five minutes ago to obey.

He leaned forward; she gasped as his fingers closed around the ribbon beneath her chin. Then she froze as he worked the knot, careful not to touch her.

He lifted the bonnet from her head, tossed it to the floor of the coach. Which elicited another gasp.

“Your bonnet is the least of your worries, madam,” he said roughly. His gaze raked her face. Not at all the same. Brown eyes, not violet-blue, a perfectly ordinary nose in place of the charming version he’d seen on Monday. Thinner lips, a chin that might be described by someone in an uncharitable mood as pointy.

Marcus was in a very uncharitable mood.

In place of ink-black curls, this girl’s hair was a drab brown, drawn up in a knot, with a few tendrils curling around her nape.

“What is this trick?” he growled. “You must have planned it before I even arrived in Piper’s Mead. I swear, if your holier-than-thou father played a part in this—”

“You will not say a word against my father,” she blurted.

And now she dared issue orders to him!

Well, that wouldn’t last, nor would this marriage. He’d been duped into marrying this plain-faced fraudster, and fraud was grounds for annulment. There’d been the case of Baron Waring, some years ago…Marcus couldn’t remember the details, but the woman involved had misrepresented herself, and the bishop declared an annulment.

The girl, Constance, or whatever her name was, picked up her bonnet. As she settled it on her lap, it slipped through her trembling fingers and fell to the floor again.

Instinctive courtesy had Marcus reaching to retrieve it at the same moment she did. His fingers brushed hers, and she flinched.

“I would like an annulment,” she announced.

Marcus jerked backward, the unfortunate bonnet once again hitting the floor. He hoped the infernal thing was damaged beyond repair.

“You want an annulment?” He’d heard of women hatching preposterous schemes to entrap a titled husband, but he’d never heard of a scheme that included a request for an annulment.

She tilted that chin—definitely pointy—at him. “On—on grounds of insanity.”

“You admit to a weakened mind?” So much the better!

She blinked and her brown eyes widened. “Sir, you are the insane one.”

Marcus’s mouth opened and closed, and he had the uncomfortable sensation that he looked like one of the carp in the Japanese pond at Chalmers, the main Spenford estate.

He suspected such an expression did not convey complete, calm rationality.

She knotted her fingers in her lap, which seemed to firm her voice. “I have heard married ladies talk of an illness that gentlemen can acquire as a result of—of dissolute living.” Her cheeks flamed. “It drives them mad.”

“You accuse me of dissolute living?” he said dangerously.

Her gaze dropped, then rose again. “Papa warned me your reputation is…not quite spotless.”

Marcus felt himself reddening. Outrageous! What kind of man was Somerton to talk to his daughters in that way?

She didn’t realize how perilously she trod, for she continued. “It occurs to me that perhaps you chose a bride from Piper’s Mead because…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. Her implication was clear: because no lady of sense in London would have him.

“I am pleased to inform you my health is perfect,” he snapped.

“Which implies you are deliberately accusing me and my father of dishonesty,” she warned.

“I apologize,” he said, teeth gritted, aware that she hadn’t apologized for her suggestion that he lived an improper life. But he had to admit, she seemed as baffled by the situation as he was. Surely a parson’s daughter could not have cooked up this wild scheme. He breathed out through his nose, calming himself. “May we start this conversation again, in an attempt to untangle this confusion?”

“I suppose so,” she said dubiously.

As the coach swung into the lane that ended at the rectory, Marcus grasped the strap overhead. “What is your name?”

Her guarded expression suggested she still harbored suspicions he was a half-wit. “My name is—was Constance Anne Somerton.”

Marcus tipped his head back against the seat. “I met Constance Somerton in Piper’s Mead on Monday, and believe me, she looked nothing like you.”

She frowned, putting a little furrow in the middle of her forehead. “That’s not possible.”

“I suspect she was younger than you—” this woman looked all of her twenty years “—with dark, curly hair and eyes an unusual blue. She called herself Miss Constance Somerton.”

His bride pressed her fingers to her mouth, and he remembered how they had felt, fine and slender, in his grasp.

“Amanda,” she moaned.

He pounced. “Is that your name? Amanda?”

She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but only, he sensed, through heroic self-restraint. “I am Constance. Amanda is my sister. She is of somewhat…mischievous temperament.”

“You call passing herself off as you mischievous?” he barked. “I asked your father if I could marry her!”

She closed her eyes. “Of course,” she murmured. “It wasn’t me you wanted at all.”

He had thought that perfectly obvious from the moment he’d lifted her veil.

“How could I have been so stupid?” She sounded broken.

Marcus felt a twinge of concern. But he was virtually a stranger to her; she had no reason for heartbreak. This was likely part of her act. “Certainly one of us has been stupid,” he said bitterly.

To his horror, tears sprang to her eyes. Marcus averted his gaze as he offered her his white linen handkerchief.

But she held up her hand, palm out in refusal. “I want nothing from you.”

For the barest moment, her dignity impressed him…then he remembered, she’d already duped him once.

“Of course you don’t,” he said. “You can buy all the handkerchiefs you want, thanks to the generous settlement documents your father signed on your behalf this morning.”

Those tears clung to her lashes, held there by force of will, it seemed, not spilling onto her pale cheeks. Marcus stared at the ceiling of the carriage as she fumbled in her reticule, presumably for a handkerchief of her own.

Instead of a scrap of fabric, she pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “What’s this?”

“I hardly think I would know,” he said coldly.

She opened the note. “It’s Amanda’s hand.”

At the mention of her “mischievous” sister, Marcus plucked the paper from her fingers. “Allow me to read it to you.”

It wasn’t a request.

The opening words of the missive, written in a girlish hand, jumped out at him.

Forgive me!

Foreboding filled him as he began to read aloud.



“‘Forgive me! Constance, darling, I have done something very Dreadful, and you will think me Wicked. On Monday, I encountered Lord Spenford in the Village… .’”



His mouth tightened and his voice lowered as he read the shocking account. Afraid of discovery by her father, who had warned that if he heard of Amanda talking inappropriately to any more young men, she would be sent to Miss Petersham’s Seminary—an institution one of Marcus’s cousins attended, it was renowned for its austere discipline—she had supplied Constance’s name in lieu of her own. The moment she heard Marcus had offered for Constance she knew his mistake.

“‘Constance, dear, I could not marry a man so old!’” he read, before he realized where the text was going.

Constance muffled an exclamation, darting an involuntary look at him.

So old? He was in his prime!

Marcus read on.



“‘I do not wish to be a wife without ever having a Season in London. I wish to dance the waltz with handsome young men, to have them pay me compliments… .’”



He’d seen enough. “The girl’s a fool,” he said, as he handed the letter back.

Constance bristled in her sister’s defense. “You didn’t think her foolish when you flirted with her in the village on Monday. With a sixteen-year-old girl barely out of the nursery.”

“I did no such thing,” he retorted. “Your sister was engaged in heated discussion with the squire’s son. I offered my assistance.”

“And when you asked her name, despite having met her on at least twenty occasions, you did not notice her lie.” She sniffed and, thankfully, blinked away those tears that were starting to wear on his conscience. “My father taught me it’s common courtesy to remember the names of those I meet.”

Was she setting her manners above his?

“There are five of you, madam,” he said bitingly. Yet he found he could not meet her gaze, which annoyed him still further.

She pushed the note back into her reticule. “Amanda, you fool,” she murmured, seemingly forgetting she had just castigated Marcus for saying the same. Then she swallowed and that pointy chin went up in the air again.

Marcus braced himself.

“I apologize for suggesting you were insane,” she said, with a graciousness that in a true countess might have been convincing.

Marcus was not convinced. As the coach approached the rectory, he observed the garden had been decorated—bunting strung through the trees.

The wedding feast. Though there would be a private meal indoors, the entire village had doubtless been invited to the public celebration outside.

He’d never felt less like celebrating in his life.

A curricle passed the coach with less than an inch to spare: Severn, tooling his grays like the expert horseman he was. His closest friend had commiserated over the need for Marcus to marry a parson’s daughter, but he had understood entirely.

It would be hard to understand how Marcus had come to marry the wrong girl.

Even harder to explain to the reverend. Impossible to imagine the story wouldn’t spread around the village and thence to London. That Marcus, Earl of Spenford, wouldn’t end up looking a fool.

The carriage turned in through the rectory gates.

“Home!” Constance clasped her hands together, her eyes shining as she peered out.

“Might I remind you,” 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. I will forgive her. One day.

She nibbled on her bread…and realized her husband had set down his silverware.

“What is it?” she asked, conscious that her blue muslin was rumpled and she’d paid no attention to her hair since he’d torn the bonnet from her head.

“Is this some kind of parsonage austerity diet?” He indicated her bread. “Because I don’t think I can sit opposite you eating dry bread every night—”

“I am travel sick,” she said.

He stood, and moved swiftly to her. “You should have said. Do you have a fever?” His hand moved uncertainly at his side, as if he was considering touching it to her forehead.

For one moment, she craved the comfort of that touch.

“Just a little nausea,” she said. “The bread settles my stomach.”

It was odd to be talking of her physical ailment to a man other than her father. Yet she welcomed the concern that creased his brow.

“You have a strange view of parsonage life,” she observed, as he returned to his seat, “if you think we eat dry bread.”

“I don’t number many daughters of the clergy among my acquaintance.” He resumed eating.

Constance took a sip of water, and licked her lips. “Do you plan to tell anyone what happened today? About the…mistake?”

He didn’t look up. “I have no desire to be the subject of gossip.”

“Nor do I.” She’d been overlooked her whole life; to come to the world’s attention in the worst possible way would be too cruel.

Now he did meet her gaze. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, drawing her attention to the lips that had kissed her hand. “No one anticipates an emotional attachment between us,” he said. “Mutual respect is what they expect to see. What they should see.”

It sounded cold to Constance, when she thought of her parents’ loving marriage. But much better than humiliation.

“I am most willing to show respect to you,” she said.

He gave a little jolt, as if he’d taken that for granted. “And I you,” he replied.

It seemed they had reached a kind of truce.

It also seemed he didn’t feel compelled to say more.

They finished their meal, and then it was back to the solitude of the coach.

It was nine o’clock when they drew up outside a fine town house in Mayfair’s Berkeley Square.

By the time Constance alighted with the assistance of the groom, the front door stood open. Marcus offered his arm, then escorted her up the steps, into an entrance hall where an array of servants lined up to greet them.

“Dallow,” he said to the butler, “may I present the Countess of Spenford.” No affection in his tone, of course, but the respect he’d promised.

“Your ladyship.” The butler bowed low to Constance. Her own family had servants—a cook, two maids, a manservant and an occasional gardener. But none so grand as this personage.

Dallow introduced her to the rest of the servants. She managed to say a word or two to each, smiling at a young lad who barely stifled a yawn. She suspected they were all as tired as she, having been preparing the house for a new mistress.

“How is my mother?” Marcus asked the butler.

“I believe Lady Spenford is awake and anxious to see your lordship. And your ladyship.”

Constance sensed Marcus was forcing himself to slow to a genteel pace as he escorted her up the imposing staircase. He knocked on the door of the dowager countess’s room. It was opened by a middle-aged maidservant.

She curtsied. “My lord.”

“Good evening, Powell. May I present the Countess of Spenford?”

Powell curtsied to Constance, the frankness of her appraising gaze suggesting a servant of long standing.

“Is my mother awake?” the earl asked.

“Is that you, Marcus?” a voice called.

His face lit. “She sounds stronger.”

They passed through a small but charming sitting room to reach the dowager’s bedroom. She sat in bed, propped against an enormous number of pillows. Her wrapper and cap were the most fetching Constance had seen.

“Oh!” Helen, Lady Spenford, pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Constance, my dear, it’s really true! You married Marcus!”

“Yes, my lady.” Constance approached quickly, and dropped into a curtsy.

The dowager laughed as she grasped Constance’s hand. “I half thought I must have dreamed Marcus telling me on Tuesday you’d agreed to be his wife. And now here you are!”

“Mama, it’s wonderful to see you looking so well.” Marcus leaned down to kiss her cheek.

“I do feel better,” the dowager admitted, on a note of revelation. “Your happy news must have boosted me. I’ve always been fond—extremely fond!—of you, Constance, and now you’re my daughter.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Her effusiveness was embarrassing, but Constance basked in its warmth. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The dowager smiled. “Two things, my dear. Call me Mama, and accept my warmest welcome into our family. Marcus, I’m persuaded a wife as gentle and sweet as Constance will soon be dear to your heart.”

Marcus made a noncommittal sound.

Given that he’d taken a fancy to Amanda, Constance suspected sweet and gentle sat low on his list of desirable wifely qualities. As for his heart…

The dowager patted Constance’s hand. “Of course, you never had any thought of marrying my son—” Constance blushed “—so this has been very sudden. I hope you are happy?”

She’d just endured the most miserable few hours of her twenty years.

“Mother,” Marcus protested, “it’s late, and Constance has had a long journey.”

It was the first time he’d spoken her name since the wedding. Even after all that had happened, she liked hearing it on his lips.

Foolish.

“My—Mama, I agreed to marry the earl of my own free will,” she said. “We made our vows before God. So I’m certain I will be happy.” She wouldn’t lie and say she was happy now. But she had faith for the future.

The dowager directed a questioning glance at her son.

His hand settled on Constance’s shoulder. “I share my wife’s certainty,” he said.

Really? He felt they could overcome this awkward beginning, too? They had no choice, of course, but still…Constance hadn’t hoped for a softening this soon. She was suddenly aware of his thumb, aligned with the edge of the dress where it met her shoulder.

“That’s all I could want.” Helen pushed herself higher against the pillows. “I declare, I haven’t felt so lively in months.”

“I hope you’ll be still livelier tomorrow,” Marcus said fondly. “But Mr. Bird would be alarmed to see you overexerting yourself. He would worry you’ll weaken your heart further.”

His mother sighed. “Constance, dear, you never met such a man as my doctor for depressing one’s hopes of recovery! He can be quite an old woman.”

“That ‘old woman’ is the finest doctor in London,” Marcus said.

“I know, darling, and he’s so worthy.” The dowager pulled a face. “But when I think how I never used to go to bed before midnight…”

“Maybe those days will come again,” Marcus said gently, “but not, I suspect, today.”

“You’re right. I should sleep. Constance, will you come to me tomorrow?”

“I’ll spend the day with you, Mama—” she shot a glance at Marcus “—that is, if Lord Spenford doesn’t have other plans.”

His look, full of approval, warmed her through. “Certainly you could spend much of the day here.”

“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 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.

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 dear Marcus’s heart.”

Given pen and paper, Constance could list a dozen reasons why she wouldn’t succeed in working such miracles on Dear Marcus’s heart. Number one: he’d been duped into marrying the wrong woman.

But Helen’s story had given her insight into why Marcus was so proud. The dowager’s loyalty had been to her husband—it was perhaps too late for her to show Marcus another way. But Constance could teach him that other things were just as important as status and reputation. Even more important.

The sooner she started, the better.



The news that his cousin Lucinda had come calling made Marcus groan.

“Shall I tell her you’re not available, my lord?” Dallow asked.

He’d have to face Lucinda sooner or later, but maybe he could deter her from meeting Constance before his wife took delivery of the dresses and other things that might make her look more countesslike. Marcus closed the accounts book on his desk—at least he had an excuse to stop staring at those depressing figures. “Where is the countess?”

“With Mrs. Quayle, my lord.”

“What?” Marcus pushed his seat back quickly.

“Lady Spenford was just finishing a meeting with Mrs. Matlock in the small salon when Mrs. Quayle arrived.” Matlock, the housekeeper, was doubtless ecstatic to have a new mistress to take an interest in the meals and the running of the house, something the dowager hadn’t been able to do for some months. “Mrs. Quayle took advantage of the open door to, er, present herself to Lady Spenford,” Dallow said.

Typical of his overwhelming, inquisitive cousin.

“I’ll join them right away,” Marcus said.

As he hurried upstairs, he inwardly cursed his own haste in telling Lucinda earlier in the week that he was about to marry. She’d hounded him for details and had been bemused to learn the new countess was a parson’s daughter. Wellborn, but cut off from her titled relations through some family rift. No fortune. “How interesting,” she’d said. And Marcus, hating that she would be judging the new Countess of Spenford as an inferior creature, had declared, “She is a great beauty.”

Which immediately made the countess acceptable in Lucinda’s mind, and would have done so in the eyes of the rest of the ton.

If not for the obvious problem.

Lucinda would take one look at Constance and come to the only rational conclusion—that he’d married the wrong bride was not rational—that he’d fallen head over heels in love.

He shuddered as he stopped outside the small salon, his hand on the door handle. He needed to convince Lucinda that Constance was a perfectly eligible bride for him. Not some foolish love affair. Marcus closed his eyes, feeling the need for divine assistance. When he couldn’t think of a prayer that didn’t sound insulting, he gave up, and opened the door.

Lucinda shared a sofa with Constance, the two women angled toward each other. Lucinda looked…stunned was the best word for it. Her slightly sagging jaw and overbright smile said, This is Marcus’s idea of a great beauty? Has he gone mad?

His cousin couldn’t have been more different from his wife. Lucinda’s flaxen hair and rosebud mouth had secured her dozens of suitors when she came out, and an early marriage proposal from the most eligible Jonathan Quayle. The dashing pelisse she wore—purple silk trimmed with black—was something only a supremely confident woman would wear.

Whereas his wife… Her appearance wasn’t helped by that dowdy sprig muslin, but he suspected that even when Constance had her new dresses, she wouldn’t carry them off with Lucinda’s careless elegance. Her hair looked different today—softer, perhaps. But the plain style did little to become her.

She owed it to her position, and to him, to rise to the appropriate standard.

“Marcus!” Lucinda caught sight of him. “I’ve just been getting to know your bride.” She almost managed to keep the surprise out of her voice.

Marcus kissed her cheek. “Good afternoon, Lucinda…ma’am.” The ma’am was to Constance. “How are you today?” He hadn’t seen her, having breakfasted early and taken luncheon in his study.

As he sat in the chair next to her, something flashed in her eyes: an accusation of neglect? Then she seemed to pull herself into some kind of resolution—what a transparent face she had—as she spread her fingers on her skirt of her muslin dress and said, “I’m well, thank you.”

The smile she gave him was oddly sympathetic. Not that she could know he was alarmed as to what Lucinda would think of her—and presumably she wouldn’t be sympathetic if she did.

“Lady Spenford is telling me about her family,” Lucinda said.

“Did she mention that her father, Reverend Somerton, is a nephew of the Duke of Medway?” Marcus asked.

Constance frowned. “Our Medway relations don’t speak to us, apart from my Aunt Jane.”

“The Reverend and Mrs. Somerton are most gracious,” Marcus said. Constance’s frown deepened, as if gracious weren’t a compliment. Probably some ridiculous rectory prejudice. “It’s important to marry into a family one likes.” A flimsy argument in favor of wedding a plain-looking country girl, but Lucinda’s own mother-in-law was a tartar of the worst order, so she might agree.

Indeed, his cousin nodded thoughtfully. Marcus began to feel hopeful he might pull this off.

“The Somertons have an unblemished reputation,” he continued, pointing out an advantage Lucinda knew was important to him.

A muffled, high-pitched sound came from Constance. Possibly a squeak of outrage. She was intelligent enough to know he was making excuses for her. Too bad, it had to be done.

“My mother considered the match most eligible,” he said. Lucinda had a great deal of respect for her Aunt Helen’s views.

Lucinda was nodding in an encouraging fashion. “Well, Marcus, all I can say is, your countess is delightful.”

Marcus smiled.

Constance said politely, “I hardly think you know me well enough to reach that conclusion, Mrs. Quayle.”

What on earth…? Marcus kept his gaze on Lucinda, while he slid his right foot toward Constance. He gave her slipper a sharp nudge.

Without looking at him, she moved her foot away.

Lucinda blinked twice. Then, thankfully, she giggled. “No, but I had to say it out of politeness, didn’t I?”

Constance laughed. Marcus hadn’t heard her laugh before—it was low, almost musical. Warming.

“In that case, you might need to teach me London manners,” she said. “My father always exhorted me and my sisters to either speak the truth or say nothing at all.”

Marcus groaned, foreseeing numerous awkward encounters ahead. Instead of looking annoyed, Constance gave him that sympathetic smile again.

He sensed it could soon become an irritant.

“You poor girl,” Lucinda breathed. “That’s just the sort of silly thing a parson would say. How on earth do you survive in society?”

“Mostly by saying nothing at all,” Constance admitted.

Marcus’s chuckle was drowned by Lucinda’s peal of laughter.

“Well, that won’t suffice in London,” Lucinda said. “Now, Constance—you must call me Lucinda, by the way—I want to know all about you. How can I be your first friend here if I don’t?”

“Don’t tell my cousin anything you don’t wish aired all over town,” Marcus warned Constance.

“Marcus, I’m not that indiscreet.” But Lucinda was laughing. “I try not to gossip,” she confided to Constance. “But one sees and hears so much, one would burst if one tried to hold it in.”

“I can see that would be most uncomfortable,” Constance said.

At least, he noticed, Lucinda hadn’t overwhelmed her. In fact, Constance hadn’t been overwhelmed by any of the events of the past, tumultuous twenty-four hours. Perhaps she did have the potential to develop the dignity of a countess.

“I am quite discreet in winter,” Lucinda offered in her own defense.

“When you’re in the country, with no source of gossip, nor anyone to tell it to,” Marcus retorted.

“The good thing is, I know everything about everyone.” Lucinda ignored him. “So I shall bring you up with all the news before you meet the world, Constance. And I warn you—” she wagged a finger “—everyone is agog to meet the Countess of Spenford.”

Not before she had her new dresses, and her maid had proven herself competent to present Constance the way his countess should appear, Marcus thought. No doubt Lucinda had already blabbed all over town that he was marrying an impoverished beauty—his own fault, he realized, cursing the moment of pride that had made him boast. As Constance looked now, she would be a lamb to the slaughter of razor-sharp tongues.

Constance’s brow wrinkled. “There’s nothing amazing about me.”

“My dear, you’ve snatched the biggest prize on London’s marriage mart. If that’s not amazing…” Lucinda spread her hands as if to suggest that even Mr. Murdoch’s invention of gas lighting couldn’t compete with Constance’s achievement.

“It doesn’t seem right to think of a man as a prize,” Constance said.

Marcus blinked. Of course he was a prize!

“Of course he’s a prize.” Lucinda saved him the need to state the glaringly obvious. “Constance, you can’t be that rural. He’s the Earl of Spenford.”

“Which implies that if he were not the earl, people wouldn’t like him so well. My father teaches never to judge a man by his status.”

Marcus couldn’t remember seeing his cousin reduced to stunned silence before. It would have been amusing, if it hadn’t been at his expense.

“If he were not the earl, he wouldn’t be the same person,” Lucinda said at last. With a naughty grin at Marcus, she added, “But he’d still be as handsome. You do think he’s handsome, don’t you, Constance? I’m relying on you to speak the truth or say nothing at all,” she teased.

“Very handsome,” Constance agreed.

Marcus could not feel flattered: her tone implied his appearance wasn’t important—no doubt another stricture of her father’s—as well as, he suspected, a lingering doubt as to his likability.

Yes, all right, I should have bid her good-night last night. And good morning this morning.

“Marcus’s address is beyond fault,” Lucinda pointed out; she’d obviously discerned Constance’s lack of excitement over his good looks. “His manner is so polished.”

Constance looked confused. “Perhaps he has been…less formal in his manner to me.”

Blast it, she was right. Marcus hadn’t yet favored his wife with the polished address for which society knew him. He’d fallen short of his own standard.

“I dare say, since he was wooing you,” Lucinda said with a relish that made Marcus wince. “And I’m sure he was too modest to tell you his many accomplishments.” She tut-tutted at this oversight.

“Excessive modesty is not one of the faults I’ve discerned in him,” Constance said with a slight smile.

She’d gone too far! Marcus shot her a quelling look, but since she wasn’t paying him any attention, she remained unquelled.

“Excellent,” Lucinda said. “So he’s told you he can fire a bullet through an ace at sixty paces—”

“Not in polite society,” Marcus interjected.

“—and that he’s never lost a curricle race,” Lucinda said triumphantly.

“Most impressive,” Constance murmured.

She fooled no one.

Lucinda set her teacup down with a rattle. “It seems none of the things our society holds dear matter to you,” she said with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

In a different conversation, Marcus would have laughed to see her so confused.

“Would it be too vulgar of me to mention Spenford’s fortune?” Lucinda asked.

“Yes!” Marcus snapped.

“But, Marcus, Jonathan says no one manages financial affairs as well as you. His skill has made all the difference to the family fortunes,” she told Constance. “One more reason why he’s deemed such a catch.”

“I don’t calculate the worth of my husband in pounds and guineas,” Constance said apologetically.

Marcus felt as if he’d stumbled into a back-to-front world, sense turned to nonsense. He had lived half his years as heir and then Earl of Spenford. Lived them right, and well, and properly. And now his wife was attempting to shred the very fabric of those years?

“Ah, my dear, I begin to understand.” Lucinda recovered her self-possession and shifted to the edge of her seat, eyes gleaming in a way that Marcus knew meant she’d just sniffed out a new piece of gossip and was about to pounce. “You chose to marry my cousin—but not for his looks, his manner, his sporting prowess or his fortune. Which can only mean—”

“Which can only mean you’ve badgered my wife more than enough,” Marcus forestalled her.

“You’re right, Lucinda,” Constance said. “I married my husband for his kindness.”

What?

Constance’s chin—every bit as pointy as it had been yesterday—went up in the air, as if she was ready to defend her own. The way she’d defended her father to Marcus yesterday. She gave him a reassuring smile, which only worried him. From what, exactly, did she plan on defending him?





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