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
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
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
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ABBY GAINES
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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
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
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.
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“He meant no harm,