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
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
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
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62
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
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
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.
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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