The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,17
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.”
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“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
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
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.
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“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
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
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