The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,3
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
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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.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
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
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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