The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,4
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
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?”
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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.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“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 over-setting 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
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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