The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,5
proposal. I am certain we can make each
other happy.”
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Chapter Two
Had he changed his mind?
Five minutes past eleven o’clock on Constance’s
wedding day and no sign of a bridegroom for the
ceremony that should have started on the hour.
Standing in the churchyard, trying to appear
nonchalant while her body vacillated between chills and
extreme heat, Constance was conscious of all eyes upon
her. Most discomfiting.
She could almost feel sorry for Isabel and Amanda,
the two of her sisters acclaimed as beauties. To be
stared at so intently… Constance shivered in the spring
sunshine.
“Cold, my love?” Isabel asked. Instilled with the
supreme confidence that came with beauty, she
wouldn’t understand Constance’s petrified state.
Constance shook her head. “Thank goodness you
added this veil to my bonnet,” she said to Amanda. “At
least I don’t have to meet the eyes of everyone
wondering if the earl plans to make an appearance.”
“Veils are all the rage in London and Paris,” Amanda
said, oddly defensive.
Constance patted her arm. “I trust your knowledge of
the fashions, dearest, for you know I have none.” She
considered taking back the reticule and small posy of
flowers Amanda was holding for her, but there was too
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much chance her nervous fingers would shred them.
“It looks very becoming on you,” Amanda said.
She’d used the same French lace for the veil as
Constance’s mother had for the elegant trim she’d
added to Constance’s best blue muslin dress. Without
compunction, Margaret Somerton had cut into a
beautiful tablecloth that had been a gift from her own
mother.
The trim made a fine feature on an otherwise simple
dress, drawing attention away from Constance’s face,
and down to her figure. The veil, anchored to her
bonnet with a cream-colored satin ribbon and reaching
to her chin, achieved the same end. Constance dared not
ask where Amanda had obtained the ribbon. Her sister
managed to fancy all her clothes with furbelows that
Constance suspected were gifts from young men.
“You realize, Amanda, as Countess of Spenford I will
be in a position to offer you a London Season,”
Constance said. “Perhaps next year…” So long as they
weren’t in mourning for the dowager, of course.
Amanda had yearned for a London Season for as long
as she’d known such a thing existed.
Amanda merely squeezed Constance’s hand. Maybe
she still had the headache she’d complained of earlier
when she’d begged to be excused from the ceremony.
Constance had in turn begged her to attend. It was bad
enough to be getting married lacking one sister’s
presence—there hadn’t been time to send word to
Serena in Leicestershire and have her travel home to
Piper’s Mead.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Now, that seemed a good thing. Serena might have
had a wasted trip.
The villagers were growing restless, despite the
valiant attempts of Reverend Somerton and his wife to
engage them in conversation. While most of the men
were working, a good number of the women thronged
the churchyard, eager to witness the most prestigious
wedding in the village for at least a generation. A
couple of lads had taken advantage of the festive
atmosphere to station themselves on the churchyard
wall, normally forbidden territory. They nudged and
jostled each other, enjoying the risk of an imminent fall.
“Maybe his lordship had an accident,” Mrs. Penney,
the baker’s wife, suggested. “Could be overturned in a
ditch on the London road.”
“Or footpads,” said Mrs. Tucker, from the Goose &
Gander. “They’ll kill a man soon as look at him, these
days.”
“No!” Constance said sharply.
“Sorry, love,” Mrs. Tucker said. “Don’t you worry,
his lordship won’t let you down. He’s like his father in
that respect. A stickler for his duty.”
Even as she spoke, Mrs. Tucker glanced at Isabel,
confusion written on the older woman’s broad face. She
was doubtless wondering why any earl would choose
Constance over Isabel, whose fair beauty had been a
source of village pride since she’d been in the cradle.
“You look lovely, Constance.” The assurance came
from Charity, who, although just turned fifteen,
displayed an unusual sensibility for other people’s
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feelings.
Constance smiled her thanks, though her sister
probably couldn’t see through the veil.
Constance had never wished for beauty…at least, not
since she’d accepted, years ago, that she would always
be the most ordinary of the Somerton girls. Not that her
face sent small children screaming for their mothers, or
anything like that. She’d spent enough hours in her
youth searching the mirror for signs of beauty to know
her brown eyes were warm, her eyebrows nicely
shaped. Those features ensured she was acceptable.
And she’d inherited her mother’s excellent figure, for
which she was truly grateful.
It was just…on this day, when she was about to
marry one of the most handsome men in all England,
she would have given much to be pretty.
“God sees the heart,” Charity reminded her, still
reading Constance’s thoughts. “Perhaps He has
revealed your gentle heart to the earl.”
“Perhaps,” Constance said doubtfully. She hoped