The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines Page 0,6
the
Lord hadn’t revealed her besottedness to Lord
Spenford—the poor man would be mortified to know
his bride cherished such romantic notions for a near
stranger.
She could only hope it was indeed her gentle spirit,
whether revealed through divine guidance or through
the dowager, that had caused the earl to settle on her.
One of the urchins perched on the churchyard wall
shouted, “He’s coming! And he’s got a bang-up rig,
too.”
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
His mother boxed his ears for referring to Lord
Spenford as “he” rather than “his lordship” and for
daring to express an opinion on the earl’s conveyance.
The women set to straightening their dresses, adjusting
their bonnets in a panicked flurry that reminded
Constance of the Bible parable about the foolish virgins
readying themselves for the bridegroom.
Constance stayed still. No minimal adjustment would
elevate her to sudden beauty.
“Mama,” Amanda said, “I think I’m going to faint.”
A stir of interest ran through the crowd at her words,
dividing attention between her and the churchyard
gates.
“Oh, gracious.” Margaret Somerton was visibly torn.
“Stay there, Mama,” Amanda told her. “I’ll sit in the
side chapel until I feel better. Excuse me, Constance.”
“Of course, love. I should have let you rest at home.”
Amanda did look wan. There was no sign of the
dimple in her left cheek that had inspired several young
men to attempt poetry, with woeful results. As she
handed over Constance’s reticule and posy, she asked
with a strange urgency. “Connie, this is what you wish,
isn’t it? To marry Spenford?”
It wasn’t like Amanda to show such care for others;
Constance blinked away unexpected tears. “It’s what I
wish more than anything,” she confirmed. Hoping it
was true.
Almost before she finished speaking, Amanda was
hurrying into the church. And Constance’s attention
was drawn to the fine curricle pulling up behind the
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dowager’s coach, sent earlier from Palfont to convey
the Somerton women to the church.
Constance didn’t recognize the gentleman driving the
curricle, nor did she notice the groom on the back. She
had eyes only for her betrothed, sitting alongside the
driver.
Poor Lord Spenford would be exhausted, having
traveled so far the past few days. Marcus, I must learn
to call him Marcus.
But the moment the curricle stopped, he jumped
down with an energy that made a mockery of her
concern.
His dark hair lifted in the breeze as he strode toward
her father. The crowd melted back in a flurry of curtsies
and, from the boys, removal of caps.
“Sir, forgive me.” He shook her father’s hand. “We
encountered an overturned post chaise on the road out
of Farnham and stopped to render assistance.”
An impeccable reason for tardiness. Constance
wouldn’t wish to marry a man who failed to render
assistance.
Her father inquired of the injured passengers,
declared his intent to pray for them.
“May I introduce you to the Marquis of Severn, who
will stand with me as groomsman,” Marcus said.
His friend, the same impressive height as the earl, but
to Constance’s eye not as handsome, exchanged bows
with the reverend. Reverend Somerton introduced his
wife to the Marquis…goodness, would the formalities
never end?
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Then, suddenly, they were finished, and her father
was beckoning to Constance.
Isabel gave her the slightest of shoves; Constance
made her way on trembling legs.
She dropped a tiny curtsy, afraid if she sank too low
she would never rise again. To nurse a girlish dream
was one thing; to live the reality quite another. I can’t
go through with this.
The earl took her hands in his, an intimacy she hadn’t
expected. His fingertips curled beneath hers, warm
through the fabric of her best gloves, anchoring her.
“My dear Constance.” His smile held kindness,
chagrin and an uncertainty that somehow boosted her
confidence. “How fortunate I am that your nature aligns
with your name, and you have waited for such a tardy
wretch. Will you do me the honor of accompanying me
into the church?”
Her gaze darted over his shoulder to the worn stone
building she loved as well as her own home. She would
enter the church a parson’s daughter; she would leave it
a countess. A wife. His wife.
The earl’s grip tightened. Her doubts lifted like mist
warmed by the sun, to drift away on the breeze.
“I will,” she said.
He brought her left hand to his lips, and through her
glove pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Warmth flooded
her, traveled directly to her legs where it had a bizarre
weakening effect. Constance locked her knees, put all
her energy into holding her ground.
“Come,” Spenford said, “let us be married.”
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“I, MARCUS ALBERT Edward Spencer Brookstone,
Earl of Spenford, Baron Brookstone, take thee,
Constance Anne Somerton…”
Constance calmed her nerves by focusing on the
string of names. And reflected she would be more
pleased if he were mere Marcus Brookstone.
Her father recited the next portion of the vows in the
dear, measured tone that had guided her life. “To have
and to