hold…to love and to cherish…”
He spoke clearly, rather than loudly, but the words
rang to the rafters above the heads of the enthralled
congregation.
“To have and to hold…to love and to cherish,” the
earl repeated firmly.
Constance let out a breath of relief. He had sworn to
love her. Not today, or tomorrow, necessarily, but he
would try, and when he succeeded it would be—
“Till death us do part…”
Yes. That.
She made the same vow, her voice shaking, adding
the bride’s promise to obey.
Behind her, she heard a small sob. Mama. Pragmatic
Margaret Somerton had surprised her daughters, and
herself, with several bouts of sniffling over the past few
days. Her mood had been unimproved by her husband’s
assurance she was not losing a daughter, but gaining a
son.
Constance slid a sidelong glance at her mother’s new
“son.” At several inches taller than she, at least six feet,
his height was potentially intimidating.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“Do you have the ring?” her father asked.
The earl—Marcus—turned to his groomsman.
Constance had forgotten his name… Severn, that was it,
the Marquis of Severn.
Severn handed over a circlet of gold. After a
moment’s pause, Constance realized everyone was
waiting for her.
She fumbled to free her left hand— the one he had
kissed—from her glove. Marcus took her bare fingers,
and for the first time they were flesh to flesh. About to
be made one.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” he repeated after her
father.
Another few moments, and the gold band slid down
her finger. Making her his.
Constance’s mind shied away from the thought.
“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man
put asunder,” her father intoned.
The next phrases washed over her, until she heard, “I
now pronounce that they be man and wife.”
Constance’s gazed snapped to the earl. She hadn’t
even been listening to that final declaration and now she
was married. Just as well she didn’t attend to omens,
because surely…
The worry evaporated in the warmth of the gaze Lord
Spenford—her husband!—turned on her.
A half smile on his lips, he reached for her veil, lifted
it.
His brilliant blue eyes scanned her face.
Constance smiled shyly.
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Marcus’s mouth straightened into a line that could
only be described as grim.
“My—my lord?” Words died away as Constance
absorbed his expression.
He looked appalled.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Chapter Three
“Who the blazes are you?” Marcus snapped the
moment they attained the privacy of the carriage.
The girl—the woman—his wife, blast it!—shrank
back against the seat, her bonnet with that veil, that—
that instrument of deception, askew.
“You know who I am.” Her voice quivered as she
rubbed her elbow where he’d gripped it to escort her
from the church. “I am Constance….”
She stopped. As if she had been going to say
Constance Somerton, but that was no longer true,
because now she was—
She could not be Lady Spenford.
Outside, the villagers cheered and shouted good
wishes as the coach pulled away, headed for the rectory,
for the wedding breakfast.
Thoughts and images whirled in Marcus’s head,
blurred by fatigue. Could some artifice—cosmetics,
perhaps?—have made her look so different last
Monday? Her voice was slightly altered, but in the
church he’d attributed that to nerves.
“Remove your bonnet,” he ordered.
She clutched it to her head. So much for that promise
she’d made not five minutes ago to obey.
He leaned forward; she gasped as his fingers closed
around the ribbon beneath her chin. Then she froze as
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he worked the knot, careful not to touch her.
He lifted the bonnet from her head, tossed it to the
floor of the coach. Which elicited another gasp.
“Your bonnet is the least of your worries, madam,”
he said roughly. His gaze raked her face. Not at all the
same. Brown eyes, not violet-blue, a perfectly ordinary
nose in place of the charming version he’d seen on
Monday. Thinner lips, a chin that might be described by
someone in an uncharitable mood as pointy.
Marcus was in a very uncharitable mood.
In place of ink-black curls, this girl’s hair was a drab
brown, drawn up in a knot, with a few tendrils curling
around her nape.
“What is this trick?” he growled. “You must have
planned it before I even arrived in Piper’s Mead. I
swear, if your holier-than-thou father played a part in
this—”
“You will not say a word against my father,” she
blurted.
And now she dared issue orders to him!
Well, that wouldn’t last, nor would this marriage.
He’d been duped into marrying this plain-faced
fraudster, and fraud was grounds for annulment.
There’d been the case of Baron Waring, some years
ago…Marcus couldn’t remember the details, but the
woman involved had misrepresented herself, and the
bishop declared an annulment.
The girl, Constance, or whatever her name was,
picked up her bonnet. As she settled it on her lap, it
slipped through her trembling fingers and fell to the
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
floor again.
Instinctive courtesy had Marcus reaching to retrieve it
at the same moment she did.