Abby Gaines - The Earl's Mistaken Bride

“I am still at a loss to understand why you alighted on the idea of one of my daughters.” The rector’s manner remained pleasant as ever, but his persistence was beginning to grate on Marcus’s taut nerves.

“It is my mother’s desire—and mine—that I should find a Christian bride.” He schooled impatience out of his voice. “I have known your daughters at least as long as any other young lady of my acquaintance, and I hold them in the highest regard.”

No need to mention the bargain he’d struck with God on the subject. He wasn’t sure how reverends felt about mere mortals bargaining with the Deity.

Marcus Brookstone, Earl of Spenford, would bargain with whomever he chose.

He pressed into the arms of the chair, ready to leave if the reverend didn’t come to heel. “Sir, I regret to inform you this is a matter of some haste. While I would like nothing better than a courtship of normal duration—” an untruth, since he could think of nothing more tedious than courting a country miss “—upon securing your consent I must return to London immediately. I’m not happy to have left Mama even for the journey down here—her physician has said she may have only a week… .”

Mortifyingly, his voice cracked. Somerton made a hum of concern.

With the ease of long practice, Marcus set sentiment aside and pursued that slight advantage. “The marriage would take place as soon as a special license can be obtained,” he said, his words thankfully steady.

Today was Monday. He could have the license by Thursday evening and return here Friday morning. In normal circumstances, Marcus would avoid the unsavory implications of such a hasty wedding, but his mother’s failing health ensured no gossip would attach to his actions.

“I would wish the marriage to take place here.” Reverend Somerton settled his spectacles back on his nose. “To perform my daughters’ wedding services is a long-cherished ambition.”

At last, some indication the man would consent! Marcus had expected this condition, had reconciled himself to it on the journey down.

“Of course,” he said magnanimously. “All I ask is that my bride and I leave for London in time for me to present the new countess to my mother that evening.”

Somerton pressed his thumb to the distinctive cleft in his chin.

“Which of my daughters do you have in mind?” he asked. “Serena, my oldest, isn’t here. She is governess to the Granville family in Leicestershire.”

Marcus frowned. That would have to cease. The Earl of Spenford couldn’t have a sister in any form of employment.

He’d left London struggling to remember any of the Somerton girls’ names—five was a ludicrous number of daughters for any family—despite having encountered them many times previously. Not only in church, where they filled the front left-hand pew in the company of their mother, but also at dinners and receptions held at the homes of nearby gentry. Including Palfont, the estate bequeathed to Marcus’s mother, which would return to her family coffers upon her death.

She will not die. I have agreed it with God.

He’d had nightmarish visions of taking tea with all five Somerton sisters, inspecting them as if they were horseflesh before making his choice.

Thankfully, circumstance had spared him that.

“Miss Constance Somerton…” he suggested.

“Constance,” the rector said, delighted. “Why, that is excellent news.” All of a sudden he seemed more kindly disposed toward Marcus’s request.

Marcus could guess why. He’d encountered Miss Constance Somerton a short while ago in the village, when he’d climbed down from his curricle at the Goose & Gander, not wishing to be forced to prevail upon the rector for refreshment.

Having eaten, and about to leave the inn, he’d heard a female cry out. In the stable yard, he’d found the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, trying to sidestep around a young man of clearly amorous intentions.

“May I be of assistance, miss?” he’d inquired of the girl.

“Yes, please, sir.” She turned a relieved face toward him. Then recognized him. Alarm flashed across her features, putting a pretty pink in her cheeks as she curtsied. “I believe, my lord, Mr. Farnham was just leaving.”

Bellingham, the squire’s son, Marcus recalled, stammered an apology to the girl before scuttling away like a beetle. Marcus took a step after him.

“He meant no harm, my lord,” the girl said quickly. “I’m certain he regrets presuming on our friendship.”

Marcus decided to let the youth go; doubtless he’d learned his lesson. “That is gracious of you, Miss…?”

She blushed deeper. “I—I’m Constance Somerton, my lord.”

Marcus started. “How remarkable. I’m on my way to visit your father.”

“Indeed, my lord?” She’d recovered her composure and spoke with a demureness belied by the dimple dancing in her left cheek.

“Allow me to drive you home in my curricle.”

She cast a longing look toward the fine pair of gray horses an ostler was walking up and down. “My lord, Papa would not be pleased to discover me abroad in the village. It’s best if I walk home.”

“But that will take at least an hour,” he protested.

“My sisters and I walk it all the time.”

Perhaps that explained her slender figure. In which case, how could Marcus complain?

“Very well.” He executed a bow of a depth he would usually reserve for an equal in the peerage, and was rewarded with an appreciative twinkle in her near-violet eyes. “Your servant, Miss Somerton.”

Her beauty and lively nature were more than he’d dared expect. She would command the admiration of Society…he just hoped she was of marriageable age.

“My lord…” She hesitated as she curtsied. Her eyes widened in an unspoken plea.

He guessed what she wished to ask, and appreciated her delicacy in not framing the question outright. Yes, with a little guidance, Miss Constance Somerton could be the ideal bride.

“No benefit will be served by my mentioning to your father that I met you here,” he assured her.

“Thank you,” she breathed. Her hand touched his arm ever so briefly.

Now Marcus returned Reverend Somerton’s smile with understanding. Constance Somerton’s liveliness was doubtless a source of concern to her parents—he suspected the average parson’s daughter was far more docile. Not to mention her appeal to the local young men. Her parents would be delighted to have her safely off their hands.

“I believe I don’t speak out of turn when I assure you Constance holds you in the highest esteem,” Somerton said.

“I’m happy to hear it.” Marcus wondered why the man felt obliged to say such a thing—naturally all the Somerton girls would appreciate his position. He remembered there was still one potential obstacle. “Er, how old is the young lady?”

He would have put her at seventeen, better than sixteen, which would have been impossible, but still arguably too young. Though in a year or two the maturity gap between them would narrow… .

“She turned twenty last month,” Somerton said. “She is my second daughter.”

Twenty? Marcus was surprised, but pleased. Though no one would dare accuse him to his face of robbing the nursery, he hated to be the subject of gossip. His father had spent years schooling him to be worthy of his title—he would not let it fall into disrepute again.

“Unfortunately, Constance is sitting with a sick friend this afternoon,” Somerton said. “I could send for her… .”

“That won’t be necessary.” Knowing full well Constance wasn’t at a friend’s sickbed, Marcus had no desire to land her in trouble. “I must return to London—in addition to the wedding license and to reassuring my mother, there are marriage settlement documents to be drawn up. I propose an allowance of—”