The Earl's Mistaken Bride. Abby Gaines

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 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.”

       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 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?

       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.”

       “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 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 СКАЧАТЬ