The Earl's Mistaken Bride. Abby Gaines

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СКАЧАТЬ will develop in my marriage.” He would not use the word love, as the parson had. Love was what a chambermaid might feel for a groom. Love had almost destroyed the Spenford earldom in the past; it would not be given the chance to do so again.

      Affection seemed a proper objective for his marriage.

       “I know your mother to be a lady of great faith,” Somerton said. “Do you share her faith, my lord?”

       Marcus tensed, but he said lightly, “Indeed I should, sir, having listened to your sermons for so many years. However, I believe a man’s faith to be his own business.”

       “And God’s,” Reverend Somerton added with a slight smile. Not before time, he rose to his feet. He came around his desk, stepping out of the sunshine that made him look so dashed holy. “You are right, my lord. It’s not for me to judge a man in his faith. However, I wouldn’t like any of my daughters to marry an unbeliever.”

       “Then I’m happy to assure you, you need not fear,” Marcus said. This was the worst interview of his life—he thanked heaven a man must only be interrogated by his father-in-law once. An irritating urge to prove himself worthy of Somerton’s paternal devotion, the kind of urge he should have outgrown, made him add, “It may comfort you to know I prayed before the outset of this journey.”

       Perhaps not a conventional prayer of the kind a reverend might favor…but Marcus had spoken to God, had he not?

       “Thank you, it does indeed comfort me.” The reverend moved to open the study door. This awkward encounter was finished.

       “I wish you Godspeed.” Reverend Somerton shook Marcus’s hand. “I will discuss your offer with Constance this evening. If she does not wish to accept, I will send word immediately.”

       Living in a house filled with women must have addled Somerton’s brain. The parson’s daughter—any parson’s daughter—would be honored to marry the Earl of Spenford.

       Marcus didn’t waste time pointing that out. He’d come here for a wife; he’d found one. Nothing else mattered.

       The curricle pulled out of the rectory gate right in front of Constance, so close that one more step would take her smack into the side of a very large gray horse.

       She gave a yelp of surprise, and the driver, who’d been looking to his left for traffic, somehow heard her over the clatter of hooves and the rattle of bridles. He immediately reined in the horses, coming to a stop.

       “My apologies,” he called.

       Lord Spenford! It had been an age since she’d seen him. Why was he here? She wanted to call out an assurance that no apology was needed, though in fact it was: he should have been looking. But as usual, the sight of him reduced her vocabulary to a few nonsense words and made her feel as if it had been days since her last meal. She steadied herself by reaching a hand to the brick wall that ran along the front of the rectory grounds.

       Lord Spenford jumped down, still holding the reins of his grays. “Are you all right?”

       His voice was exactly as Constance remembered—deep, beautifully modulated. It sent a delightful shiver through her.

       He glanced behind him at the rectory. “Miss Somerton? You’ve had a shock. Should I drive you inside?”

       Such consideration! Such— She realized that by now he must be wondering if she’d been struck mute since the last time they met. “I’m quite well,” she said. “Thank you, Lord Spenford.”

       It sounded as if she was thanking him for almost running her over.

       “I was going too fast,” he said ruefully. “In a hurry to get back to London. No excuse for such poor driving.”

       “Don’t think about it,” she said. “I know you must be worried about your—about the dowager countess.”

       He gave her a surprised look, then his face closed over. “Indeed,” he said briefly. “If you truly are unhurt, Miss Somerton, I will resume my journey.” He sprang back up onto the curricle. About to drive off, he checked the horses. “We will meet again soon,” he said, and smiled.

       Then he was gone, and all that was left to show he’d been there was a cloud of dust and what Constance knew must be a sappy expression on her face at the memory of that smile.

       “He wishes to marry me?” Constance sat stunned on the sofa in the rear drawing room, closed off from the front room except when the family had company. “Me? Not Isabel or Amanda?”

       It was the answer to a prayer she’d never dared utter. A dream come true, an absurd fantasy…now about to become reality?

       “He can’t have meant me,” she said faintly. Hoping against hope that he had. “I saw him outside. He didn’t say a word.” He almost killed me! Although, he had said, We will meet again soon. How could she have guessed he meant in church, at our wedding?

      “Nor should he, before your father spoke to you,” her mother said. “Besides, Lord Spenford was in a hurry to return to town…but he definitely wanted you, my dear.” Her mother patted her knee, as she smiled at her father, occupying one of the Hepplewhite chairs he frequently condemned as too spindly. “Didn’t he, Adrian?”

       “So he did,” her father confirmed. “Mind you, Constance, I’m not telling you the earl’s in love with you.”

       “Of course he’s not,” she said quickly. “His sort doesn’t marry for love.” Unlike my sort. She frowned, still struggling to believe this marvelous proposal. “Why me?”

       “His mother must have recommended you,” Margaret Somerton suggested. “Her ladyship was always fond of you.”

       “That must be it,” Constance agreed. “It’s been more than a year since I last spoke to Lord Spenford. He has certainly not been enchanted by my conversation.”

       It went without saying he hadn’t been enchanted by her physical charms: she had none.

       “His lordship’s desire to marry now is largely to please his mother,” Adrian inserted.

       Constance nodded. She did not find that odd, quite the opposite. Marcus Brookstone, Earl of Spenford, might be rumored to enjoy every pleasure of the ton, but he loved his mama dearly, always had, and Constance admired him for that.

       Among other attributes.

       As if he read her thoughts, her father prompted, “I was correct in assuming, my dear, that you would welcome this proposal?”

       Constance felt pink in her cheeks. Her long infatuation with Lord Spenford hadn’t gone unnoticed by her family. “Yes, Papa,” she murmured. Slightly defensive, she added, “I know him to be a good man.”

       Her father thumbed the cleft in his chin. “My dear, his reputation is not spotless.”

       “None of us is perfect,” Constance pointed out.

       “True,” her father agreed.

       “Constance, you don’t find him a little proud?” her mother asked.

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