Abby Gaines – The Earl's Mistaken Bride (страница 11)

Constance didn’t fall asleep until dawn streaked the sky. As a consequence, she didn’t wake until half past nine. She dressed quickly, refusing Miriam’s offer of a more complicated hairstyle than her usual simple knot. That left time for a brief breakfast alone in the yellow-toned breakfast room—a footman informed her the earl had gone riding early—before Madame Louvier arrived.

The couturiere insisted that every one of the prevailing styles would suit Constance’s “exquisite figure” to perfection. Constance had no idea of the prevailing styles, but was grateful.

The season’s colors, were a different matter, the seamstress said with a very Gallic moue. “Not the best, madame. You are pale, which is good, but you are in danger of being washed out. If madame will pardon me.”

Constance allowed the woman to guide her almost entirely, which delighted Madame Louvier, who departed with the promise to have the first day dress delivered by tomorrow morning. Then another day dress and an evening gown by Monday evening. The rest of the wardrobe would follow as soon as possible.

In the meantime, Constance wore her sprigged muslin, a dress that had seen at least two years’ service, to visit her mother-in-law, who seemed none the worse for her late night. That is, if one overlooked that a lady of not quite sixty years of age looked at least sixty-five.

The dowager began by listing all of Constance’s new relatives and where they fit in the family. Lady Spenford was the daughter of a duke, so between her family—the Havants—and the Spenfords, there were an inordinate number of titles. Constance only managed to store a fraction of them. One name did strike a chord, that of Marcus’s cousin Lucinda—one of the few people who used his Christian name.

“She’s Mrs. Quayle, married to Jonathan, youngest son of the Earl of Hazlemere,” Helen said. “I’d be surprised if Lucinda doesn’t visit you today. She must always be in the thick of the news.”

“I was under the impression the earl—er, Marcus—doesn’t care for gossip,” Constance said.

“True,” Helen agreed. “But he and Lucinda spent a great deal of time together in their youth. Their closeness persists despite Lucinda’s tendency to say too much. Now, my dear, am I right in thinking you have already been presented at Court?”

“Yes, Mama. My sister Serena and I were presented in the company of my aunt, Miss Jane Somerton, last year.” Her aunt was currently traveling on the Continent, not expected back in London for at least a month.

“Then there’s no reason why you shouldn’t appear immediately in society. What a surprise you’ll be to our friends.”

Did she mean a good surprise, or a bad one?

“I only hope they take the shock as well as you have, Mama,” Constance said, in an attempt at humor.

“Not a shock, my dear. Although—” she paused delicately “—I admit, this happened rather fast. It was only last Sunday I told Marcus I’d love to see him married to a nice, Christian girl. He left the next day to see your father, and here you are.”

That was such a ridiculously shortened version of the disastrous wedding story, Constance didn’t know what to say. “You have a most obedient son,” she managed.

Helen tipped her head back against her pillows. “He’s perfect,” she agreed gloomily.

Constance blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“One thing you’ll soon learn with Marcus—he always does the correct thing,” Helen said. “He never makes a mistake. Never.”

Constance could think of an enormous mistake Marcus had made yesterday at quarter past eleven. She chose not to mention it.

Helen must have sensed her doubts. “I’m not saying he’s infallible. But Marcus sets such high standards for himself. His father was the same, devoted to his duty and the earldom.”

“Those are good things,” Constance reminded her.

“I used to think so,” the dowager agreed. “But now…well, I’ve stared death in the eye over the past few months. Believe me, Constance, I don’t worry about whether my life has been dutiful enough. I worry whether I’ve loved enough.”

“Do you think one must choose between duty and love?” Constance asked.

“Not necessarily. But for Marcus…” Helen plucked at her blanket. “When he became heir apparent after Stephen’s death, his father found him lacking in the qualities he considered essential—authority and bearing and dignity. Marcus wasn’t to blame. I was too doting a mama, and he hadn’t been groomed for the title from a young age, as Stephen had. I think sometimes the poor boy despaired of attaining what my husband considered the acceptable standard for an earl.”

“So you think he became wedded to his duty to please his father?”

“I feel guilty,” Helen said frankly. “I withdrew from his upbringing, believing it the right thing to do. But in becoming the perfect earl, he’s grown intolerant of others’ weaknesses. It stops him from getting close to people.”

“You and Marcus are close,” Constance reminded her. “And lovely though you are, I doubt you’re perfect.”

Helen chuckled. “Far from it. Luckily, the maternal bond seems to exempt me from his high standards. The thing is, Constance, I don’t want to die knowing it’s at least partly my fault that my son is unhappy.”

“You think he’s unhappy?” Constance asked.

“How can he not be? He’s proud, and I believe he must be lonely. If nothing short of perfection satisfies him, he’ll never find contentment in this earthly life.”

Misgiving flooded Constance. He could never be content with her.

Helen glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Gracious, it’s past one o’clock. Luncheon will be served. You must go down.” As Constance stood, Helen grasped her fingers. “Constance, my hope and prayer is that you will soften dear Marcus’s heart.”

Given pen and paper, Constance could list a dozen reasons why she wouldn’t succeed in working such miracles on Dear Marcus’s heart. Number one: he’d been duped into marrying the wrong woman.

But Helen’s story had given her insight into why Marcus was so proud. The dowager’s loyalty had been to her husband—it was perhaps too late for her to show Marcus another way. But Constance could teach him that other things were just as important as status and reputation. Even more important.

The sooner she started, the better.

The news that his cousin Lucinda had come calling made Marcus groan.

“Shall I tell her you’re not available, my lord?” Dallow asked.

He’d have to face Lucinda sooner or later, but maybe he could deter her from meeting Constance before his wife took delivery of the dresses and other things that might make her look more countesslike. Marcus closed the accounts book on his desk—at least he had an excuse to stop staring at those depressing figures. “Where is the countess?”

“With Mrs. Quayle, my lord.”

“What?” Marcus pushed his seat back quickly.

“Lady Spenford was just finishing a meeting with Mrs. Matlock in the small salon when Mrs. Quayle arrived.” Matlock, the housekeeper, was doubtless ecstatic to have a new mistress to take an interest in the meals and the running of the house, something the dowager hadn’t been able to do for some months. “Mrs. Quayle took advantage of the open door to, er, present herself to Lady Spenford,” Dallow said.

Typical of his overwhelming, inquisitive cousin.

“I’ll join them right away,” Marcus said.

As he hurried upstairs, he inwardly cursed his own haste in telling Lucinda earlier in the week that he was about to marry. She’d hounded him for details and had been bemused to learn the new countess was a parson’s daughter. Wellborn, but cut off from her titled relations through some family rift. No fortune. “How interesting,” she’d said. And Marcus, hating that she would be judging the new Countess of Spenford as an inferior creature, had declared, “She is a great beauty.”

Which immediately made the countess acceptable in Lucinda’s mind, and would have done so in the eyes of the rest of the ton.

If not for the obvious problem.

Lucinda would take one look at Constance and come to the only rational conclusion—that he’d married the wrong bride was not rational—that he’d fallen head over heels in love.

He shuddered as he stopped outside the small salon, his hand on the door handle. He needed to convince Lucinda that Constance was a perfectly eligible bride for him. Not some foolish love affair. Marcus closed his eyes, feeling the need for divine assistance. When he couldn’t think of a prayer that didn’t sound insulting, he gave up, and opened the door.

Lucinda shared a sofa with Constance, the two women angled toward each other. Lucinda looked…stunned was the best word for it. Her slightly sagging jaw and overbright smile said, This is Marcus’s idea of a great beauty? Has he gone mad?

His cousin couldn’t have been more different from his wife. Lucinda’s flaxen hair and rosebud mouth had secured her dozens of suitors when she came out, and an early marriage proposal from the most eligible Jonathan Quayle. The dashing pelisse she wore—purple silk trimmed with black—was something only a supremely confident woman would wear.

Whereas his wife… Her appearance wasn’t helped by that dowdy sprig muslin, but he suspected that even when Constance had her new dresses, she wouldn’t carry them off with Lucinda’s careless elegance. Her hair looked different today—softer, perhaps. But the plain style did little to become her.