Abby Gaines – The Earl's Mistaken Bride (страница 12)

She owed it to her position, and to him, to rise to the appropriate standard.

“Marcus!” Lucinda caught sight of him. “I’ve just been getting to know your bride.” She almost managed to keep the surprise out of her voice.

Marcus kissed her cheek. “Good afternoon, Lucinda…ma’am.” The ma’am was to Constance. “How are you today?” He hadn’t seen her, having breakfasted early and taken luncheon in his study.

As he sat in the chair next to her, something flashed in her eyes: an accusation of neglect? Then she seemed to pull herself into some kind of resolution—what a transparent face she had—as she spread her fingers on her skirt of her muslin dress and said, “I’m well, thank you.”

The smile she gave him was oddly sympathetic. Not that she could know he was alarmed as to what Lucinda would think of her—and presumably she wouldn’t be sympathetic if she did.

“Lady Spenford is telling me about her family,” Lucinda said.

“Did she mention that her father, Reverend Somerton, is a nephew of the Duke of Medway?” Marcus asked.

Constance frowned. “Our Medway relations don’t speak to us, apart from my Aunt Jane.”

“The Reverend and Mrs. Somerton are most gracious,” Marcus said. Constance’s frown deepened, as if gracious weren’t a compliment. Probably some ridiculous rectory prejudice. “It’s important to marry into a family one likes.” A flimsy argument in favor of wedding a plain-looking country girl, but Lucinda’s own mother-in-law was a tartar of the worst order, so she might agree.

Indeed, his cousin nodded thoughtfully. Marcus began to feel hopeful he might pull this off.

“The Somertons have an unblemished reputation,” he continued, pointing out an advantage Lucinda knew was important to him.

A muffled, high-pitched sound came from Constance. Possibly a squeak of outrage. She was intelligent enough to know he was making excuses for her. Too bad, it had to be done.

“My mother considered the match most eligible,” he said. Lucinda had a great deal of respect for her Aunt Helen’s views.

Lucinda was nodding in an encouraging fashion. “Well, Marcus, all I can say is, your countess is delightful.”

Marcus smiled.

Constance said politely, “I hardly think you know me well enough to reach that conclusion, Mrs. Quayle.”

What on earth…? Marcus kept his gaze on Lucinda, while he slid his right foot toward Constance. He gave her slipper a sharp nudge.

Without looking at him, she moved her foot away.

Lucinda blinked twice. Then, thankfully, she giggled. “No, but I had to say it out of politeness, didn’t I?”

Constance laughed. Marcus hadn’t heard her laugh before—it was low, almost musical. Warming.

“In that case, you might need to teach me London manners,” she said. “My father always exhorted me and my sisters to either speak the truth or say nothing at all.”

Marcus groaned, foreseeing numerous awkward encounters ahead. Instead of looking annoyed, Constance gave him that sympathetic smile again.

He sensed it could soon become an irritant.

“You poor girl,” Lucinda breathed. “That’s just the sort of silly thing a parson would say. How on earth do you survive in society?”

“Mostly by saying nothing at all,” Constance admitted.

Marcus’s chuckle was drowned by Lucinda’s peal of laughter.

“Well, that won’t suffice in London,” Lucinda said. “Now, Constance—you must call me Lucinda, by the way—I want to know all about you. How can I be your first friend here if I don’t?”

“Don’t tell my cousin anything you don’t wish aired all over town,” Marcus warned Constance.

“Marcus, I’m not that indiscreet.” But Lucinda was laughing. “I try not to gossip,” she confided to Constance. “But one sees and hears so much, one would burst if one tried to hold it in.”

“I can see that would be most uncomfortable,” Constance said.

At least, he noticed, Lucinda hadn’t overwhelmed her. In fact, Constance hadn’t been overwhelmed by any of the events of the past, tumultuous twenty-four hours. Perhaps she did have the potential to develop the dignity of a countess.

“I am quite discreet in winter,” Lucinda offered in her own defense.

“When you’re in the country, with no source of gossip, nor anyone to tell it to,” Marcus retorted.

“The good thing is, I know everything about everyone.” Lucinda ignored him. “So I shall bring you up with all the news before you meet the world, Constance. And I warn you—” she wagged a finger “—everyone is agog to meet the Countess of Spenford.”

Not before she had her new dresses, and her maid had proven herself competent to present Constance the way his countess should appear, Marcus thought. No doubt Lucinda had already blabbed all over town that he was marrying an impoverished beauty—his own fault, he realized, cursing the moment of pride that had made him boast. As Constance looked now, she would be a lamb to the slaughter of razor-sharp tongues.

Constance’s brow wrinkled. “There’s nothing amazing about me.”

“My dear, you’ve snatched the biggest prize on London’s marriage mart. If that’s not amazing…” Lucinda spread her hands as if to suggest that even Mr. Murdoch’s invention of gas lighting couldn’t compete with Constance’s achievement.

“It doesn’t seem right to think of a man as a prize,” Constance said.

Marcus blinked. Of course he was a prize!

“Of course he’s a prize.” Lucinda saved him the need to state the glaringly obvious. “Constance, you can’t be that rural. He’s the Earl of Spenford.”

“Which implies that if he were not the earl, people wouldn’t like him so well. My father teaches never to judge a man by his status.”

Marcus couldn’t remember seeing his cousin reduced to stunned silence before. It would have been amusing, if it hadn’t been at his expense.

“If he were not the earl, he wouldn’t be the same person,” Lucinda said at last. With a naughty grin at Marcus, she added, “But he’d still be as handsome. You do think he’s handsome, don’t you, Constance? I’m relying on you to speak the truth or say nothing at all,” she teased.

“Very handsome,” Constance agreed.

Marcus could not feel flattered: her tone implied his appearance wasn’t important—no doubt another stricture of her father’s—as well as, he suspected, a lingering doubt as to his likability.

Yes, all right, I should have bid her good-night last night. And good morning this morning.

“Marcus’s address is beyond fault,” Lucinda pointed out; she’d obviously discerned Constance’s lack of excitement over his good looks. “His manner is so polished.”

Constance looked confused. “Perhaps he has been…less formal in his manner to me.”

Blast it, she was right. Marcus hadn’t yet favored his wife with the polished address for which society knew him. He’d fallen short of his own standard.

“I dare say, since he was wooing you,” Lucinda said with a relish that made Marcus wince. “And I’m sure he was too modest to tell you his many accomplishments.” She tut-tutted at this oversight.

“Excessive modesty is not one of the faults I’ve discerned in him,” Constance said with a slight smile.

She’d gone too far! Marcus shot her a quelling look, but since she wasn’t paying him any attention, she remained unquelled.

“Excellent,” Lucinda said. “So he’s told you he can fire a bullet through an ace at sixty paces—”

“Not in polite society,” Marcus interjected.

“—and that he’s never lost a curricle race,” Lucinda said triumphantly.

“Most impressive,” Constance murmured.

She fooled no one.

Lucinda set her teacup down with a rattle. “It seems none of the things our society holds dear matter to you,” she said with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

In a different conversation, Marcus would have laughed to see her so confused.

“Would it be too vulgar of me to mention Spenford’s fortune?” Lucinda asked.

“Yes!” Marcus snapped.

“But, Marcus, Jonathan says no one manages financial affairs as well as you. His skill has made all the difference to the family fortunes,” she told Constance. “One more reason why he’s deemed such a catch.”

“I don’t calculate the worth of my husband in pounds and guineas,” Constance said apologetically.

Marcus felt as if he’d stumbled into a back-to-front world, sense turned to nonsense. He had lived half his years as heir and then Earl of Spenford. Lived them right, and well, and properly. And now his wife was attempting to shred the very fabric of those years?

“Ah, my dear, I begin to understand.” Lucinda recovered her self-possession and shifted to the edge of her seat, eyes gleaming in a way that Marcus knew meant she’d just sniffed out a new piece of gossip and was about to pounce. “You chose to marry my cousin—but not for his looks, his manner, his sporting prowess or his fortune. Which can only mean—”