Abby Gaines – The Earl's Mistaken Bride (страница 4)

Marcus had been born the second son of the previous Earl of Spenford. Stephen, his older brother by six years, had been by all accounts the perfect heir. Until he died in a hunting accident when Marcus was fifteen.

“A delightful boy,” Margaret corrected her. “Until his father, who by the by was also a proud man, took him in hand.”

“I don’t find Lord Spenford at all proud.” The event that had informed Constance’s opinion would seem trivial to her parents. But three years ago she’d realized Marcus Brookstone was a man worthy of her deepest feelings.

“All I’m saying is, you’re not obliged to accept this offer,” her mother said. “Your father’s future may be uncertain, but we are confident God will supply.”

Constance didn’t know how, even with their faith, her parents could remain so calm. Her father’s insistence on taking the Word out to the laborers in the fields, or wherever they might be, had landed him in trouble with his bishop. He’d been accused of Methodism, of creating a schism in the parish. It was monstrously unfair, when her father held unity and inclusiveness within the church as one of his dearest tenets. There was a risk the bishop might remove him from the parish; her parents would lose their home and livelihood.

“I don’t expect any of you girls to marry if you don’t wish it,” the rector confirmed. “St. Paul himself said it’s better not to marry if one can be content in the single life, and while my heirs will never be wealthy, you will live in modest comfort. But blessed as I have been in my own marriage—” he reached across to squeeze his wife’s hand, almost oversetting his chair “—it wouldn’t surprise me if God’s providence should include loving husbands for at least some of my daughters.”

Constance’s youngest sister, Charity, vowed frequently to live with Mama and Papa the rest of her days. But in truth, Constance had expected to be the spinster of the family.

With four sisters prettier than she, she was used to going unnoticed by all, with the exception of her parents. And perhaps of older people, like the dowager countess, who seemed to find her plainness soothing.

Though the local young men were scrupulously polite in greeting her, in asking her to dance after they had danced with her sisters, no marriageable man had ever, as far as she was aware, seen her. Looked past her sisters, past all other young ladies, and chosen her.

Marcus Brookstone had.

Her mother said dubiously. “I hope the earl will know how lucky he is to win you, Constance.”

“How blessed he is, my sweet,” her husband corrected her. Though in many ways the most tolerant of men, he didn’t allow luck to be given credit for divine Providence.

Constance took a deep breath. “Papa, I believe God has given me this opportunity, and I wish to accept his lordship’s proposal. I am certain we can make each other happy.”

Chapter Two

Had he changed his mind?

Five minutes past eleven o’clock on Constance’s wedding day and no sign of a bridegroom for the ceremony that should have started on the hour.

Standing in the churchyard, trying to appear nonchalant while her body vacillated between chills and extreme heat, Constance was conscious of all eyes upon her. Most discomfiting.

She could almost feel sorry for Isabel and Amanda, the two of her sisters acclaimed as beauties. To be stared at so intently… Constance shivered in the spring sunshine.

“Cold, my love?” Isabel asked. Instilled with the supreme confidence that came with beauty, she wouldn’t understand Constance’s petrified state.

Constance shook her head. “Thank goodness you added this veil to my bonnet,” she said to Amanda. “At least I don’t have to meet the eyes of everyone wondering if the earl plans to make an appearance.”

“Veils are all the rage in London and Paris,” Amanda said, oddly defensive.

Constance patted her arm. “I trust your knowledge of the fashions, dearest, for you know I have none.” She considered taking back the reticule and small posy of flowers Amanda was holding for her, but there was too much chance her nervous fingers would shred them.

“It looks very becoming on you,” Amanda said. She’d used the same French lace for the veil as Constance’s mother had for the elegant trim she’d added to Constance’s best blue muslin dress. Without compunction, Margaret Somerton had cut into a beautiful tablecloth that had been a gift from her own mother.

The trim made a fine feature on an otherwise simple dress, drawing attention away from Constance’s face, and down to her figure. The veil, anchored to her bonnet with a cream-colored satin ribbon and reaching to her chin, achieved the same end. Constance dared not ask where Amanda had obtained the ribbon. Her sister managed to fancy all her clothes with furbelows that Constance suspected were gifts from young men.

“You realize, Amanda, as Countess of Spenford I will be in a position to offer you a London Season,” Constance said. “Perhaps next year…” So long as they weren’t in mourning for the dowager, of course. Amanda had yearned for a London Season for as long as she’d known such a thing existed.

Amanda merely squeezed Constance’s hand. Maybe she still had the headache she’d complained of earlier when she’d begged to be excused from the ceremony. Constance had in turn begged her to attend. It was bad enough to be getting married lacking one sister’s presence—there hadn’t been time to send word to Serena in Leicestershire and have her travel home to Piper’s Mead.

Now, that seemed a good thing. Serena might have had a wasted trip.

The villagers were growing restless, despite the valiant attempts of Reverend Somerton and his wife to engage them in conversation. While most of the men were working, a good number of the women thronged the churchyard, eager to witness the most prestigious wedding in the village for at least a generation. A couple of lads had taken advantage of the festive atmosphere to station themselves on the churchyard wall, normally forbidden territory. They nudged and jostled each other, enjoying the risk of an imminent fall.

“Maybe his lordship had an accident,” Mrs. Penney, the baker’s wife, suggested. “Could be overturned in a ditch on the London road.”

“Or footpads,” said Mrs. Tucker, from the Goose & Gander. “They’ll kill a man soon as look at him, these days.”

“No!” Constance said sharply.

“Sorry, love,” Mrs. Tucker said. “Don’t you worry, his lordship won’t let you down. He’s like his father in that respect. A stickler for his duty.”

Even as she spoke, Mrs. Tucker glanced at Isabel, confusion written on the older woman’s broad face. She was doubtless wondering why any earl would choose Constance over Isabel, whose fair beauty had been a source of village pride since she’d been in the cradle.

“You look lovely, Constance.” The assurance came from Charity, who, although just turned fifteen, displayed an unusual sensibility for other people’s feelings.

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.”