The Earl's Mistaken Bride
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Constance arranged her hair about her shoulders. A nice sheen, Miriam had said. Maybe she should light another candle, to allow the sheen to be displayed.
Vanity, she chided herself. What must God think of her?
Oh, dear, she hadn’t prayed tonight.
Constance slipped out of bed and onto her knees. With this deep carpet, a far more comfortable experience than at home. She prayed quickly, one eye cracked open to watch the door from her husband’s chamber, and finished with a request for God’s forgiveness of her haste.
She felt better when she was back in bed. More peaceful.
The candle sputtered, causing a moment’s alarm, then it strengthened again. Real wax, not tallow, as they used at home whenever there was no company. The smell was far more pleasant.
Smell. Her mother had given Constance a small pot of precious perfume. Surely a bridegroom would prefer a fragrant bride on his wedding night?
If he were to come.
She slipped from bed again, scurried across the room like a thief, found the perfume on the dressing table. She dabbed a little on each wrist, and behind her ears, as she had seen her mother do. She sniffed her wrist. Floral. Sweet.
Once more, she settled herself against her pillows. She would not get out of bed again. She would be at peace, ready to welcome her husband.
She wished he would come.
“Your cravat survived the day in excellent shape, my lord,” Harper, Marcus’s valet, observed as he removed Marcus’s left boot.
“You were right, as always, Harper,” Marcus said. “The Mathematical was the style for the occasion.”
Harper inclined his head. “I’ve had enough years dressing your lordship to know what’s what.”
Marcus smiled as he stifled a yawn.
“A very long day,” Harper said sympathetically, pulling off the other boot. “The second time this week you’ve driven all the way to Hampshire and back.”
“I remember both occasions only too well, thank you,” Marcus said.
Harper chuckled. “Miss Powell said her ladyship, the dowager countess, seems well.”
“Her improvement makes the long journeys worthwhile,” Marcus agreed.
His mother’s renewed strength had the quality of a miracle. Proof that the Almighty had accepted the bargain Marcus offered. He was inordinately thankful, at least as far as his mother was concerned. As for the rest…no denying the day hadn’t turned out as planned. One could almost think the Lord intended a joke.
Marcus sighed. He wouldn’t trade his mother’s health for anything…but to have married a sparrow, when his position commanded a—a swan, and in such humiliating circumstances. He wasn’t yet convinced his bride was innocent in this. Surely the sister, Amanda, would have confessed to Constance—no sibling would be that “mischievous.”
If she’d confessed, and if Constance had decided to take advantage of what she dared consider his lack of courtesy in failing to remember which sister was which…it wouldn’t be so strange. Plain as she was, she must have had limited marriage prospects. With bitterness he’d realized at the wedding breakfast that every other Somerton sister was livelier, and prettier, and more charming than the one he’d married. Which heightened his suspicions of a plot.
It had happened before—Marcus may not read his Bible often, but he knew the story of Rachel and Leah. Jacob fell in love with the beautiful Rachel, but at the wedding, his scheming father-in-law substituted his other daughter, Leah. Marcus imagined a veil had been used on that occasion, too. He couldn’t remember if the text stated as much, but he’d always assumed Leah, the older girl, to be an old maid, with no prospects of marriage.
And now, he, Marcus, Earl of Spenford, one of England’s most eligible bachelors, had rescued a soon-to-be old maid.
The worst of it was, people would say he must have been mad with love for her to choose her over her sisters—the kind of vulgar display of emotion to which he would never stoop. The kind of vulgar display against which Marcus’s father had issued dire warnings, that had seen his grandfather almost destroy the earldom. The day the ton saw the Earl of Spenford sick at heart, chasing after a woman, would be a marvelous day indeed!
Marcus was glad his father wasn’t here to witness the debacle. The previous earl had made no secret that he doubted Marcus was worthy of the title. Marcus had spent every day of every year after his brother’s death proving himself, becoming a sincere imitation of his father. By the time his father died, he had almost succeeded.
At least his mother liked his bride. Marcus felt tension leave his shoulders at the thought. Indeed, he had inadvertently chosen her favorite Somerton girl. Or someone had, he thought wryly, as he unbuttoned his shirt.
Next time he negotiated with the Almighty he would be more specific in his demands.
Harper held out a nightshirt. “Is the countess—the new countess—satisfied with her maid, my lord?”
“I presume so.” Marcus took the nightshirt. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
Harper brushed at a speck on Marcus’s coat before he replied. “Mrs. Collins sent Miriam Bligh up from Chalmers. You know what she’s like.”
“Should that name mean something to me?” Marcus said. Harper knew better than to refer to those days before Stephen’s death, when Marcus had spent much of his free time with the servants’ children. Back then, Harper had been the gamekeeper’s son and Marcus’s friend. Back then, everything had been different.
The valet ducked his head. “I know something of the skills and demeanor required for a senior lady’s maid, my lord.” He deftly removed any personal history from the discussion. “Miss Bligh has limited experience and a tendency to argue with her superiors. The position may be above her touch.”
It wasn’t like Harper to speak ill of anyone without cause.
Marcus didn’t want an incompetent dressing his countess. Especially this countess, who would need a skilled servant to make the most of her appearance.
He slipped the nightshirt over his head. “I will talk to her ladyship.”
Harper bowed. “I’ll leave these candles alight, my lord. For when you return.”
Return? He wasn’t going—
Blast! It was his wedding night.
Was that why Constance seemed nervous?
Or had he imagined her nerves?
Yet if her nerves were imaginary, the duty was very real.
A Brookstone never shirked his duty.
Marcus eyed the door that led to his wife’s chamber. Renewed anger surged through him. Yes, she had been kind to his mother, but that didn’t change the fact that the Somerton family had made a fool of him. He was in no way reconciled to the prospect of a lifetime with her.
Surely a man could be excused his duty when he had been duped into marriage?
Or should a man give his bride the benefit of the doubt?
By now, Marcus must be ready for bed, Constance decided. Perhaps he liked to read in bed, as she did herself. Maybe they would converse about books—though probably not tonight—and discover a shared interest that would strengthen the bond between them.
Would he stay the whole night with her? Her parents had always shared a room. She imagined it would be lovely to have a husband curled next to one in bed. Especially in winter.
Perhaps he won’t stay. It may not be the accepted thing.
Perhaps he won’t come at all.
He’d already said this marriage wouldn’t be annulled. She was his wife; he would want an heir. She may not be as pretty as Amanda, but she was not repulsive. Her hair had sheen. Her eyes were attractive.
She felt a spurt of alarm that he may not have had time to notice her eyes, nor their well-shaped brows.
She thought back over the day. He had examined her when he’d realized she wasn’t the woman he’d planned to marry, but that scrutiny had doubtless focused on her disadvantages.
His own eyes had been full of shock, then anger, yet she had still noticed their brilliant blue. Hers…oh, gracious, in the carriage her eyes had been awash with tears. No man was attracted to female tears…it was a known fact.
Constance groaned, beset by the fear that in failing to show off her best feature, her only good feature—my hair also has sheen, but he won’t have seen that, for it was pinned up—she might have given her husband no reason to come to her tonight.
He is my husband; that is reason enough.
And her figure was good, as good as Amanda’s. She must assume he’d noticed that.
She tried to calm her mind, to settle herself against the pillows. She’d never been so tired…but she mustn’t fall asleep. She didn’t want him to find her snoring, or worse, drooling. None of her sisters had made that complaint against her—Isabel was the only one who snored, a habit that took the tiniest gloss off her perfection and thus endeared her to her siblings. But Constance couldn’t count on history. It would be cruelly typical if the drama and exhaustion of the day were to bring on a sudden bout of snoring and drooling!
So she stayed high on the pillows, where her hair caught the candlelight, reciting psalms in her head. When the psalms tended to have a lullaby effect, she switched to Proverbs, always improving to the mind.
How long had she been waiting? Surely he would come soon?
She prayed for patience.
She waited.
She prayed again.
He did not come.
Chapter Six
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.
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.