Excerpt of The Earl's Mistaken Bride by Abby Gaines

April 1816
Piper's Mead, Hampshire, England

"I wish to marry one of your daughters."

Marcus Brookstone, Earl of Spenford, was certain his
position and wealth more than compensated for the urgent,
somewhat irregular nature of the request. Every father in
England would be honored to hear those words from him.

"I gathered as much from the message you sent." Reverend Adrian Somerton removed his spectacles. "How is your dear mother?"

Marcus spread his fingers on the arms of the rosewood chair
and forced himself to appear at ease. The reverend's
study was a fine enough room, but smaller than Marcus was
used to. Whether it was the room, or the awkward nature of
his mission, he felt hemmed in. Trapped.

He turned his neck slightly within the starched collar of
his shirt, seeking relief from the constriction. He
couldn't bear to discuss his mother's fragile
condition, even with her parson. More particularly, he
couldn't bear any delay.

But the Earl of Spenford always behaved in a manner
befitting his position.

"The dowager's health is somewhat worse," he
informed the reverend stiffly. "I hope my marriage will
be a source of strength for her."

"Indeed." Reverend Somerton's smile managed to
convey both understanding and a shared grief.

A churchman's trick, Marcus supposed, but a good one. He
wondered if the reverend had positioned the leather-topped
oak desk precisely so the fall of April afternoon sunlight
through the study window should bathe him in its glow,
making him look as reverent as his title suggested.

Sitting in relative dimness, Marcus recalled assorted sins
of which he probably ought to repent. He quelled the
instinct to squirm in his seat. He was here for his
mother's sake, and the reverend's affection for his
patroness, the Dowager Countess of Spenford, was both
genuine and reciprocated, which was why Marcus expected full
cooperation.

A series of framed embroideries hung on the wall behind the
rector. The colorful words were Bible verses, Marcus
guessed, though they were too distant to read. The kind of
needlecraft with which genteel country ladies occupied their
time. There were five of these works of art, each presumably
the handiwork of one of the reverend's five daughters.
One of them Marcus's future bride.

"Am I to understand," Reverend Somerton inquired
gently as he polished his spectacles with a handkerchief,
"your primary aim in seeking a wife is your mother's
peace of mind?"

Marcus bristled, unaccustomed to having his actions
questioned by men far more important than the rector of a
quiet parish in Hampshire. But this particular parson was
not only the man whose sermons he'd sat through as a
child, he would soon be Marcus's father-in-law.

"I have always planned to marry, of course," he
said. "The age of thirty seemed reasonable. I'm now
twenty-nine. I won't deny my mother's illness has
spurred me to action, but only to bring forward an
inevitable event."

He didn't mean inevitable to sound quite so distasteful.

The rector gave him a quick, assessing glance. "I fear
my daughters," he said, "lovely though they are, may
lack the sophistication to which you are accustomed."

"I have had ample opportunity to—" take my pick "—engage the interest of a young lady in London, but this has not occurred." Rather, though Marcus might have engaged their interest, they had not engaged his.

Reverend Somerton and his wife would prove more pleasant
relatives than some of the grasping parents he'd
encountered in the city, he mused. The rector was of
excellent birth, even if he'd forsaken his noble
connections to "serve the Lord," as Marcus's
mama put it. Two of the Somerton daughters were
beauties—in the absence of fortune or title, the world
would expect Marcus to settle for nothing less. His father
would have insisted upon a bride worthy of the Earl of
Spenford. Marcus insisted upon it, too.

"I am still at a loss to understand why you alighted on
the idea of one of my daughters." The rector's
manner remained pleasant as ever, but his persistence was
beginning to grate on Marcus's taut nerves.

"It is my mother's desire—and mine—that I
should find a Christian bride." He schooled impatience
out of his voice. "I have known your daughters at least
as long as any other young lady of my acquaintance, and I
hold them in the highest regard."

No need to mention the bargain he'd struck with God on
the subject. He wasn't sure how reverends felt about
mere mortals bargaining with the Deity.

Marcus Brookstone, Earl of Spenford, would bargain with
whomever he chose.

He pressed into the arms of the chair, ready to leave if the
reverend didn't come to heel. "Sir, I regret to
inform you this is a matter of some haste. While I would
like nothing better than a courtship of normal
duration—" an untruth, since he could think of
nothing more tedious than courting a country miss
"—upon securing your consent I must return to
London immediately. I'm not happy to have left Mama even
for the journey down here—her physician has said she
may have only a week…."

Mortifyingly, his voice cracked. Somerton made a hum of concern.

With the ease of long practice, Marcus set sentiment aside
and pursued that slight advantage. "The marriage would
take place as soon as a special license can be
obtained," he said, his words thankfully steady.

Today was Monday. He could have the license by Thursday
evening and return here Friday morning. In normal
circumstances, Marcus would avoid the unsavory implications
of such a hasty wedding, but his mother's failing health
ensured no gossip would attach to his actions.

"I would wish the marriage to take place here."
Reverend Somerton settled his spectacles back on his nose.
"To perform my daughters' wedding services is a
long-cherished ambition."

At last, some indication the man would consent! Marcus had
expected this condition, had reconciled himself to it on the
journey down.

"Of course," he said magnanimously. "All I ask
is that my bride and I leave for London in time for me to
present the new countess to my mother that evening."

Somerton pressed his thumb to the distinctive cleft in his chin.

"Which of my daughters do you have in mind?" he
asked. "Serena, my oldest, isn't here. She is
governess to the Gran-ville family in Leicestershire."

Marcus frowned. That would have to cease. The Earl of
Spenford couldn't have a sister in any form of employment.

He'd left London struggling to remember any of the
Somerton girls' names—five was a ludicrous number
of daughters for any family—despite having encountered
them many times previously. Not only in church, where they
filled the front left-hand pew in the company of their
mother, but also at dinners and receptions held at the homes
of nearby gentry. Including Palfont, the estate bequeathed
to Marcus's mother, which would return to her family
coffers upon her death.

She will not die. I have agreed it with God.

He'd had nightmarish visions of taking tea with all five
Somerton sisters, inspecting them as if they were horseflesh
before making his choice.

Thankfully, circumstance had spared him that.

"Miss Constance Somerton.. " he suggested.

"Constance," the rector said, delighted. "Why,
that is excellent news." All of a sudden he seemed more
kindly disposed toward Marcus's request.

Marcus could guess why. He'd encountered Miss Constance
Somerton a short while ago in the village, when he'd
climbed down from his curricle at the Goose & Gander,
not wishing to be forced to prevail upon the rector for
refreshment.

Having eaten, and about to leave the inn, he'd heard a
female cry out. In the stable yard, he'd found the
prettiest girl he'd ever seen, trying to sidestep around
a young man of clearly amorous intentions.

"May I be of assistance, miss?" he'd inquired of
the girl.

"Yes, please, sir." She turned a relieved face toward him. Then recognized him. Alarm flashed across her features, putting a pretty pink in her cheeks as she curtsied. "I believe, my lord, Mr. Farnham was just leaving."

Bellingham, the squire's son, Marcus recalled, stammered
an apology to the girl before scuttling away like a beetle.
Marcus took a step after him.

"He meant no harm, my lord," the girl said quickly.
"I'm certain he regrets presuming on our
friendship."

Marcus decided to let the youth go; doubtless he'd
learned his lesson. "That is gracious of you,
Miss…?"

She blushed deeper. "I—I'm Constance Somerton,
my lord."

Marcus started. "How remarkable. I'm on my way to
visit your father."

"Indeed, my lord?" She'd recovered her composure
and spoke with a demureness belied by the dimple dancing in
her left cheek.

"Allow me to drive you home in my curricle."

She cast a longing look toward the fine pair of gray horses
an ostler was walking up and down. "My lord, Papa would
not be pleased to discover me abroad in the village.
It's best if I walk home."

"But that will take at least an hour," he protested.

"My sisters and I walk it all the time."

Perhaps that explained her slender figure. In which case,
how could Marcus complain?

"Very well." He executed a bow of a depth he would
usually reserve for an equal in the peerage, and was
rewarded with an appreciative twinkle in her near-violet
eyes. "Your servant, Miss Somerton."

Her beauty and lively nature were more than he'd dared
expect. She would command the admiration of Society…he
just hoped she was of marriageable age.

"My lord." She hesitated as she curtsied. Her eyes
widened in an unspoken plea.

He guessed what she wished to ask, and appreciated her
delicacy in not framing the question outright. Yes, with a
little guidance, Miss Constance Somerton could be the ideal
bride.

"No benefit will be served by my mentioning to your
father that I met you here," he assured her.

"Thank you," she breathed. Her hand touched his arm
ever so briefly.

Now Marcus returned Reverend Somerton's smile with
understanding. Constance Somerton's liveliness was
doubtless a source of concern to her parents—he
suspected the average parson's daughter was far more
docile. Not to mention her appeal to the local young men.
Her parents would be delighted to have her safely off their
hands.

"I believe I don't speak out of turn when I assure
you Constance holds you in the highest esteem," Somerton
said.

"I'm happy to hear it." Marcus wondered why the
man felt obliged to say such a thing—naturally all the
Somerton girls would appreciate his position. He remembered
there was still one potential obstacle. "Er, how old is
the young lady?"

He would have put her at seventeen, better than sixteen,
which would have been impossible, but still arguably too
young. Though in a year or two the maturity gap between them
would narrow. .

"She turned twenty last month," Somerton said.
"She is my second daughter."

Twenty? Marcus was surprised, but pleased. Though no one
would dare accuse him to his face of robbing the nursery, he
hated to be the subject of gossip. His father had spent
years schooling him to be worthy of his title—he would
not let it fall into disrepute again.

"Unfortunately, Constance is sitting with a sick friend
this afternoon," Somerton said. "I could send for
her…."

"That won't be necessary." Knowing full well
Constance wasn't at a friend's sickbed, Marcus had
no desire to land her in trouble. "I must return to
London—in addition to the wedding license and to
reassuring my mother, there are marriage settlement
documents to be drawn up. I propose an allowance of—"

Reverend Somerton held up a hand. "My lord, your family
has never been anything but generous to mine. I trust you to
create a settlement that will be fair to my daughter and her
offspring."

Marcus would do exactly that. His position demanded it. But
still, such naivete seemed irresponsible. "Sir, your
trusting nature does you credit, but you might be
wiser—"

"Naturally, I will read the settlement document
thoroughly before I sign it." The reverend smiled
kindly. "If it's not fair, I won't sign it and
the marriage will not take place."

Not so naive after all. He knew Marcus wouldn't risk
that. The settlement wouldn't be fair; it would be more
than fair.

"Of course," Marcus said stiffly. He gathered his
riding gloves and stood.

"One more thing." The reverend did not rise, a
surprising breach of courtesy, yet his holy calling made it
impossible for Marcus to take offence. Or to take his leave.
"You do not love my daughter."

Just when Marcus thought the awkwardness past!

He had the uncomfortable sensation his face had reddened.
"I cannot love what I do not know."

"An excellent reply, my lord." Somerton's smile
bordered on indulgent. "For to know Constance is to love
her."

It was the comment of a hopelessly doting father. The kind
of father Marcus had never had. He found himself touched by
the rector's paternal loyalty.

"Sir, you know enough of my family's history to understand that a—an infatuation is the last reason I would marry," he said. "But it is my hope a strong and natural affection 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.