The Earl's Mistaken Bride. Abby Gaines

       “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—”

       “Which can only mean you’ve badgered my wife more than enough,” Marcus forestalled her.

       “You’re right, Lucinda,” Constance said. “I married my husband for his kindness.”

       What?

       Constance’s chin—every bit as pointy as it had been yesterday—went up in the air, as if she was ready to defend her own. The way she’d defended her father to Marcus yesterday. She gave him a reassuring smile, which only worried him. From what, exactly, did she plan on defending him?