The Earl's Mistaken Bride. Abby Gaines

“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 Granville 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