The Earl's Mistaken Bride - By Abby Gaines
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Karen
e
n K
im
m ♥
ABBY GAINES
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“I now pronounce
that they be man and wife.”
Constance’s gazed snapped to the earl. She hadn’t
even been listening to that final declaration and
now she was married. Just as well she didn’t
attend to omens, because surely…
The worry evaporated in the warmth of the gaze
Lord Spenford—her husband—turned on her.
A half smile on his lips, he reached for her veil,
lifted it.
His brilliant blue eyes scanned her face.
Constance smiled shyly.
His mouth straightened into a line that could only
be described as grim.
“My—my lord?” Constance’s voice faltered as she
absorbed his expression.
He looked appalled.
Karen
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n K
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m ♥
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
ABBY GAINES
wrote her first romance novel as a teenager, only to
have it promptly rejected. A flirtation with a science
fiction novel never really got off the ground, so Abby
put aside her writing ambitions as she went to college,
then began her working life at IBM. When she and her
husband had their first baby, Abby worked from home
as a freelance business journalist…and soon after that
the urge to write romance resurfaced. It was another
five long years before Abby sold her first novel to
Harlequin Superromance in 2006.
Abby lives with her husband and children—and a
labradoodle and a cat—in a house with enough stairs
to keep her semifit and a sun-filled office with a sea
view that provides inspiration for the funny, tender
romances
she
loves
to
write.
Visit
her
at
Karen
e
n K
im
m ♥
ABBY GAINES
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The Earl’s Mistaken Bride
ABBY GAINES
Karen
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n K
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m ♥
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
Karen
e
n K
im
m ♥
ABBY GAINES
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For the Lord takes pleasure in His people; He will beautify the
humble with salvation.
—Psalms 149:4
Karen
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n K
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m ♥
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
For Mary Griffiths, neighbor extraordinaire.
Thank you for your enthusiasm, your treasure trove of Regency
books… and all those cups of tea!
Thanks also to Dr. Gerald Young of Auckland for the use of his name.
Karen
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n K
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m ♥
ABBY GAINES
8
Chapter One
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.
Karen
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
“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?”
Karen
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ABBY GAINES
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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