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 naïveté 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.
The curricle pulled out of the rectory gate right in front of Constance, so close that one more step would take her smack into the side of a very large gray horse.
She gave a yelp of surprise, and the driver, who’d been looking to his left for traffic, somehow heard her over the clatter of hooves and the rattle of bridles. He immediately reined in the horses, coming to a stop.
“My apologies,” he called.
Lord Spenford! It had been an age since she’d seen him. Why was he here? She wanted to call out an assurance that no apology was needed, though in fact it was: he should have been looking. But as usual, the sight of him reduced her vocabulary to a few nonsense words and made her feel as if it had been days since her last meal. She steadied herself by reaching a hand to the brick wall that ran along the front of the rectory grounds.
Lord Spenford jumped down, still holding the reins of his grays. “Are you all right?”
His voice was exactly as Constance remembered—deep, beautifully modulated. It sent a delightful shiver through her.
He glanced behind him at the rectory. “Miss Somerton? You’ve had a shock. Should I drive you inside?”
Such consideration! Such— She realized that by now he must be wondering if she’d been struck mute since the last time they met. “I’m quite well,” she said. “Thank you, Lord Spenford.”
It sounded as if she was thanking him for almost running her over.
“I was going too fast,” he said ruefully. “In a hurry to get back to London. No excuse for such poor driving.”