But Helen’s story had given her insight into why Marcus was so proud. The dowager’s loyalty had been to her husband—it was perhaps too late for her to show Marcus another way. But Constance could teach him that other things were just as important as status and reputation. Even more important.
The sooner she started, the better.
The news that his cousin Lucinda had come calling made Marcus groan.
“Shall I tell her you’re not available, my lord?” Dallow asked.
He’d have to face Lucinda sooner or later, but maybe he could deter her from meeting Constance before his wife took delivery of the dresses and other things that might make her look more countesslike. Marcus closed the accounts book on his desk—at least he had an excuse to stop staring at those depressing figures. “Where is the countess?”
“With Mrs. Quayle, my lord.”
“What?” Marcus pushed his seat back quickly.
“Lady Spenford was just finishing a meeting with Mrs. Matlock in the small salon when Mrs. Quayle arrived.” Matlock, the housekeeper, was doubtless ecstatic to have a new mistress to take an interest in the meals and the running of the house, something the dowager hadn’t been able to do for some months. “Mrs. Quayle took advantage of the open door to, er, present herself to Lady Spenford,” Dallow said.
Typical of his overwhelming, inquisitive cousin.
“I’ll join them right away,” Marcus said.
As he hurried upstairs, he inwardly cursed his own haste in telling Lucinda earlier in the week that he was about to marry. She’d hounded him for details and had been bemused to learn the new countess was a parson’s daughter. Wellborn, but cut off from her titled relations through some family rift. No fortune. “How interesting,” she’d said. And Marcus, hating that she would be judging the new Countess of Spenford as an inferior creature, had declared, “She is a great beauty.”
Which immediately made the countess acceptable in Lucinda’s mind, and would have done so in the eyes of the rest of the ton.
If not for the obvious problem.
Lucinda would take one look at Constance and come to the only rational conclusion—that he’d married the wrong bride was not rational—that he’d fallen head over heels in love.
He shuddered as he stopped outside the small salon, his hand on the door handle. He needed to convince Lucinda that Constance was a perfectly eligible bride for him. Not some foolish love affair. Marcus closed his eyes, feeling the need for divine assistance. When he couldn’t think of a prayer that didn’t sound insulting, he gave up, and opened the door.
Lucinda shared a sofa with Constance, the two women angled toward each other. Lucinda looked…stunned was the best word for it. Her slightly sagging jaw and overbright smile said, This is Marcus’s idea of a great beauty? Has he gone mad?
His cousin couldn’t have been more different from his wife. Lucinda’s flaxen hair and rosebud mouth had secured her dozens of suitors when she came out, and an early marriage proposal from the most eligible Jonathan Quayle. The dashing pelisse she wore—purple silk trimmed with black—was something only a supremely confident woman would wear.
Whereas his wife… Her appearance wasn’t helped by that dowdy sprig muslin, but he suspected that even when Constance had her new dresses, she wouldn’t carry them off with Lucinda’s careless elegance. Her hair looked different today—softer, perhaps. But the plain style did little to become her.
She owed it to her position, and to him, to rise to the appropriate standard.
“Marcus!” Lucinda caught sight of him. “I’ve just been getting to know your bride.” She almost managed to keep the surprise out of her voice.
Marcus kissed her cheek. “Good afternoon, Lucinda…ma’am.” The ma’am was to Constance. “How are you today?” He hadn’t seen her, having breakfasted early and taken luncheon in his study.
As he sat in the chair next to her, something flashed in her eyes: an accusation of neglect? Then she seemed to pull herself into some kind of resolution—what a transparent face she had—as she spread her fingers on her skirt of her muslin dress and said, “I’m well, thank you.”
The smile she gave him was oddly sympathetic. Not that she could know he was alarmed as to what Lucinda would think of her—and presumably she wouldn’t be sympathetic if she did.
“Lady Spenford is telling me about her family,” Lucinda said.
“Did she mention that her father, Reverend Somerton, is a nephew of the Duke of Medway?” Marcus asked.
Constance frowned. “Our Medway relations don’t speak to us, apart from my Aunt Jane.”
“The Reverend and Mrs. Somerton are most gracious,” Marcus said. Constance’s frown deepened, as if gracious weren’t a compliment. Probably some ridiculous rectory prejudice. “It’s important to marry into a family one likes.” A flimsy argument in favor of wedding a plain-looking country girl, but Lucinda’s own mother-in-law was a tartar of the worst order, so she might agree.
Indeed, his cousin nodded thoughtfully. Marcus began to feel hopeful he might pull this off.
“The Somertons have an unblemished reputation,” he continued, pointing out an advantage Lucinda knew was important to him.
A muffled, high-pitched sound came from Constance. Possibly a squeak of outrage. She was intelligent enough to know he was making excuses for her. Too bad, it had to be done.
“My mother considered the match most eligible,” he said. Lucinda had a great deal of respect for her Aunt Helen’s views.
Lucinda was nodding in an encouraging fashion. “Well, Marcus, all I can say is, your countess is delightful.”
Marcus smiled.
Constance said politely, “I hardly think you know me well enough to reach that conclusion, Mrs. Quayle.”
What on earth…? Marcus kept his gaze on Lucinda, while he slid his right foot toward Constance. He gave her slipper a sharp nudge.
Without looking at him, she moved her foot away.
Lucinda blinked twice. Then, thankfully, she giggled. “No, but I had to say it out of politeness, didn’t I?”
Constance laughed. Marcus hadn’t heard her laugh before—it was low, almost musical. Warming.
“In that case, you might need to teach me London manners,” she said. “My father always exhorted me and my sisters to either speak the truth or say nothing at all.”
Marcus groaned, foreseeing numerous awkward encounters ahead. Instead of looking annoyed, Constance gave him that sympathetic smile again.
He sensed it could soon become an irritant.
“You poor girl,” Lucinda breathed. “That’s just the sort of silly thing a parson would say. How on earth do you survive in society?”
“Mostly by saying nothing at all,” Constance admitted.
Marcus’s chuckle was drowned by Lucinda’s peal of laughter.
“Well, that won’t suffice in London,” Lucinda said. “Now, Constance—you must call me Lucinda, by the way—I want to know all about you. How can I be your first friend here if I don’t?”
“Don’t tell my cousin anything you don’t wish aired all over town,” Marcus warned Constance.
“Marcus, I’m not that indiscreet.” But Lucinda was laughing. “I try not to gossip,” she confided to Constance. “But one sees and hears so much, one would burst if one tried to hold it in.”
“I can see that would be most uncomfortable,” Constance said.