Marriage of Inconvenience

by Cheryl Bolen

  Her quizzing look followed him from the chamber. What an astonishing change in his behavior toward her! At their last meeting, he’d been glacial; today he had been full of warmth. Could it be that after considering her proposal, he was not repelled by her? Sweet heavens! Could he actually be considering her bold suggestion?

  * * *

  In Warwick’s library, Aynsley was met by the smiling foreign secretary, who stood and greeted him with affection. “Lord Aynsley, how good it is to see you again. I’m most indebted to you for your support in the House of Lords.”

  “As it happens, I’m not here today on matters of government.”

  Warwick’s brows lowered a smidgeon and his gaze flicked to the chair before his desk. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  Though Warwick was a decade his junior, the two men had once been on friendly terms. Until Aynsley became interested in the lovely woman who would become Warwick’s countess. Once Aynsley expressed a romantic interest in the current Lady Warwick, Warwick began to needle him—and his sons—unmercifully.

  Since Warwick had disparaged Aynsley’s sons—who, admittedly, were a bit of a handful—Aynsley had been out of charity with the man. He did not like anyone to speak ill of his children. Of course his two eldest boys—the Viscount Fordyce at Oxford and the soldier in the Peninsula—were well able to defend themselves. It was the lads ranging in ages from three to twelve who elicited their father’s protective instincts.

  But Warwick’s former antagonism was water under the bridge now that Aynsley had long since forgotten his infatuation with Warwick’s countess.

  Aynsley sank into a chair in front of Warwick’s huge desk.

  Neither man spoke for a moment. Aynsley wondered if Warwick knew of his wife’s sister’s radical opinions, ideas Aynsley would give a fortune to be able to freely discuss with her.

  He decided to get straight to the point of the morning’s visit. “Are you aware that your wife’s sister asked me to marry her?”

  The foreign secretary’s brows formed a deep V. “You cannot be serious!”

  “I’ll own that it does seem unlikely, but it’s the truth.”

  “Then that’s the deucest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I agree.”

  “I didn’t know you two had even been seeing one another.”

  “We haven’t.”

  “Yet...she asked you to marry her? I’ve never heard of a lady doing the asking.”

  “Miss Peabody, you must admit, is not like other ladies.”

  “Daresay you’re right.”

  “Though she does have many other fine attributes,” Aynsley added.

  “Yes, she does,” Warwick agreed.

  “I understand she reads and writes Latin and Greek.”

  “And she’s fluent in French, German and Italian.”

  “Her body of knowledge is quite impressive, I’d say.” Aynsley had debated whether he should mention Miss Peabody’s essays, but decided against it. As a representative of the Tory government, Warwick would be bound to hold opposing views, and, in her wisdom, Miss Peabody would not wish to bite the hand that fed her. At least not directly.

  “She’s terribly clever about managing things. Did you know she cataloged the entire Agar library at Windmere Abbey?” Warwick asked.

  “But that’s the largest private library in Great Britain!”

  “Indeed it is. Her organizational skills are just what are needed to run an estate like Dunton Hall.” Warwick’s brows lowered. “Are you still having difficulty keeping governesses and housekeepers?”

  Aynsley nodded solemnly. He had spent the past two weeks interviewing prospective employees with no success. Domestic matters demanded entirely too much of his time.

  “I think you should marry Rebecca—not that I wish to be rid of her. My wife would be lost without her efficient sister—whom she dearly loves.”

  “I must explain that I’m really not looking for a wife.”

  Warwick gave him a suspicious look. “Then why are you here?”

  “I wish to ask you a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “I know your wife’s father was a slave owner. Are you acquainted with Miss Peabody’s opinions on slavery?”

  A puzzled look on his face, Warwick said, “I am. Miss Peabody opposes slavery.”

  Just as he thought. This was as good as confirmation that Miss Peabody was indeed P. Corpus. He could barely tamp down his excitement.

  Warwick stood. “Why do you not come to our house tomorrow night? We’re giving a ball. If you come, I’ll ensure that you be afforded a private tête-à-tête with Miss Peabody in my library.”

  Aynsley sighed. “Perhaps a tête-à-tête might be agreeable, but I’m not about to offer for her.” He stood.

  “That, my lord, I am not so sure about.”

  “I shall see you tomorrow.” Good heavens, could Warwick be right? Was he taking leave of his senses?

  Chapter Three

  Though Maggie had repeatedly instructed her on how to gracefully descend the stairs, Rebecca knew that no amount of coaching could render her as elegant as her sister now gliding down the stairs two steps ahead of her. For one reason, Rebecca kept forgetting she was to pretend a book was balancing on her head. It would have been an altogether different thing were she permitted to descend the stairs actually reading a book. That was an art she had positively mastered. Until Maggie forbade it, that is.

  As she followed Maggie and Warwick down the stairs, she made her prosaic announcement. “This will be my last ball.”

  Maggie sputtered to a stop, turned and leveled her sternest glare at her sister. “Pray, why do you say that?”

  “Since we’ve been in England I’ve given far too much of my life to the Great Husband Hunt—save for the six months I spent cataloging the library at Windmere Abbey—and I’ve decided I’m of the age to know my own mind.” She stopped for a moment. “That mind assures me that of all the things on earth, I detest balls most.”

  “Since you’ve decided you actually do wish to marry, you must attend balls in order to find a mate.”

  Rebecca shrugged. Why had she confessed to Maggie about her ill-fated visit to Lord Aynsley’s? Now, she would never hear the end of it. “I daresay my desire to wed must not be acute.”

  Before taking their place in the receiving line at the foot of the stairs, Lord and Lady Warwick exchanged amused glances. Rebecca was growing tired of being the butt of those escalating amused glances.

  She joined her friend Trevor Simpson to chat with Lord and Lady Agar for a few moments, then mounted the stairs with him to the third-floor ballroom where the orchestra had begun to play.

  Though she found dancing as tediously irksome as getting her hair dressed, she rather enjoyed standing up with Mr. Simpson. He was so fluid a dancer he made her feel as if she tiptoed across clouds.

  It was while she was performing a quadrille with Mr. Simpson that she caught sight of Lord Aynsley staring at her. Because he stood a bit taller than the average man, she could see him even though he was on the opposite side of the room.

  Despite her annoyance with the earl, her gaze kept flitting back to him as she and Mr. Simpson glided around the dance floor. His lordship looked rather handsome in his black coat, gray silk waistcoat and black breeches. Though he was not a particularly large man and his leanness lacked ruggedness, she thought he emanated more power than any man she had ever seen as he stood alone watching her. Supreme confidence. That was what Lord Aynsley emanated. In great quantity.

  When his gaze met hers and held, she quickly looked away. Her heartbeat began to drum madly, and she could feel the heat staining her cheeks. Twice now, the odious man was responsible for making her blush. A most distressing occurrence, to be sure! Then she recalled his tender farewell in the morning room the previous day. Perhaps he wasn’t that odious.

  What in the world was he doing here? His previous reclusiveness had assured her she would not have to suffer the man’s company ever
again.

  As soon as the dance was finished, she begged Mr. Simpson to whisk her away for refreshments. From the corner of her eye, she could see that the earl continued to watch her, and she wanted nothing so keenly as to be invisible. But she would settle for finding a chamber where she could seek refuge from his lordship’s prying eyes. She reversed positions with Trevor Simpson to shield herself from Lord Aynsley’s view. A pity her companion was not possessed of broader shoulders.

  “You really wish for refreshments so soon?” a puzzled Mr. Simpson asked.

  “I assure you I am positively dying of thirst.”

  As she and Mr. Simpson reached the west doorway to the ballroom, Lord Aynsley greeted her. “Good evening, Miss Peabody. How good it is to see you again.”

  A surprised look on his face, Trevor looked from her to Lord Aynsley.

  Merely nodding, her eyes fixed on Trevor’s diamond studs, her limbs trembling, she refused to meet his lordship’s gaze.

  The orchestra began to play a waltz.

  “I beg that you do me the goodness to stand up with me, Miss Peabody,” Lord Aynsley said. “I came here expressly to see you.”

  She was still hiding behind Trevor, who had the audacity to smirk, then beg to take his leave.

  With no Trevor to shield her, she could not have felt more vulnerable had she stood barefoot in her shift in front of Lord Aynsley. She wished to decline. She wished to run to her bedchamber. She wished to never see Lord Aynsley again for as long as she lived. But the good manners Maggie had instilled in her prevailed. Lifting her gaze to his, she nodded and placed her hand in his.

  When they reached the crowded dance floor and his hand fitted to her waist, she sincerely hoped he did not detect the tremor that rumbled through her body.

  That his dance movements were flawless surprised her. How could he be so fine a dancer when the man never attended balls? Obviously she was not the only person surprised that Lord Aynsley knew how to dance. If she was not mistaken, every eye in the ballroom was on him.

  So much for her plan to be uncivil to him. Maggie would most definitely hear of it and become livid. “You, my lord, are the last person I would have expected to see here tonight,” she finally said. At least Maggie could not accuse her of being rude to his lordship. Against her own better judgment, Rebecca was actually speaking to the odious man.

  “Why do you say that, Miss Peabody?”

  “Your distaste for social gatherings is rather well known.” Is that one of the reasons she had selected him for her potential husband?

  “It wasn’t always that way, you know.”

  “Yes, I have surmised as much, owing to your competence at dancing.”

  “I thank you for the compliment.”

  “I did not compliment you.”

  “But you said my dancing was competent. Is that not a compliment?”

  “I do not wish to compliment you. I do not understand why you’ve come tonight. I do not even want to be dancing with you! Is it your desire to humiliate me that’s brought you here?”

  His dance step slowed, and he looked down at her, his jaw clenched with concern. He squeezed her hand. “Never that. How could I when you’ve so singularly honored me?”

  Odious man! “If you were possessed of decent manners, you would not mention so embarrassing a topic.”

  He chuckled. And held her a bit tighter as swirling couples in rustling silks waltzed around them.

  She looked up into his amused face. He was tall enough to have rested his chin on the top of her head. “You have not answered me, my lord. Why have you come tonight?”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m here because I wish to know you better, Miss Peabody.”

  “You, my lord, know all you need to know—and obviously dislike what you know.”

  “Forgive me if I’ve given that impression.” He paused, a contrite expression on his serious face. “Perhaps I wish to know if you are, indeed, as mature as you assure me you are.”

  Good heavens! Was he actually contemplating the offer she had made him more than two weeks previously? In that instant, an odd sense of well-being exploded inside her. She was suddenly incapable of responding. If ever she needed to converse in a mature, intelligent manner, it was at this moment. And for the first time in her life, Miss Rebecca Peabody was speechless.

  Also for the first time in her life, Rebecca Peabody wished she had no need for her spectacles. She wondered if Lord Aynsley would find her becoming in the peach-colored dress. Had Pru arranged her hair in a flattering fashion?

  When the orchestra stopped playing and she found herself being escorted from the dance floor by Lord Aynsley, she was still moritfyingly mute. Even when he failed to relinquish her arm and led her down two flights of stairs and along the marble entry hall to Lord Warwick’s library, she could not find her tongue.

  Lord Aynsley led her into the library, a room that was lit only by a single taper in a wall sconce and the fire blazing in the hearth. He closed the door behind him and solemnly gazed into her eyes. “I wish to take this opportunity to get to know you better, Miss Peabody.” Then he walked to the hearth. “Do you not find the room cold? I beg that you join me.”

  * * *

  It was a moment before she joined him, and in that moment he took the opportunity to study her. She looked far too fetching in that gown that duplicated the color in her cheeks. The girl was possessed of the creamiest complexion, which was a perfect setting for those deep brown eyes of hers. She was really quite lovely—even in her spectacles.

  “So you wish to determine if I’m truly mature?” she asked.

  He peered down at her. “I do.”

  “The only way to do that is to converse.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then, my lord, I would like you to explain something to me. I’ve a keen interest in politics and I keep up with Parliament the best I can, but I’ve been unable to determine if you align yourself with the Tories or the Whigs. You must own, you seem to embrace both factions.”

  Could there be another young lady in the kingdom who had such knowledge of Parliament’s activities? He would vow many of his colleagues in the House of Lords had been unaware that he played one side against the other in order to achieve his goals. A smile broke across his face. “You’re very astute, Miss Peabody. I’ve found that to accomplish what I wish to accomplish I must not alienate either faction. It’s my intent to make both sides think I’m with them.”

  “Pray, my lord,” she asked, gazing up at him with those mesmerizing eyes, “what is it you wish to accomplish?”

  “Reform.” He had never told this to another person before. “I must ask that you tell no one I’m a reformer. Such knowledge would dilute my effectiveness in Parliament.”

  Her eyes began to dance. “Yes, I can see that it would.”

  Not many young women, he would vow, understood so well the compromises that were the backbone of politics.

  “I suppose that’s one of the reasons I wished to marry,” she said.

  “You’ve lost me. What was one of the reasons you wished to marry me?”

  She scowled at him. “Really, my lord, must you allude to the humiliating act that reacquainted us?”

  How ungallant of him to refer to the offer she had so brazenly made. “Forgive me, but please do explain one of those reasons for wishing to be wed.”

  “The reforms,” she said.

  Excitement began to course through him, but he could not allow her to know he had unmasked her pseudonym. “Yes? What reforms would that be?” He tried to sound casual.

  “All the reforms, actually. As long as I live in Lord Warwick’s house, I can’t very well promulgate reforms against the very government he serves, but that is exactly what I wish to do. Unfortunately, I’m totally dependent on Lord Warwick, owing to the fact I’ve no money of my own.” She stopped abruptly and peered up at him. “So I must marry in order to gain my independence. The pity of it is, I have no dowry.”

  There was
not a morsel of doubt in his mind that Rebecca Peabody was indeed P. Corpus. A smile tweaked at the corners of his mouth. “Your lack of a dowry shouldn’t matter to a man of means.”

  “Do you mean a man of means like you?” she asked, her voice squeaking, her lashes lifting as she innocently gazed into his eyes.

  She reminded him of a frightened puppy as she looked up at him with those big eyes of hers.

  He patted her hand. “I am a man of means, though I’m not in the market for a wife.”

  As they stood in front of the fire, her gaze fanned across the chamber, stopping at a large bookcase some ten feet away, its gilded leather volumes bathed in the fire’s buttery glow. “Are you aware that I cataloged Lord Agar’s entire library at Windmere Abbey?”

  Miss Peabody obviously wished to acquaint him with her organizational skills. “Actually I am. Warwick told me.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Please say that you did not reveal to Warwick that I asked you to... I won’t discuss what I asked you to do.”

  He could not help himself. He laughed. “I beg your forgiveness if I’ve upset you by telling Warwick, but is the man not as a guardian to you?”

  Her eyes grew even larger. “Pray, my lord, what did you discuss with Warwick?”

  “I asked him if you could possibly be possessed of more maturity than you have heretofore demonstrated to me.”

  “And how did his lordship answer?”

  “He assured me you were most mature as well as wonderful with children.” He must not give her false hope. “Were I interested in marriage, I should desire a wife who was attracted to me, and I know you are not.”

  That curtain that concealed her emotions dropped over her delicate face.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. The only sounds merging into the deep silence were the muffled laughter in the hallways beyond the library door and the sputtering fire before them.

  “I cannot lie,” she finally said, “and say I have romantic designs on you.”

  “Since you’ve never had romantic designs on any man?”

  The firelight reflected off her spectacles as she nodded.