Marriage of Inconvenience

by Cheryl Bolen

  “It won’t always be that way, you know,” he said. “As a man and woman—or husband and wife—grow close to one another, intimacy is as natural as breathing.”

  “I do understand that,” she said, her voice soft and devoid of embarrassment. “I read my Bible. A man shall leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.” She peered into his eyes. “I’ve seen it with my sister and Warwick and with Lord and Lady Agar. Both couples are deeply in love.”

  The curtain went back up over the softened features of her face, and she changed the subject. Without looking at him, she spoke. “Will you answer a question, my lord?”

  “Anything.”

  “Are you considering marriage with me?”

  Being coy was as alien to this young woman as frugality was to the regent.

  He had not admitted to anyone—not even to himself—that he was considering marriage to Miss Rebecca Peabody. But she knew. Could she know him better than he knew himself? “I’m considering it,” he said with great honesty. “I must tell you, though, that a marriage without mutual affection and intimacy holds no appeal to me.”

  It was a moment before she made a response. “Would you consider marrying me if I promised to be open to that at some time in the future? After a deep bond of friendship had the opportunity to form?”

  He felt his chest expanding. Though he’d had no intentions of begging for her hand, such an idea now held appeal. “I would consider it, but I must first tell you some things that might change your mind about wishing to marry me.”

  Her brows lowered. “What things?”

  “You know I have six sons?”

  She nodded. “What are their ages?”

  “They range in age from three to nineteen.”

  “I assure you I love little boys. In fact, I like them much more than I like girls—owing to the fact they’re all I’ve ever been around.”

  Would she still feel that way once she became acquainted with his rambunctious sons? “My sons are really

  good lads, but they’re always into mischief. They’ve run off more nurses, governesses and housekeepers than I can count.”

  “How do they run them off, my lord?”

  He frowned. “The last one left after she found worms in her garment drawer.”

  Miss Peabody giggled. “The woman should have locked her chamber door.”

  “My sons should not have gone into her room,” he said in a stern voice.

  “Were I their mother, I would have to be a firm disciplinarian.”

  “Exactly what they need.”

  “And I adore worms.”

  He burst out laughing. At that very instant he wished to ask her to marry him. Because of the worms. But he couldn’t offer for her until she knew the obstacles that would face her should she become his wife. “In addition to my seven children, I’m also responsible for two other people. I’m guardian to my sister’s son, a wastrel named Peter Wallace who is two and twenty, and I’m responsible for my daft uncle who’s been banished to the dowager’s house.”

  Her brows lowered. “Pray, my lord, why did you banish your uncle?”

  Aynsley really did not want to tell her. “He has a peculiar habit that is most offensive, especially to females.”

  “What habit is that, my lord?”

  He swallowed. “He believes he’s a kissing bandit.”

  “Do I understand you correctly? He tries to steal kisses from females?”

  He nodded ruefully.

  She did not say anything for a moment. Then she said, “I sincerely hope his peculiar propensity does not run in your family, my lord.”

  He laughed. “I assure you, Miss Peabody, I do not accost women for the purpose of stealing kisses.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that.” Her lips pursed, she shook her head. “Has your uncle always done this peculiar thing?”

  “No. That did not commence until his eighty-fifth birthday.”

  “Oh, I see. His senses are in the same place with his head of dark hair and unlined skin?”

  “Regrettably.”

  “And now that he’s banished, I suppose he lacks the mobility to bother the females at Dunton Hall?”

  “Usually. But he occasionally chases them about the park in his bath chair.”

  “The poor old dear.”

  “You would not say that were he leaping at you with pursed lips and groping arms.”

  “No. I daresay I wouldn’t.” Now she met his gaze. “Is there anything more, my lord? Any skeletons in your closet?”

  His gut plummeted. “Yes.” He swallowed.

  Her eyes rounded. “Pray, my lord, what odious offense have you committed?”

  “I have turned my back on God.”

  She did not say anything at all for a full moment. “There is nothing I can do to remedy so great a loss,” she said at last. “Only you can open your soul to receive the Holy Spirit’s grace.”

  “I don’t even know if I believe anymore.”

  “Then I am very sorry for you.”

  They stood there, illuminated by the fire, its heat rushing over them as tensions mounted. Finally, she spoke. “What of your children?”

  “They do not attend church, either.”

  “I see.” She nibbled at her lower lip. “Would you object if...if the woman you marry encourages your children to embrace God?”

  “I would not object.”

  Silence filled the room like a heart that no longer beat. For a man as proud as he, it had been difficult not only to have laid before her his faults and his family’s foibles but also to beg her understanding, even her acceptance. That she still stood there querying him bespoke her compassion, a compassion he’d known she possessed in great store.

  He had a strong wish to marry this woman and bring her back to Dunton Hall. How could a woman who liked worms not be perfect for his boys? Miss Peabody now knew the worst about him. Would she still consider plighting her life to his?

  There was only one way to find out. He must ask her.

  Chapter Four

  She was prodigiously glad she had worn her spectacles. Otherwise Rebecca would not have been able to observe the profusion of emotions that transformed his lordship’s face. He had gone from amusement, to gravity and now to something altogether perplexing. Contemplation. Nervousness. Anxiety.

  Her heartbeat drummed. Was he thinking about asking her to become his wife? His nervousness transferred to her as if by lightning bolt. He drew her hand into his, and she noted the twitch in his lean cheek and the slight descent of his brows as her pulse began to pound.

  “I think, my dear Rebecca,” he finally said, “we might just suit.”

  Close to an offer of marriage, but not close enough. Surely he was not going to force her into making a second proposal! With a defiant tilt of her chin, she gazed up at him. “I am very much aware of that fact, my lord. Why else would I have risked such humiliation?”

  The corners of his mouth lifted as he moved even closer to her and murmured, “You did not humiliate yourself. Do you have any idea how magnificent you were that day?”

  Magnificent? She was astonished that he could have thought her so. She wished to protest, to remind him of how rudely he had met her proposal, but the moment demanded soft words. It suddenly became clear to her that while he had initially balked at her offer, she must have made a profound impression upon him. “If you believe that, my lord, I believe you’ve been unable to purge me from your thoughts.”

  “How well you know me, Rebecca.” His voice was low and gentle. And he did not seem so very old. Even if he was three and forty.

  They stood facing one another, hot and flushed from the fire, the reflection of flames flickering in his green eyes. He was possessed of such a very fine face, it was a wonder she had failed to observe that fact when she had met him two years previously. Though too lean to emanate ruggedness, his face of smooth planes, high cheekbones and aquiline nose exuded a restrained power that was
softened by his curved mouth and gentle, mossy eyes.

  No man had ever held her hand like this before. Those long, warm fingers of his possessed a gentle strength. He lifted her hand to his lips, and her breath came quicker. When he lowered his mouth to her hand, she suddenly knew what it must feel like to rise in one of those balloons over Hyde Park.

  He then did a most peculiar (but totally poignant) thing. He placed her hand over his heart and covered it with his own. “Will you, my dearest Rebecca, do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Intense emotions washed over her, sweeping her up in a roaring tide. Lord Aynsley was not the cold, aging peer she had anticipated. He was possessed of great tenderness.

  As she went to accept his offer, she was horrified to find her voice hoarse and shaky and—worst of all—tears spilling from her eyes. She could not remember the last time she had cried. She thought perhaps it had been back in Virginia when her father died.

  His brows lowered, and Lord Aynsley drew back to regard her with worry. “Have I offended you, my dear lady?”

  She managed to shake her head. Sniff, sniff. “I’m never such a pea goose.”

  Mirth flashed in his eyes. “Could it be that the bookish, pragmatic Miss Rebecca Peabody is a sentimentalist?”

  “You need not worry on that score, my lord.” She swiped at her moist cheeks and squared her shoulders. “I assure you I can be practical, firm and not given to emotional displays.”

  “Does that mean you will accept the challenge of being my wife, of being mother to my children?”

  The tears gushed. She was mortified. Not trusting her voice, she merely nodded.

  He stepped closer, placed firm hands on her shoulders and spoke in a soft voice. “You’ve made me very happy.”

  “You may wish to retract your offer when you learn some things about me.”

  “Such as?”

  “I disapprove of the English system of aristocracy.”

  He nodded. “As is your right.”

  “On that principle, I should not like to be addressed as a lady.”

  “Now see here, Rebecca. You cannot waltz into Britain and try to single-handedly change a system that’s been in place a thousand years!”

  “I’m not foolish enough to believe I can change the system. I merely refuse to be addressed as Lady Aynsley. And...I shouldn’t feel right referring to your children as Lady This and Lord That.”

  He stiffened, glaring at her. “I flatter myself over my willingness to embrace progressive ideas, but I’m also proud to carry on the Aynsley title that’s been in existence since the days of the Conqueror. I would have to insist my wife honor our family.”

  “By being addressed as a lady?” There was mockery in her voice.

  “There could not be another woman in the three kingdoms who wouldn’t be proud to be a countess.”

  “Then marry one of them!” She started for the door.

  His extended arm barred her progress. “Surely we could come up with a compromise.”

  She gave him a quizzing look and did not speak for a moment, then her voice softened. “I suppose that is what a real marriage entails: give and take?”

  He nodded gravely. “And mutual respect.”

  “But I do respect you. I just find it ridiculous that some completely useless men garner respect because of something a long-dead ancestor did.”

  “While I understand your feelings, I should have to insist that you be known as Lady Aynsley in Society.”

  Her slow nod was barely perceptible. “In our home—that is, if you still want to wed me—could we dispense with the titles? Then I wouldn’t feel like such a hypocrite.”

  His eyes twinkled. “See, my dear, you are already learning about marital compromise. I should like us to use first names. It fosters intimacy.”

  She drew a deep breath. “Speaking of intimacy...”

  “We will not share a bedchamber until such time when you become agreeable to such a prospect.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “You’re sure you still want to marry me?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The firelight was obscured when his head lowered to hers. Her heartbeat thundered. He was going to kiss her! Before she could mentally process what was happening, his lips softly settled over hers. She had thought he would merely drop a kiss, then lift his head, but it seemed Lord Aynsley wished to prolong this intimacy.

  She eased away from him.

  Lord Aynsley smiled that rascally smile of his. “One day, my sweet, you will enjoy being kissed. Of that I am certain.”

  * * *

  It was Rebecca’s wedding day. She was to marry a man she scarcely knew. She would travel to a strange new home and would seldom see the sister from whom she had rarely parted. She should be petrified, but strangely, she was not. Of course, she would miss Maggie dreadfully. And the children. But she was eager to meet the children who would become her own. The very prospect brought a smile to her lips.

  The Warwick carriage slowed in front of St. George’s, and Maggie stroked her arm. “It’s not too late, pet, to turn back.”

  Rebecca smiled brightly upon her sister. “I’ve told you countless times. I very much wish to wed Lord Aynsley.”

  “But it’s not right to marry a man you’re not in love with.”

  “I may not be in love with him now, but I assure you I could never find a more suitable mate. He and I discussed this and decided that once we know each other better we quite possibly could fall in love.”

  Rebecca really did not believe that. Falling in love was for pretty little maids who cut their teeth on Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, not for unromantic bluestockings like herself.

  “Should you not have gotten to know one another before deciding to get married?” Maggie asked as the coachman put down the step.

  “Lord Aynsley possesses all the qualities I could ever desire in a husband,” Rebecca said dismissively.

  The coach door swung open, and Rebecca moved to get up.

  Maggie seized her arm. “You are sure?”

  “I’m sure.” If only she felt as sure as she sounded.

  Even as she walked down the nave of the church, she trembled. Was she doing the right thing? She certainly did not seem to be marrying for the right reasons. Here, in the house of the Lord, she felt a fraud. The Lord knew she was not in love with Lord Aynsley.

  Her eyes met his. And it was as if her nervousness evaporated. His kindliness was so utterly reassuring. As she continued down the church’s nave, she felt the Lord’s presence.

  This union would be sanctified by God and His church.

  She came to stand beside Lord Aynsley, then met the bishop’s somber gaze as he began to pray aloud. This was only the fourth wedding she had ever attended, and—understandably—none of the others had ever so profoundly affected her. This was the first time she had come to understand the religious significance of the sacrament of matrimony, the joining of this man and this woman in holy matrimony.

  The bishop continued on with the service, uttering words she’d heard before but never thought would apply to her, the spinster Rebecca Peabody.

  A few minutes later, the bishop instructed Aynsley to take Rebecca’s right hand and asked Rebecca to repeat after him: “I, Rebecca, take thee, John, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

  She almost felt relieved once she’d uttered the words. Their marriage was sanctified.

  * * *

  When he’d watched his frightened bride move down the church’s nave, too nervous to even look at him, he’d experienced a rush of tender feelings. He wanted nothing so much as to reassure her. When her gaze finally met his, he knew the deep connection between them was as irreversible as the tide.

  She had never looked lovelier. She had left off
the spectacles, which he had come to feel were as much a part of her as her lovely dark eyes and her mane of lustrous dark hair. She had chosen a dress as white as snow, which contrasted beautifully with her dark features and which was adorned with pale blue ribbons.

  While he wasn’t a religious man, he was not unaffected by the service. The solemnity of the occasion, the recitation of vows before the bishop and others who had gathered, gave the service profound significance.

  After placing the Aynsley emerald ring on her left hand, he continued to clasp her hand while pronouncing the words prompted by the bishop: “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  * * *

  Following the wedding breakfast, the Warwicks walked as far as Aynsley’s carriage with the newlyweds, then the two sisters embraced. As his bride’s eyes misted, a surge of protective emotions filled Aynsley. He vowed to do everything in his power to ensure that the life awaiting her in Shropshire be more rewarding than anything she had previously known.

  “Come, my dear,” he said, setting a possessive hand at her waist, “we’ve a long journey ahead.”

  “And I daresay his lordship does not wish to travel with a watering pot,” Lord Warwick quipped.

  Maggie affectionately swatted at her husband. “You of all people should know my sister is never a watering pot.”

  A smug smile tweaked at Aynsley’s mouth. He alone knew of the great untapped depths of his wife’s feelings, feelings she betrayed by weeping when he offered for her. He hoped one day he could awaken the emotions that smoldered deep within her.

  He handed his bride into the carriage, then came to sit opposite her. He very much wanted to gaze at the young woman who had become his wife. The coach pulled away, but Rebecca could not remove her gaze from the window that linked her to the sister who watched from the pavement. After they rounded the corner, he said, “I vow to make it up to you.”

  She glanced up at him, a look of query on her face. “Pray, my lord, make up for what?”

  “John. Say it, Rebecca.”

  “John,” she whispered.