From Bluestocking to Bride

Proposing to the Earl of Aynsley seems a sensible—if unconventional—solution to Miss Rebecca Peabody’s predicament. As a married woman, she will be free to keep writing her essays on civil reform. Meanwhile, the distinguished widower will gain a stepmother for his seven children and a caretaker for his vast estate.

But the earl wants more than a convenient bride. He craves a true partner, a woman he can cherish. To his surprise, the bookish Miss Peabody appears to have every quality he desires...except the willingness to trust her new husband. Yet despite his family’s interference, and her steadfast independence, time and faith could make theirs a true marriage of hearts.

Before Rebecca, his life had been less conflicted. Utterly lonely, but peaceful nevertheless.

Through her he had glimpsed a sliver of potential happiness, and had rushed toward it like a blind old fool. And what had he gotten for his imprudent act? A deep chasm with his beloved daughter and a wife who thought to boss him as if he were a misguided child.

Aynsley tried to tell himself this marriage was not bad. Rebecca did have a way with lads. Against his will, he pictured her in the coach that morning after church, holding his youngest son on her lap. No one could have seen her and not believed she was Chuckie’s natural mother.

It was still hard to credit that he’d married Rebecca. What had possessed him?

Long after he entered the house, long after he climbed the stairs and long after he lay in his bed unable to sleep, he asked himself the same question. Why had he married the bossy Miss Peabody?

CHERYL BOLEN

is the acclaimed author of more than a dozen Regency-set historical romance novels. Her books have placed in several writing contests, including the Daphne du Maurier, and have been translated into eleven languages. She was named Notable New Author in 1999, and in 2006 she won the Holt Medallion (Honoring Outstanding Literary Talent) for Best Short Historical Novel. Her books have become Barnes & Noble and Amazon bestsellers.

A former journalist who admits to a fascination with dead Englishwomen, Cheryl is a regular contributor to The Regency Plume, The Regency Reader and The Quizzing Glass. Many of her articles can be found on her website, www.CherylBolen.com, and more recent ones on her blog, www.CherylsRegencyRamblings.wordpress.com. Readers are welcomed at both places.

Cheryl holds a dual degree in English and journalism from the University of Texas, and she earned a master’s degree from the University of Houston. She and her professor husband are the parents of two sons, one an attorney and the other a journalist. Her favorite things to do are watching the Longhorns, reading letters and diaries of Georgian Englishmen and traveling to England.

Marriage of Inconvenience

Cheryl Bolen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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And the Lord God said,

“It is not good for the man to be alone;

I will make him a helper suitable for him.”

—Genesis 2:18

To my sisters, Suzi Meeker and Colleen Sutherland, who have enriched my life immeasurably.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

London, England

1813

The hackney coach slowed in front of Lord Aynsley’s townhouse. With her heart pounding prodigiously, Miss Rebecca Peabody pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and drew a deep breath as the driver assisted her from the carriage. She paid him, glanced up at the impressive four-story townhouse, then climbed its steps and rapped at the door’s shiny brass plate. Almost as an afterthought, she pulled off her spectacles and jammed them into her reticule. Though she abhorred going without them due to her inability to see, she had decided just this once it was necessary. One who wished to persuade a virtual stranger to marry her must, after all, make every effort to look one’s best.

She felt rather like a convict standing before King’s Bench as she waited for someone to respond to her knock. Soon, a gaunt butler with a raised brow opened the door and gave her a haughty stare.

“Is Lord Aynsley in?” she asked in a shaky voice. She had particularly selected this time of day because she knew it was too early for Parliament.

The servant’s glance raked over her. Though her dress was considerably more respectable than a doxy’s, he must still believe her a loose woman because no proper lady would come to his lordship’s unescorted. But, of course, she could hardly have brought Pru with her today. One simply did not bring one’s maid when one wished to propose marriage.

“I regret to say he’s out,” the butler said. There was not a shred of remorse on the man’s face or in his voice.

She had not reckoned on Lord Aynsley being away from home. Now everything was spoiled. Such an opportunity might never again be possible once it was discovered she’d sneaked out the back of her dressmaker’s, stranding her poor maid there. All likelihood of ever again disengaging herself from either her sister, Maggie,

or Pru would be nonexistent. And to make matters even more regrettable, the hackney driver had left! She fought against tears of utter frustration. Perhaps the butler was merely protecting his master from tarts. She drilled him with her most haughty stare (though he was nothing more than a blur, due to her deficient vision) and said, “You must inform his lordship that I come from the foreign secretary, Lord Warwick.” Which was true, but misleading, given that her sister was married to Lord Warwick, and Rebecca made her home with them.

“I would convey that to Lord Aynsley were he here, but he is not. Would you care to sign his book?”

Owing to the fact she had not anticipated his lordship’s absence, she hadn’t given a thought as to how she should proceed were he not at home. Should she sign his book with a cryptic message? Should she merely leave her card? Should she ask him to call on her? No, not that. Maggie would never allow her to be alone with the earl, and in order to propose marriage, Rebecca must have privacy.

She decided to sign his book.

The unsympathetic butler allowed her to step into the checkerboard entry hall and over to a Sheraton sideboard beneath a huge Renaissance painting. Lord Aynsley’s

book—its pages open—reposed on the sideboard.

Though it was undignified to remove a glove, she did so before picking up the quill. This was her last pair of gloves that was free from ink stains, and Maggie had persistently chastised her about her endless destruction of fine, handmade gloves.

As soon as she divested herself of her right glove, she heard the front door swing open and a second later heard his voice.

“Lady Warwick!” Lord Aynsley said, addressing Rebecca’s back. “How may I be of service to you?”

Oh, dear. Because he saw her from the back, he would think she was her beautiful sister, whom he had once wished to marry. Drawing in a deep breath, Rebecca whirled around to face him, a wide smile on her face.

His face fell. “Miss Peabody?”

“Yes, my lord. I beg a private word with you.” How she longed to jam on those spectacles and give the peer a good look over. It had been so long since she last saw him, she couldn’t quite remember what he looked like. Truth be told, she had never paid much attention to him. At the present moment she wished to assure herself that his appearance was not offensive. But the only thing she could assure herself of was his blurriness—and that he was considerably taller than she and still rather lean.

A hot flush rose into her cheeks as she perceived that he gawked at her single naked arm, then he recovered and said, “You’ve come alone?”

She duplicated her haughty stare once again. “I have.” She gulped. “A rather important matter has brought me here today.”

“Then come to my library where we can discuss it.”

She followed him along the broad hallway past a half dozen doorways until they came to a cozy room lit by a blazing fire and wrapped with tall walnut cases lined with fine leather books. A much finer library than Lord Warwick’s, she decided. Another recommendation for plighting her life with Lord Aynsley.

“Oblige me by closing the door,” she challenged as he strode toward his Jacobean desk.

He stopped, turned to gaze at her and hitched his brow in query. “I’m cognizant of your unblemished reputation, Miss Peabody, and I don’t wish to tarnish it.”

“My unblemished reputation is exactly why I’m here today, my lord.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t follow you.”

“Please close the door and I shall explain.”

His gaze bounced from her to the door. He did not move.

Was he afraid she would damage his sterling reputation by intimating that he behaved in an ungentlemanly manner? “I assure you, Lord Aynsley, I have no aspirations to make false accusations against you.”

“You have roused my curiosity, Miss Peabody.” He crossed the room and closed the door. “Please sit on the sofa nearest the fire.”

She did as instructed, then wadded the missing glove into a ball concealed in her fist and hoped he would not notice her breach in decorum.

He came to face her on a silken plum-colored sofa that matched the one she sat on. “It’s quite remarkable how much you look like your sister.”

“That, my lord, is another reason why I’m here today.”

“I’m afraid I don’t comprehend, Miss Peabody.”

“Allow me to explain. You were once so attracted to my sister, you asked her to marry you.”

He nodded. “Your sister is a most beautiful woman.”

She drew a long breath, counting to five, then plunged in. “Then you must be satisfied with my appearance, my lord, for we look vastly similar—except for my deficient vision which necessitates my spectacles.” If only she could believe that. She was no beauty like Maggie.

Because his lordship was nothing more than a blur, she was unable to observe his reaction to the illogical trajectory of her conversation. The man was apt to think the most deficient thing about her was not her vision, but her mental capacity.

After a mortifying lull, Lord Aynsley recovered and answered as would any well-mannered gentleman. “You’re a most lovely girl.”

She glared at him. “I am not a girl. I’m a woman of eight and twenty. I came out of the schoolroom more than a decade ago, and in most quarters I’m considered past marrying age. That is why I’ve selected you.”

He did not say anything for a moment. “Pray, Miss Peabody, I’m still not following you. For what purpose have you selected me?”

“Before I get to that,” she said, opening her reticule, stuffing in the glove and pulling out a folded piece of parchment, “I should like to mention the points on my list here.”

While she unfolded the list she could see that he crossed his arms and settled back to listen.

Her glance fell to the list, but she was unable to read the now-fuzzy letters. She would have to recite from memory. “Not only do I greatly resemble my countess sister, but I’m a reputed scholar. I read and write Latin and Greek and am fluent in French, German and Italian. I’m exceedingly well organized and capable of overseeing a large household.” She paused to sit on her naked hand, hoping the earl had not noticed it. Lord Aynsley was a most proper peer, and she was most decidedly improper to be sitting here not only without a chaperone but also with a naked arm.

“The most important thing on my list,” she continued, “is that I absolutely adore children. I dislike the city and would love to live in the country—surrounded by said children. I have decided to marry a man a bit older, a man whose children need a capable mother. I shouldn’t mind at all if it wasn’t a real marriage. I suppose an older man would not still fancy the romantic aspects of marriage.”

No man who’d ever loved Maggie could be attracted to Rebecca. She understood that. She would never be able to experience a marital bond like Maggie shared with Warwick. Men just didn’t feel that way toward her.

“Dear heavens! How old do you think I am?”

She gazed up at him, but of course could not really see him without her much-needed spectacles. “Five and forty?”

“I am three and forty, Miss Peabody, and have no desire for a wife.” He stood abruptly.

“I beg that you sit down and hear me out. I’m not finished.” It was really the oddest thing how this idea of marrying Lord Aynsley had taken ahold of her. Her desire to wed the earl had nothing to do with his desirability and everything to do with her need to leave Lord Warwick’s house before she destroyed his heretofore

loving marriage to her sister.

Another strong impetus to marry was the prospect of liberating herself from the strictures of society that rather imprisoned an unmarried lady.

And she was devilishly tired of people pitying her as the old maid aunt to Maggie’s darling boys.

Though Miss Rebecca Peabody was void of passionate feelings toward any man, she was possessed of a great deal of passion, all of it channeled into the radical political essays she wrote under the pen name P. Corpus. Ever since the day she’d read Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man she had felt that expansion of civil liberties was her life’s calling. She’d even come to understand—against her initial resistance—that she was meant to leave America and come to England. It was only right that an American like she should show these snooty British just how antiquated—and oppressive—their government was.

It was her forward thinking that continually pitted her against Lord Warwick and the Tory government he served. Last night’s argument over his government’s resistance to labor unions had been the final straw.

She could not coexist with a man who upheld the wretched Tories’ elitist principles—or, in her opinion, lack of principles. How could a man like Lord Warwick—who was so good to his wife, his children and his servants, who read his Bible every day and went to church every Sunday—not follow his Savior’s command to treat the least of his brethren as he would treat Jesus?

The government should serve all its people—not just the wealthy landowners. How could the Tories think it right to repress men who needed to earn enough to feed their families? It wasn’t as if the wealthy, landed Tories would be destitute if they allowed modest increases in their workers’ wages.

She was certain the Heavenly Father had guided her to P. Corpus; therefore, He must be guiding her to this proposed marriage. It had become increasingly difficult to post her essays to her publisher without being discovered. A married woman would not have to be constantly watched by her well-meaning sister or her ever-present maid, neither of whom could be allowed to learn of her P. Corpus identity.

As a married lady, she could pursue her writings—and even be at liberty to write that full-length book on a perfect society, the book that was her life’s goal.

A pity she could not own the authorship of her essays, but doing so would jeopardize Lord Warwick’s career. Were it to be discovered that a woman living under his roof—a woman who had been an American colonist, no less!—so opposed the Tory government he represented, his distinguished career could be destroyed.

Lord Aynsley eased back into his chair without breaking eye contact with her.

“I know eight and twenty may seem young to you, my lord, but I assure you I’m very mature. Your seven children need a mother, and such a charge would be very agreeable to me. I also possess the capabilities to smoothly run a large household. You could attend to your important work in Parliament, secure in the knowledge that your competent wife was promoting domestic harmony in your house.”

He began to laugh a raucous, hardy laugh.

Even if the spectacles would obscure her resemblance to her beautiful sister, she must put them back on. It was imperative that she be able to see the expression on his lordship’s face. She opened her reticule and whipped out the two spheres of glass fastened together by a gold wire and slammed them on the bridge of her nose.

That was better! She could see quite clearly that Lord Aynsley was indeed laughing at her. It was also evident that he wasn’t so very old after all. Granted, a bit of gray threaded through his bark-colored hair, but the man was possessed of a rather youthful countenance. The man also had a propensity to always smile. “How dare you laugh at me, my lord!”

He sombered. “Forgive me. I mean no offense.” He cocked his head and regarded her. “Do I understand you correctly, Miss Peabody? You believe I might wish to make you my wife?”

Her dark eyes wide, she nodded.

“Pray, what makes you think I even desire a wife?”

She squared her shoulders and glared. “You asked my sister to wed you.”

“That was two years ago when I was freshly widowed and rather at my wit’s end as to how to run a household of seven children, a ward and an eccentric uncle.”

“You’re no longer at your wit’s end? Your children no longer run off governesses?”

He sighed. “I didn’t say that. It is still difficult to manage my household, but the task is less onerous now that my next-to-eldest—my only daughter—is a bit older.”

“How old is she?”

“Almost eighteen.”

Rebecca could see she would have to convince him that his womanly daughter was due to take flight at any moment. “Is that not the age when most young ladies choose to take husbands? Do you aim to keep her always with you?”

He did not respond for a moment. For once, the smile vanished from his face. “As a matter of fact, it’s my hope that my daughter will come out this year.”

“And if she chooses to marry? Who, then, will manage your household?”

“I shall cross that bridge when I come to it.” He peered at her with flashing moss-colored eyes. “One thing is certain, Miss Peabody. If I do remarry, I shall choose the wife myself.”

“But, my lord, you chose my sister, and that did not work out.”

“I have explained why I felt obliged to offer for your sister.” He stared at her, no mirth on his face.

“Does it bother you that I’m not yet thirty, and you are over forty?”

His smile returned. “My dear Miss Peabody, my father married my mother when he was six and thirty and she was eighteen, and theirs was a deliriously happy marriage.”

“As was my parents’. Papa married Mama—his second wife—when he was forty, and she was but twenty. And Mama was an excellent mother to my half brother.”

“As I’m sure you will be a fine stepmother to some man’s children, but I am not that man.”

How could she have thought a man with all of Lord Aynsley’s attributes could ever be attracted to an awkward spinster like she? Now that she had thoroughly humiliated herself, she must leave. “I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time, my lord.”

As she strode to the door, he intercepted her, placing his hand on her bare arm.

“Forgive me, Miss Peabody,” he said in a gentle voice. “I’m greatly flattered by your generous offer, but I must decline.”

“You’re making a grave mistake, my lord.” Then she yanked open the door and left, determined to walk all the way back to Curzon Street. Unchaperoned.

But how would she explain her brash behavior to Maggie? Sneaking out the back door of Mrs. Chassay’s establishment was bad enough, but it would be far worse if Maggie learned of her brazen, unchaperoned visit to Lord Aynsley’s.

* * *

Though he had planned to finish reading the articulate plea for penal reform penned by P. Corpus in the Edinburgh Review, John Compton, the fifth Earl Aynsley, could not rid his thoughts of the peculiar Miss Rebecca Peabody. Until today he had scarcely noticed the chit. In fact, he doubted he’d even laid eyes on her since the disastrous lapse in judgment that had caused him to offer for her sister some two years previously.

He raked his mind for memories of the bespectacled girl, but the only thing he could remember about her was that she perpetually had her nose in a book. No doubt such incessant reading had ruined the poor girl’s vision.

Normally he did not find females who wore spectacles attractive, but Miss Peabody was actually...well, she was actually...cute. There was something rather endearing about the sight of her spectacles slipping down her perfect little nose.

Of course he was not in the least attracted to her.

And he did not for a moment believe she was attracted to him.

After pondering her offer for a considerable period of time, he thought he understood why she wished to marry him. The chit seemed intent on removing herself from the marriage mart. She was not the kind of girl who held vast appeal to the young fellows there. By the same token, the young bucks there were not likely to appeal to a bookworm such as she. He believed she just might be more suited for a man who’d lived a few more years, a man who was a comforting presence like an old pair of boots. It took no great imagination to picture the bespectacled young woman with the flashing eyes merrymaking with children. But, of course, not his children.

It was while he was sitting at his desk thinking of the dark-haired Miss Peabody—and admittedly confusing her with her stunning sister—that Hensley rapped at his library door. “I’ve brought you the post, my lord.”

Aynsley was thankful for a diversion. The diversion, however, proved to be a single letter. From his daughter. A smile sprang to his lips as he contemplated his golden-haired Emily and broke the seal to read.

But as he read, the smile disappeared.

My Dearest Papa,

It grieves me to inform you that we’ve once again lost a governess. This time it was worms in her garment drawer that prompted Miss Russell’s departure. And if this news isn’t grievous enough for you, my dear father, I must inform you that the housekeeper has also tendered her resignation—owing to Uncle Ethelbert’s peculiar habit.

I shan’t wish for you to hurry back to Dunton Hall when you’ve so many more important matters that require your attention in our kingdom’s government. Please know that I shall endeavor to keep things running as smoothly as possible here until such time as you are able to secure new staff.

I remain affectionately yours,

Emily

He wadded up the paper and hurled it into the fire.

Now he was faced with the distasteful task of trolling for and interviewing a packet of females to replace the latest in a long line of governesses and housekeepers. If only he did have a wife to share some of his burden.

But he wanted much more than a well-organized scholar for a wife. He thought of his parents’ marriage, remembering when his mother would read over the text of his father’s speeches to Parliament, offering suggestions. They read Rousseau and Voltaire together, and shared everything from their political philosophy to their deep affection for their children. It was almost as if their two hearts beat within the same breast.

He had never had any of that deep bond with Dorothy—except for their love of the children—and he’d always lamented the void in their marriage. As he lamented other things void in their marriage.

He wanted more than a mother for his children and a competent woman to run his household. He craved a life partner. He’d been lonely for as long as he could remember—not that he would ever admit it. With none of his closest friends was he at liberty to discuss his forward-

thinking views. If he ever did remarry, it must be to a woman whose interests mirrored his own, a woman who cared deeply for him and his children, a woman whom he could love and cherish.

Such a woman probably did not exist. He took up his pen to dash off a note to his solicitor. Mannington would have to start the process of gathering applicants for the now-open positions on his household staff. But as Aynsley tried to write, he kept picturing Miss Peabody, kept imagining her with little Chuckie on her lap, kept remembering that sparkle that flared in her dark eyes when she challenged him. Most resonating of all, he kept hearing her words: you are making a grave mistake.

Unexplainably, those words seemed prophetic, like a critical fork in the roadway of his life. As he wrote his few sentences to Mannington, he kept hearing those parting words of hers.

Could it be that he ought to take heed? What harm could there be in trying to learn more about the unconventional Miss Peabody?

Chapter Two

For the past two weeks—since his bizarre visit from Miss Peabody—Aynsley had come to the conclusion he did, indeed, need a wife, a woman possessed of Miss Peabody’s pedigree and scholarship, along with a capacity for affection, which Miss Peabody undoubtedly lacked. Miss Peabody herself was completely out of the question. A more mature woman would be far more satisfactory.

He entered his house, anxious to read the newest copy of the Edinburgh Review, which had come out that day. On the sideboard in his entry hall—the same sideboard where he’d mistaken Miss Peabody for her lovely sister—he was pleased to find his copy.

Going straight to his library, he settled before the fire and began to scan the pages in the hopes of finding another excellent essay by P. Corpus. A soft smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he saw Mr. Corpus’s byline.

This time the learned gentleman wrote a well-thought-out piece favoring the formation of labor unions. “Were the workers better compensated for their labor, this would result in a more equitable society, a society in which crime and other depravities of desperate people would be eradicated.” An excellent conclusion to the thought-provoking piece, he thought, his eyes running over the essay and coming to stop at the author’s name: P. Corpus. He wondered if there was some clue in that pseudonym as to the writer’s true identity. Corpus was Latin for body. P. Body. Peabody!

How coincidental that Miss Peabody should be on his mind! He found himself wondering if the lady had a brother here in England, but the only brother he knew of still resided in Virginia. Miss Peabody had lived there her whole life before sailing to England a few years ago with her sister, who came to claim the property of her late husband, an Englishman.

Being raised in the colonies would make one rather more democratic than those raised in England. He wondered if Miss Peabody even concerned herself with English politics. With her nose perpetually buried in a book, she certainly was not like any young woman he’d ever known. It was entirely possible that a woman as intellectually curious as Miss Peabody could conceivably be interested in matters of government.

Of course she could not possibly have written those political pieces.

Could she?

Women—even unconventional ones—had little interest in government. He went to the shelf where the yellowed back editions of the Edinburgh Review were stored, grabbed a stack and strode to his desk where he proceeded to read them. Not all of them. Only the essays written by P. Corpus. There was one on compulsory education, another opposing slavery and one lambasting rotten boroughs.

Surely she could not have written the essay opposing slavery. He knew for a fact her father’s Virginia plantation had used slaves. Would she dare to criticize her departed parent?

He spent the rest of the afternoon rereading P. Corpus’s essays, which dated back some two years. If his memory served him correctly, Miss Peabody and her beautiful sister had arrived in England two or three years previously. Could it be mere coincidence that P. Corpus’s essays did not commence until Miss Peabody arrived in England?

For the next several days he could not dispel thoughts of Miss Peabody from his mind. After much thought—and hours studying P. Corpus’s essays—he convinced himself that Miss Peabody and P. Corpus were the same person.

Through her writings, Miss Peabody’s true character, her considerable intellect and her unexpected maturity were revealed to him. The more he reread the essays, the more connected he felt to her. It was the deucest thing, but he had never before felt so close to a woman, not even to Dorothy. Of course, he wasn’t really

close to Miss Peabody, but the discovery that there existed a person whose thoughts so closely paralleled his own had taken hold of him like tentacles that could not be dislodged.

Whatever he did, wherever he went, he thought about Miss Peabody. For months now he’d been fired by a thirst to meet Mr. Corpus and engage the man in a conversation where two like minds could have free rein. Now that he knew P. Corpus’s identity, Aynsley’s desire to converse with Miss Peabody consumed him even more greedily.

So many social reformers were one-trick ponies. One would criticize slavery, while another objected to the lack of parliamentary representation for the large industrialized cities. Only P. Corpus understood that to achieve a perfect society there must be a successive eradication of each and every social ill.

His country, with its workhouses and factories and bulging prisons, was much like a sofa with torn coverings, sagging cushions and protruding springs. One did not fix the sofa by throwing a length of silk upon it. It could only be repaired by attacking and correcting each underlying problem. Miss Peabody—or P. Corpus—understood that.

The more he thought of her, the more he wanted to speak with her. He found himself wondering what it would be like to have a conversation with a woman possessed of Miss Peabody’s uncommon intelligence.

He needed to talk with Warwick. He wasn’t sure why he sought to speak to Warwick. He certainly had no intention of asking for Miss Peabody’s hand. Even if she was the brilliant, articulate, passionate P. Corpus. While Aynsley did not want her for a wife, he did want her for a friend. That is, if she were the brilliant essayist.

He decided to go to Warwick House early in the day, before Warwick went to Whitehall to perform his important duties. By coming early, he would avoid coming face-to-face with Miss Peabody. Women were sure to be still abed in the morning and certainly not be primped to be presentable. He’d rather not see her just yet, not after he had treated the poor woman so shabbily.

At Warwick House, the butler showed him into the light-flooded, emerald-green morning room, then took himself off to announce the caller to Lord Warwick. As soon as the servant turned to leave the morning room, Aynsley saw her.

She had been sitting at a game table perusing the Morning Chronicle, a mobcap smashed upon her uncombed tresses, her spectacles propped on her perfect nose. At the sound of disturbance, she looked up. And saw him.

Her face transformed. Had a snake charmer summoned a viper into the chamber, her expression could not have held more alarm.

That he evoked such an emotion distressed him profoundly. It was all he could do not to race to her and draw her into his arms and murmur assurances. Instead, he smiled. What could he possibly say to put her at ease? Obviously she was embarrassed in his presence. His glance darted to the newspaper. The liberal Whigs’ vehicle. “I see you’re reading about Manchester’s lack of representation in the House of Commons. A most enlightening article.”

Any embarrassment Miss Peabody may have experienced was completely wiped out by his simple comment. Her eyes rounded, her brows lowered. “You read it?”

Good heavens, did she think him incapable of reading the written word? He nodded. “Just before I came here, actually. It’s a distressing occurrence, to be sure.”

A fiery spark leaped to her dark eyes. “Distressing! It’s an unconscionable injustice.”

I am right about her alter ego. “Our government is vastly different than yours, Miss Peabody.”

“Mine?” Anger scorched her voice. “I will have you know England is now my home, my country. As long as I can draw breath, I shall endeavor to see this country rectify its ills. Of course, I wouldn’t expect an aristocrat such as you could possibly understand that.”

“You do me a great disservice.”

Just then the butler reentered the room. “Lord Warwick wishes to know if your lordship would object to waiting while he finishes dressing.” The butler’s gaze alighted on the lady in the mobcap. “Forgive me, Miss Peabody. I did not know you were here, or I would never have brought Lord Aynsley to this chamber.”

“You have no need to apologize,” she said. “Unlike my lovely sister, I do not care if I’m seen before Pru dresses my hair. And, as you can see, my dress is perfectly respectable.”

“Since I have the lovely Miss Peabody with whom to converse,” Aynsley said, “I shall be delighted to wait for Lord Warwick.”

* * *

The lovely Miss Peabody, indeed! Rebecca knew very well how decidedly dowdy she looked this morning. Maggie would be livid if she knew her sister was greeting an eligible caller dressed in such a fashion. “I daresay, my lord, you must need to borrow my spectacles.”

He gave her a quizzing look. “Pray, why do you say that?”

“You know very well I do not look lovely this morning!”

“I assure you I know no such thing. Just because your hair has not been dressed does not mean you don’t look pretty.”

No man—not even her dear Papa—had ever said she was pretty. Maggie was the beauty of the family. Her face suddenly felt as if she were leaning into an intense fire. She spun around to glance at the window. Was the sunshine uncommonly bright this morning? But, alas, it was actually a dreary, gray day. Why, in heaven’s name, was her face burning? Then it dawned on her. She was blushing! Miss Rebecca Peabody had never blushed in her entire eight and twenty years! “Then, my lord, you’ve been too long away from Society.”

He had the audacity to come and sit beside her. “At the mature age of eight and twenty, you should have learned by now how a lady responds to compliments.”

She started to tell him she had never received compliments on her appearance, but oddly, she preferred that he not know that. Instead, she decided to be gracious. Even though she knew he was lying. “Then I thank you, my lord.”

His glance fell again to the Morning Chronicle. “I’m surprised Lord Warwick reads that newspaper.”

“Oh, he doesn’t. I’m the one who subscribes. It’s how I choose to spend my pin money. That and books.” Oh, dear. Why had she gone babbling about herself?

“Yes, I seem to recall that you were always reading.”

For some unaccountable reason, all she could think of was how matronly she must look in the cap. Why couldn’t she be more like Maggie, who never left her bedchamber without her hair being dressed, without looking perfect?

Her gaze ran over the perfection of his dress, his neatly styled, toasty-colored hair, his fine face with clear green eyes, and she felt utterly inadequate. How could she have been so foolish as to think he would give the slightest consideration to marrying her?

It now seemed to her that a man like him would be able to marry any woman he wished. Attractive women. Women from fine old English families. Women who cared about fashion—and titles—which Rebecca certainly did not.

She could not even think of a single clever thing to say to him. “Are your children in London?”

“No. They’re at Dunton Hall.”

“In Shropshire?”

“Yes.”

The butler reentered the room and spoke to Aynsley. “Lord Warwick will see you now.”

Lord Aynsley stood and peered down at her. “May I say with deep sincerity that seeing you this morning has been a pleasure?”

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.

“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.

A smile eased across his face. “It’s my hope that your life at Dunton will be so satisfying you’ll scarcely spare a thought for your sister.”

She smiled. “I do hope you’re right. I’m vastly looking forward to meeting the children. You must tell me all about them.”

“You won’t meet the three eldest boys for some time.”

“I want to know all about them. Please start with the three oldest.”

“The oldest is Johnny, Viscount Fordyce.” He unconsciously lifted his index finger. “He’s nineteen, almost twenty, and at Oxford. Next,” he said, raising a second finger, “is Geoffrey, who is a year younger. In physical resemblance they are like twins, except that Johnny’s eyes are brown and Geoffrey’s, green. They’re now separated, as Geoffrey is a captain in the army.”

“Oh, dear, is he in the Peninsula?”

Aynsley nodded, a frown furrowing his face.

“Then I shall pray for his safe return. Tell me, is their hair brown, like yours?”

He chuckled. “Mine used to be brown, but I daresay the gray’s predominant of late.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Because she had taken so little notice of him. He was every bit the dullard Dorothy had always said he was. For Rebecca, he was merely a means to an end—the end being her highly desired independence.

He would refrain from telling her how completely he understood her, just as he would refrain from telling her he knew of her alter ego. She must come to trust him enough to make an unprompted admission. He hoped she would soon. He prized honesty above all. Especially since he knew firsthand how a wife’s deception could ravage a marriage.

“And the next son?” she asked.

“That would be Mark, who’s twelve and at Eton.”

“Johnny, Geoffrey and Mark—all away. Now, tell me about the lads who are still at Dunton Hall.”

“Spencer is eight.” Aynsley started counting on his fingers again. “Like my daughter and the baby, he is blond. In between Spencer and the baby is Alex, who is quite a unique lad.”

She looked puzzled. “In what way?”

Thinking about his precocious six-year-old made him smile. “For starters, he is the only one of the seven to be possessed of red hair.”

“I adore red hair.”

Red hair and worms. A woman after his own heart. “Unfortunately, he also possesses a redhead’s fiery temperament.”

Her eyes flashed with good humor. “He fights with his brothers, no doubt.”

“Right you are. He’s also the only boy who would rather be reading a book than playing cricket, and he is prone to using language his siblings don’t understand.”

“Big words?”

“Exactly.”

“You could be describing me as a child,” she said with a laugh. “Why do you refer to the youngest as ‘the baby’ when he is three years old?”

“For the obvious reason that he is the baby. There is also the fact that he is less...intellectually developed than the other boys were at three years.”

Her brows lowered. “In what way?”

He frowned. Aynsley had been worried for some time about the little imp who’d so easily wiggled his way into his father’s heart. “He’s only just started to speak in sentences, and he lacks...how shall I put this delicately? Bladder control. He’s forever having accidents.”

“I daresay the little dear only needs a mother’s love.”

Love? Was he hearing correctly? Miss Rebecca Peabody—or actually, the new Lady Aynsley, though she detested the title—had used the word love. His heart melted at the thought—the hope—that this enigmatic girl-woman who sat across from him would come to love Chuckie and his other children. “I believe you’re right,” he said. “He’s the only one who never knew his mother.”

“If I recall correctly, she died shortly after his birth?”

His face was grim. “She died of a fever when he was just four months old.”

Rebecca winced. “And what is the little lamb’s name?”

“His name’s Charles, but we’ve always called him Chuckie.”

“I’m very glad that he’s speaking in sentences.”

As was he. “There is one more thing.”

Her fine brows arched.

“I’m troubled that he lives in his own world.”

“His own world?”

“Allow me to explain. He’s always dressing in costumes and calling everyone he knows by names other than their given ones, names he’s dubbed them. And he doesn’t seem to care for his own name. The last time I was home, his ‘name’ was James Hock.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, John. From what you’re telling me, I gather that Chuckie’s possessed of a lively mind and acute intelligence.”

“He is intelligent, but I don’t understand why the lad keeps having all those blasted accidents.”

“I daresay he’s just too busy to take time out to...” She stopped, shrugged, then redirected her thoughts. “I don’t profess to be an expert on children, but I think your concerns are not warranted.”

“I hope you’re right.”

He settled back into the squabs and regarded his bride. She really looked quite fetching in her snow-white muslin that was trimmed in sky-blue ribbons. It was the same dress she had worn to their wedding ceremony that morning. She had been so incredibly pretty—and horribly scared. Fortunately, she was more relaxed now. The peach blush had returned to her cheeks, and her stiffness had unfurled.

“What of your nephew?” she asked.

He stiffened. “More often than not, I’m out of charity with Peter.”

“He’s how old?”

“He reached his majority last year and quickly went through every farthing he could get his hands on.”

“So he lacks maturity, steadiness and—I think—your affection?”

“I wouldn’t say that about the affection. If it weren’t for Emily, things might be different.”

“Emily’s your daughter?”

“Yes. She thinks she’s in love with Peter.”

“And you find him ineligible?”

“I gave him a chance. After he was sent down from Oxford—for sottishness—I secured a post for him with Lord Paley at the Home Office and told Peter if he could live on the three hundred a year from the Home Office coupled with the two hundred a year from my sister, I would allow him to marry Emily.”

“I take it he was not successful.”

“Not at all.”

“He could not live within his means?”

“He lost heavily at Brook’s, then the moneylenders got their hooks into him, then he did the unthinkable.”

Her eyes rounded.

“He left his post without so much as a fare-thee-well and fled back to Dunton, professing that he couldn’t live without Emily.”

“And his foolishness did not elicit disgust in your daughter?”

“She thinks I’ve been too harsh on him. He was very close to his mother—my sister—and Emily says I should have been more compassionate to him when he came to Dunton after his mother’s death.”

“How old was he then?”

“Fifteen.”

“A most difficult age.”

“He wasn’t a bad lad,” Aynsley defended. “And despite all his weaknesses, I cannot deny that he truly loves my daughter. Whatever I heard of his heedless activities in London, bedding loose women wasn’t one of them.” He shouldn’t have said that in front of Rebecca. She was such an innocent. He looked up at her. “Forgive me.”

“I beg that you not apologize. We are, after all, man and wife. I wish your speech with me always to be unguarded.”

This was the first time Rebecca in the flesh—not through her elucidating essays—seemed more woman than girl.

“I can understand your wish that your only daughter marry a man more worthy.”

At least his wife understood his fatherly affection. “The problem is my daughter says she wants no one else.”

Rebecca nibbled at her lower lip. “Will she have a Season in London?”

“I mean for her to. She will resist.”

“There is the fact that another man might not love her with such constancy as Peter.”

The same thought had plagued him. Above everything, he wanted what was best for Emily. “Though I’m a wealthy man, I’ve seven children to provide for. Emily’s dowry will not be large enough to compensate for a wastrel husband.”

“Being a parent is no simple matter.” She went to say something else, then clamped her lips.

He studied her pensive expression. The nibbling on her lower lip. The thick fringe of long, dark lashes that swept against the creamy skin beneath her eyes. He had become so accustomed to her spectacles he never noticed them anymore.

A moment later she said, “I want very much to be a good mother to your children. Do you think they will resent that I shall try to replace their own much-loved mother?”

He wished to soothe the worry he saw on her face. “The three youngest have little memory of their mother. I should think they would be most receptive to having a mother of their own.”

The lively smile she tried to suppress told him she had warmed to the idea of being a mother, even though her voice strove for nonchalance. “And the four eldest will, quite naturally, cling to the memories of their own mother,” she said.

“Most likely. But I daresay you will lift a huge burden from Emily’s shoulders.”

His bride eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. “Emily is very dear to you, is she not?”

“Very.”

“You said she is a blonde?”

He nodded.

“I expect she’s quite lovely.”

“You’ll have to judge for yourself. I find her so.”

“As does Peter, obviously. Tell me, how long have they fancied themselves in love?”

“I can’t remember a time when she didn’t insist that she’d grow up and marry him.”

“Oh, dear, a mind-set like that is not easy to break.”

“That’s what worries me.”

She resumed peering out the window, and neither of them spoke for the next half hour. Then she turned back to him and said, “I should like to learn more of you.”

That she was thinking of him was his first chink into her stiff formality. He gave her a warm look as he moved from the seat facing her to sit beside her. Her lashes lowered modestly as he drew her hand into his.

“What would you like to know?” he murmured. Was this to be the breakthrough he sought?

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