Marriage of Inconvenience

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?”