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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

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