Marriage of Inconvenience - Cheryl Bolen

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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,

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